A Dynasty of Monsters (Warhammer Age of Sigmar)
Author: Annandale, David
Date: 2021-05-22
Rights: Copyright © 2021 Games Workshop Ltd.

Collections

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

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

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

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

WARCRY
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

CHAMPIONS OF THE MORTAL REALMS
Various authors
An anthology of novellas

GODS & MORTALS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

MYTHS & REVENANTS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

OATHS & CONQUESTS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

SACROSANCT & OTHER STORIES
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

DIRECHASM
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

Novels

• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
Josh Reynolds
BOOK ONE: Plague Garden
BOOK TWO: Black Pyramid

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

• KHARADRON OVERLORDS •
C L Werner
BOOK ONE: Overlords of the Iron Dragon
BOOK TWO: Profit’s Ruin

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

GLOOMSPITE
Andy Clark

GHOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES
David Annandale

THE COURT OF THE BLIND KING
David Guymer

LADY OF SORROWS
C L Werner

REALM-LORDS
Dale Lucas

WARCRY CATACOMBS: BLOOD OF THE EVERCHOSEN
Richard Strachan

COVENS OF BLOOD
Anna Stephens, Liane Merciel and Jamie Crisalli

STORMVAULT
Andy Clark

THE END OF ENLIGHTENMENT
Richard Strachan

CURSED CITY
C L Werner

GITSLAYER
Darius Hinks

Novellas

CITY OF SECRETS
Nick Horth

BONEREAPERS
David Guymer

Audio Dramas

• REALMSLAYER: A GOTREK GURNISSON SERIES •
David Guymer
BOXED SET ONE: Realmslayer
BOXED SET TWO: Blood of the Old World

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

WAR-CLAW
Josh Reynolds

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS
Nick Kyme

THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES
Various authors

SONS OF BEHEMAT
Graeme Lyon

HEIRS OF GRIMNIR
David Guymer

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Lady of Sorrows’

A Black Library Publication
eBook license

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

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

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

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

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

CHAPTER 1

The earth moved in the morning, when it should not have until the afternoon.

Jaras Anvarheim rose to greet the dawn of what was supposed to be the last day of the caravan’s journey to the Colonnade. The merchants and their armed escorts were camped on a high, wooded ridge, and though the Colonnade was not yet visible, Jaras knew it was just over the horizon to the east, hidden by another line of hills on the far side of a rock-strewn plain. A river cut a serpent’s line north-south, a barrier to cross a few miles away; a barrier that he expected to have changed by the time the caravan reached it.

Jaras watched Hysh rise, thinking about its rays shining on the Diamond Spire of home, and then the ridge began to rumble. Merchants scrambled out of tents to grab the tethers of startled horses. Jaras seized the trunk of the nearest tree, the instinct to hold on to something solid too hard to overcome, even when solidity was a lie.

The ridge dropped, and the land on either side rose. Stones flowed and reknit themselves. The trees swayed as if caught in a gale. Some of them disappeared, swallowed up where the earth turned soft as water. Jaras’ feet began to sink into the ground. He let go of the tree and danced away just as that patch of land folded in on itself. He jumped onto a boulder that emerged from the underbrush and rode it down. The rocks of the plain turned into scree as the new cliffs thrust their backs up. They tumbled down slopes that angled up from the horizontal to the near vertical, the roar of their fall filling the new valley. They piled up against the edges of the forest, toppling more trees.

The shaking stopped. The reshaping was complete. The ridge was now a deep gorge. The slopes of the forest had reversed, with the trees clinging to the lower slopes of the cliffs. About a mile to the north, a waterfall shouted down the cliff. The river on the plains had changed course and rushed into the gorge. Water foamed by fifty yards to Jaras’ right, where the centre of the gorge had formed a deep bed. The level of the river would rise quickly, but the caravan was high enough up the new banks to keep from being swept away.

Jaras looked up at the jagged cliffs and sighed. There would be no going east this morning. The merchants would have to travel south, where the level of the gorge and the riverbanks began a slow rise. He guessed the land shift had cost them half a day.

Someone was shouting at the caravan leader. ‘You said we had time! You said the change wouldn’t come until hours from now!’

‘That’s what the charts indicated,’ Vela Peltoan said, sounding both patient and exhausted.

Jaras made his way over to the confrontation. Three of the escorting guards from the Colonnade Freeguild stood nearby, unconcerned. They were used to merchants venting at each other, and Vela had proven adept at defusing tensions during the weeks-long trek from Fangshield. The upset merchant was named Bayar, and he had been in the vanguard of the malcontents from the first day out.

Jaras waited to see if he could help. As the caravan’s bard, he was being paid to keep morale up and make the journey seem shorter than it was. Now that it was going to be longer than it should have been, his duties would become more important. If the trip took an extra day, that put a few more riches in his pocket, though he was even more anxious than Bayar for the trek to be over. Bayar was from Fangshield. For Jaras, the Colonnade was home, and he had been away for months.

‘The charts!’ Bayar exclaimed. ‘Are they even real, or are you just incapable of reading them?’

‘They’re old,’ said Vela.

‘Can you afford the new ones?’ Jaras asked Bayar. He smiled to show he was sympathetic, that anyone would wish to have the latest tidal charts to come out of the Colonnade, but who in this caravan had the means for that? Quality was expensive. The charts from before the Necroquake were still accurate to within half a day, and that had been enough to make the journey manageable to this point. It was true that the early change in the land today was a hard blow. At the moment the end of the voyage should have been in sight, the horizon had been taken away.

Bayar turned to Jaras, ready for a fight. Jaras put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Listen,’ he said, as if to a fellow conspirator. ‘I’m grieving with you. Do you know how long it’s been since I saw home?’

‘You aren’t depending on the sale of rugs to put food on your table.’

‘That’s true. But you’re not hungry today, are you? We’ll still be at the Colonnade tomorrow. The next market isn’t until two days from now. But you know what? People will notice our delay. People will be anxious that they might not be able to buy the latest rugs from the looms of Fangshield. That won’t be a bad thing, will it?’

Bayar mumbled something incomprehensible, but his face was no longer turning purple. Jaras gave his shoulders a squeeze and let him go.

The caravan was ready to start the day’s march a few minutes later. The wagons were solid, built for the rapid upheavals of this region of Ghur, their cargoes held by four raised sides four feet high and securely fastened with nets. Jaras jumped up onto the lead wagon and stood up on its load of chests, making himself visible to the whole train. His clothing helped him stand out. It was a variant of the Freeguild livery of the Colonnade. A narrow wedge of silver, representing the castle’s great spire, bisected the green of the fields, above the brown of the land. This was the pattern for armour and uniforms alike. Jaras’ clothes turned the livery to a bright motley. The colours were there, but playfully brighter, and the complex repetitions of the pattern made it a celebration. The bard’s mission was joy, remembrance and exaltation.

‘My fellow travellers!’ Jaras called. ‘I woke up early just to look east. And you know what I saw of the Colonnade before the ridge fell? Nothing. It was still too far.’ He turned to address the cliffs. ‘Do you hear that, you rocks of the perverse? You are not taking anything away from us!’ Addressing the caravan again, he said, ‘The pleasure of our arrival is merely deferred! Let us use our extra time well! Shall we revel in our anticipation?’ He paused, long enough for a couple of faint cheers to make themselves heard, not long enough to make the absence of voices more awkward. He answered his own question with an enthusiastic, ‘Yes! We shall!’

He started to sing, and the walls of the gorge picked up his voice. Before he reached the second verse, most of the merchants had joined in.

‘Sing high for the hills, as they climb at dawn,

Sing low for the gorge, born the night just gone.

Sing high for the town that is unafraid!

Sing high for the Colonnade!

Oh, the land will rise and the land will fall,

And the waves of change shatter every wall.

But the Diamond Spire will never fade!

Sing high for the Colonnade!

Sing high for the Colonnade!’

There were twenty more verses. He had begun teaching the song to the members of the caravan on the morning of their departure from Fangshield. They all knew it by now, and they knew it well. By the time the song was done, the mood of the travellers was closer to eager than disappointed, and Jaras was satisfied.

He hopped down from the wagon and worked his way along the line of the caravan, joking with the travellers. He talked longer with those who seemed most troubled. One of those was a jeweller named Gallaf. Mid-morning, with the riverbanks rising more steeply, they could see the exit from the gorge only a couple of miles straight ahead. Gallaf looked as if he would be sorry to leave the cliff walls, as if their confines represented some kind of safety to him.

‘Why so grim?’ Jaras asked. ‘Don’t tell me that you’re starting to feel your jewels are shown off to better effect away from cities. Is the untamed land so much better a contrast?’

‘No, it isn’t that,’ said Gallaf.

‘You’re missing Fangshield,’ said Jaras.

‘I miss its civilisation.’

‘Is this your first trip to the Colonnade?’

‘It is.’

Jaras laughed. ‘Then you should be overjoyed. I mean no insult to Fangshield when I say that at the Colonnade, you will find true civilisation. It does not have its equal anywhere in Ghur.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘You don’t believe it,’ Jaras said, chiding.

‘Oh no, I do! I do! It’s just… I’ve heard some things about this region.’

‘What things?’

‘About monsters near the Colonnade.’

‘You mean the Avengorii,’ said Jaras.

Gallaf winced. He looked up anxiously, as if expecting the blue sky to darken and the horrors to fall on the caravan, summoned by the utterance of their name.

‘Don’t worry,’ Jaras said. ‘You wouldn’t find me in this caravan if I thought we were going anywhere near their lairs.’ He grimaced in disgust and anger. ‘The land they’ve stolen is some distance east of the Colonnade.’ He took a breath. ‘They won’t hold it forever,’ he promised.

‘You have a song ready for their defeat?’ Gallaf asked, doing his best to mount a front of bravado now that he knew he was safe from what he feared.

‘Many,’ said Jaras, and he strummed a few light chords on his lute before moving on.

To his right, the eastern riverbank widened as it rose. The cliff on Jaras’ left was less than fifty feet high now, its barren top poking up above the trees. The woods here were thick, though the trees stopped a good hundred yards from the edge of the water. The way forward angled westward ahead, but soon the slope would be level with the plain, and the caravan could finally strike eastward again.

Jaras was making his way back up to the head of the caravan, and was three wagons away from Vela’s, when the captain of the escort, walking point, stopped suddenly and held up a hand, warning for silence. The caravan creaked to a halt. Jaras padded forward to join Vela. ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

She shook her head.

The guard looked back at them. ‘Thought I heard growling,’ she said.

Jaras turned around slowly, scanning the clifftops, staring into the shadows of the forest.

‘This doesn’t feel like a very defensible position,’ said Vela.

‘It isn’t,’ said the captain. ‘We also have no choice.’ She raised her horn to her lips to sound the call to form a circle.

Before she could, another horn blew. It sounded from just around the bend. The call was savage, brutal, more animal than instrument. It stopped Jaras’ breath with fear.

‘Beastmen!’ the captain shouted, but the call of the horn had already spread the news.

There were twenty guards of the Colonnade Freeguild in the caravan’s escort. Their numbers and their weapons had been enough to keep the merchants safe from the predators they had encountered. The route was a well-travelled one, with frequent heavily armed patrols. It was as safe as any path across the landscapes of Ghur could be.

It was not very safe at all.

‘What about Skykeep?’ Gallaf wailed. ‘Where is its garrison?’

No one answered him. The garrison of the fortress projected the Colonnade’s power into the east. It was the sentry guarding the city’s approaches, and the patrols on the road went out from its gates. Skykeep was strong, but its sentinels could not see or be everywhere.

The merchants struggled with their terrified horses to pull the wagons into the defensive formation. The guards made themselves into a wall facing uphill, their halberds, swords and crossbows at the ready. Their speed and discipline were impressive.

We’re all going to die, Jaras thought.

The sound of the enemy’s approach rumbled through the gorge. It came for Jaras with the force of an avalanche, a cacophony of braying and bellowing, a thunder of hooves shaking the ground. Jaras tried to brace himself for the sight of the terror that produced that sound. He could not. It was too great, and he was too small, and he wanted to disappear into a hole in the ground. And then, in a howling storm, the beastmen charged around the bend.

The warherd was larger than the entire caravan. Even if it had been a quarter of its size, Jaras thought, the guards would still have had no chance. A massive brute in crude, pale-blue armour led the attack, bellowing to shatter the air. Jaras felt the roars in his bones. Merchants sobbed and fell to their knees, already defeated. Jaras managed to keep his feet. He was with Vela, just behind the too-small line of defenders. Rooted to the ground, he stared at the avalanche of horned, fanged monsters. The earth thundered with the pounding of hooves, shaking as if the tidal change were imminent again.

Crossbow bolts flew. Some of the smaller beastmen fell. The larger ones only came on faster when they bled.

‘Sigmar preserve us,’ Vela whispered.

The leader of the warherd carried an axe larger than a man. Snarling, it swung the massive blade and killed two guards in a single stroke. The defenders hurled themselves against the charge, and they almost slowed the beastmen. They even killed a few of the hulking creatures before they were torn apart and trampled into a mire of blood and bone.

In his state of frozen terror, Jaras saw the struggle unfold slowly, every detail etched into his memory between the distant beats of his heart. The heroes of the Freeguild fought valiantly. Their valour was worthy of song, and snatches of mournful, stirring verse and melody flashed through his mind.

Someone must remember them. Someone must sing of what they faced and what they did.

Sing of how they died.

They died struggling to the last. They died with honour.

Do not sing of how they were killed.

Heads crushed. Limbs torn off and used as clubs. Struck with spiked hammers, and with such force that they burst open like rotten fruit.

Who will sing? It will not be you.

Not if I die. The thought broke the spell of fear and jolted him into movement again. Two heartbeats into the attack, Jaras sprinted away from the beastmen. He was one of a panicked mob, and the monsters laughed at the terror of the merchants. The beastmen roared after their prey. The smaller ones, light on their feet, faster than humans, streaked ahead of the crowd and cut off the path of escape. The warherd surrounded its prey and closed in.

The slaughter began in earnest. Jaras was caught in the middle of screaming, struggling bodies. He and the merchants were animals now too, terrified, unthinking – creatures of instinct lashing out and clawing at their neighbours, driven by the need to flee though there was nowhere to run. Blood slicked the ground. Blood sprayed the air. The stench of blood filled Jaras’ nose. He was breathing blood, choking on blood, slipping on blood.

A wagon went flipping end over end, breaking bones as it cartwheeled over the crowd, scattering its load, crushing more bodies with hurled chests. It crashed down, upended, in front of Jaras. One corner rested against a boulder, holding it up at a slight angle. There was suddenly a dark space in front of Jaras, and he slid under the wagon. A heavy body smashed into it, sending it sliding, and he scrabbled to keep up with its movement and stay underneath. Knocked off its boulder, the wagon thumped down level on the ground, trapping Jaras inside.

He peered through gaps in the splintered slats and saw only violent blurs. He was surrounded by the bellowing of the beastmen and the screams of the dying. It was all he could do not to curl into a ball and join in the screams. He crouched on all fours beneath the centre of the wagon, his breath coming in halting gasps, his eyes wide in the darkness. He waited for the axe or the hammer that would smash open his shelter and bring him his death.

After some time, there seemed to be fewer shrieks and roars near him. The massacre was moving downhill. Then something hit the wagon again, hard enough to send it skittering across the ground as if it weighed nothing. It took Jaras with it, rolling and scraping him across the stones of the riverbank. It slammed against a tree trunk and split open.

Jaras lay motionless, clothing torn, the flesh of his arms and legs scraped raw and bleeding. He was a ball of pain. His head spun. He didn’t know what was happening, but he kept still, mouth wide in a silent cry of agony.

The roars of the beastmen moved further away. He held his breath, listening. There was no movement near the wagon.

Don’t stay here. They might come back.

Jaras crawled to the side of the wagon. He pulled on the broken slats. They were an inch thick, made to stand up to the punishments of the tidal shifts. He had to pull with all his strength before one began to give. The splintering cracks were deafening in the small space. He didn’t stop, urged on by the thunder of murder from downslope. He had to trust in the hope that the beastmen wouldn’t hear him breaking wood. If they did, it wouldn’t matter if he stopped trying or not.

He forced open a gap just large enough to squeeze through. Jagged wood clawed at him and drew more blood as he struggled out from under the wagon. He was at the edge of the forest. The nearest beastmen were a hundred yards downslope from his position, laughing as they finished off the last of the merchants.

Run. Run. There’s nothing you can do.

Sobbing with shame and terror, he stumbled deeper into the woods. There were shadows in the trees and the promise of hiding places. But the promises felt like taunts. Hysh was high in the sky. He could hide only if no beastmen looked for him.

He ran anyway, crashing through brush, too frightened to stop and look for cover.

And then, the light in the forest failed. The shadows blossomed.

Jaras heard the sound of wings. Now he did pause. He looked up.

He screamed.

The sky shouted horror.

CHAPTER 2

Clouds boiled dark and grey, covering the sky. A torrent of black, clotted blood poured down from them, and the river turned dark and stagnant, its surface crusting over with scabs and brown foam. The things that flew down into the gorge seemed to Jaras to have been ripped from a storm. They were the savagery of lightning and the anger of thunder given form. Their flesh was pale grey, their bodies huge and rippling with strength. Curved talons jutted from their winged arms. Their skulls were nightmare deformations of the human shape, elongated and pointed of crown and chin, framed by ears sharp as horns. Their jaws were enormous, caverns filled with teeth long as daggers. The jaws were the manifestations of a hunger so terrible it had determined the shape of the skulls.

Vargheists.

Monsters from dreams and fireside whispers. When the name Avengorii was spoken, by voices hushed by fear and hatred, in the Colonnade, it was the image of vargheists that rose in the mind’s eye. There was another name that hovered in the background at such times too, but it was never said aloud. That name was too frightening, and she to whom it belonged was a being beyond the scope of nightmares. The creatures who served her were awful enough. They were everything the Colonnade repudiated. They were savagery that made the beasts of Ghur seem tame. Bestial was too weak a word for them, and the horror of the vargheists was made worse by the traces of the human that lingered in their shape.

And yet, leading the vargheists were two monsters even more horrible. Their torsos were human, but their lower bodies reptilian, serpentine in length, taloned legs clawing at the air as the vampires flew on huge, tattered, bat-like wings.

Jaras had never seen any of the Avengorii. They were the enemy always just over the horizon, out of sight yet too close for the imagination, pressing in against the thin veil of night. The Colonnade was impregnable to most of the threats of Ghur, but its defences were untested against the Avengorii. They were the great fear, because they were hated with even more ferocity than the beastmen. And though he had never seen them, the fear of what they represented – the most foul insult to the purity of the Colonnade – made them an obsession. The Avengorii haunted the studies of the scholars and the stories of the people, and so Jaras knew that the leaders of the flight, those things patched together from pieces of horror, were Vengorian Lords.

Jaras saw his fear made real, and saw it streak down to attack the other bad dream. The vargheists struck the beastmen with the force of a thunderclap, their hissing roars silent until the moment claws and fangs tore into flesh.

The beastmen howled, surprised. They fought back with an explosion of violence, leaping up at the vampires to hack them from the air with clubs and axes. Their fury was so great that Jaras thought for a moment it would give them the gift of flight.

He realised with a shock that he was crawling through the bush towards the fight. The need to see the fullness of this horror was stronger than the urge to flee. Mesmerised by the clash of flesh at its most hideous and powerful, he moved downhill and to the edge of the woods. He stopped behind a screen of trees, under the shadow of thick ferns, and watched. He was barely conscious of his pain. He stared at a spectacle so grotesque it had the power of the sublime. It held him, body and spirit, and showed him, over the space of a few acres, the greatest fear of the Colonnade: a war of monsters, with mortals reduced to slabs of butchered meat.

The vargheists fought with the frenzy of a hurricane. They carried no weapons, needing none. Their claws severed limbs. A single bite from their jaws tore out the entire throats of the smaller beastmen. Their foes retaliated with their axes and hammers, and Jaras felt his sense of reality become slippery where the beastmen, using weapons and armour, seemed more civilised than the vampires.

Only the commanders of the Avengorii were armed. They wore armour of crimson and black, and the larger of the two wore a helm topped with two crooked horns. It covered his forehead and eyes, but not his mouth, leaving the terrible fangs free to rip the throats of his enemies. He wielded a sword of blackened iron, and from the edges of the blade came a rain of scalding, clotted blood.

At first, Jaras saw only mindless hunger in the way the vargheists fought. They were overwhelming their foes through sheer fury and speed. Gradually, he saw patterns in their strikes as they responded to the snarls of the two horrors in command. They dived, hit hard and then took to the skies again. The larger of the two Vengorian Lords was the one who always attacked first, and rose first to launch the next strike.

The beastmen brought down some of the vampires, slashing their wings open, goring them with horns and then trampling the bodies. But the vargheists were larger, faster and stronger than the beastmen, and they shredded their earthbound foes. A mist of sprayed blood filled the air, mixing with the clotted rain. Jaras shuddered as the rotten gore pattered on the fern leaves above him. He pressed himself closer to the ground. He tried to will himself to another place, to any place that was miles from here, and yet he could not look away.

The largest of the beastmen roared a challenge, defiant though all but a few of his comrades were dead, their carcasses spread wide, dismembered and gutted. He brandished his axe at the leader of the Avengorii. The vampire landed a few yards in front of the beastman. The claws of his six legs gouged furrows into rock. He stretched to his full height, and he was taller than the bestigor.

‘Orgo comes!’ the beastman snarled. He raised his axe, bracing to charge. ‘His beastherd comes. We will trample you traitors to Tzeentch. All die beneath our hooves. Orgo comes!’

‘Lauka Vai has a message for Orgo,’ the vampire said, his voice a grating hiss. Jaras gasped at the utterance of the Mother of Nightmares’ name. With every passing moment, he was falling deeper into an abyss of fear. The Vengorian Lord’s lips, slithering up over needle teeth, shaped words with a precision that unnerved Jaras. The words were lucid, yet they sounded like the thinnest of veneers – a pretence of sanity over a ferocity of madness, barely and only temporarily contained. At the same time, the voice wounded him. Something tore in Jaras’ heart, and he did not know what it was. The agony he felt went beyond fear. There was grief. The pain felt personal. There was something horribly familiar in the monster’s intonation.

‘The Mother of Nightmares welcomes Orgo’s challenge,’ the vampire said, slowly circling the bestigor. ‘She would have him do his worst. Let him bring all his beastherd to meet us. All of you. When you are all before us, we will drown the land in your blood.’

The bestigor lowered his head and feinted a lunge at the vampire, who kept circling.

‘This is the message from Lauka Vai,’ the vampire said. ‘But you will not deliver it.’ He snarled and launched himself at the beastman. The bestigor charged too, his massive axe raised high. The vampire blocked it, his sword striking upwards against the shaft with such force that the bestigor stumbled back. The vampire thrust his head forward, striking like a snake, and sank his fangs into the bestigor’s throat. The beastman threw himself back, tearing free of the vampire, leaving behind a great flap of skin and muscle. Blood, instantly thick and dark, spilled down his torso. He weaved, but did not let go of his axe, whose blade was suddenly dull with rust. He came back in a stumbling charge and swung the axe over his head and down.

The vargheist jumped back from the blow and the axe slammed into the ground. One of the huge, ragged wings slashed at the beastman with its sickle-like claw and finished what the vampire’s jaws had begun. The bestigor’s head lolled back, dangling from a single strip of skin. Blood clotted at the stump of the neck. The body took a few steps, swayed drunkenly, then fell. The vargheist jumped onto the body and fastened his jaws around the top of the neck, feasting greedily on the rotted blood.

A hideous calm fell over the gorge. The fighting was over. There were no more snarls and cries. Instead, there were the wet sounds of sucking and lapping tongues, and the snapping of bones as vampires cracked open ribcages to get at the hearts within.

The spell that had held Jaras broke. He did not want to see any more. He could not bear to see any more. He crawled backwards slowly, fearful of making the slightest sound.

Don’t hear me. Don’t see me. Don’t hear me. Don’t see me.

He had witnessed the clash of nightmares. Worse, he had heard the speech of nightmares and knew what was closing in on the Colonnade. He had to get out of the gorge alive. He had to get back to the city. He had to sound the warning.

Slowly. Quietly. Don’t rush. Don’t make a mistake.

Jaras held his panic in check. He didn’t rise until he had crawled more than a hundred feet back into the woods. Then he stood. He could no longer see the vampires, though he could still hear the gobbling feast and the rustling of leathern wings. He turned his back on the riverbank and moved deeper into the woods.

The ground sloped up before long, and then he was on all fours again, scrambling over the scree. The top of the cliff was not far, and the sides were fractured, offering plenty of handholds. He could climb. He was sure he could climb. As long as he didn’t slip. As long as he didn’t fall.

He didn’t. He reached the top. To the east, the plain had changed into a landscape of rolling hills and isolated tors. The Colonnade seemed even further away. He couldn’t see more than a mile ahead.

He was out of the gorge. He had survived two massacres. Now he had a duty to survive at least one more day.

Under the grey, hungry sky, Jaras ran. Weaponless, exhausted, wounded, he ran, making for the glen between two hills and the promise of the city he must save.

Kavak drained the blood of the bestigor. His hunger sated, the red haze of slaughter pulled back from his eyes. He could think clearly again. Even across so many leagues, the will of his queen held him back from the pit of absolute unreason. He rose from the corpse and surveyed the aftermath of the slaughter. He and his comrades had slain all of the beastmen. He almost regretted that none had escaped the gorge to bring word to Orgo. He liked to imagine the beastlord’s anger. He wondered if the brute was capable of feeling worry. Perhaps the disappearance of his warherd would work its way into his thoughts, a jagged splinter of concern.

‘They’re ranging very close to the Colonnade,’ said Thalvess, the other Vengorian Lord attached to Kavak’s flight of vargheists. He licked at the blood that trickled from the corner of his upper lip.

‘Very close,’ Kavak agreed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they had already come this far.’ His patrol had been flying back east after spotting the main body of the beastherd. Finding this group of beastmen had been a surprise. ‘Orgo is moving fast, if his raiding parties are already this far ahead,’ he said.

‘Bad luck for those mortals,’ Thalvess said, glancing at the remains of the merchants.

‘Bad luck for us too, I fear,’ said Kavak.

‘You think word will get back to the Colonnade? I didn’t see any survivors.’

‘Neither did I, for all the difference that will make. One way or another, the Diamond Spire will learn about this. We’re easily within the range of the Colonnade’s patrols. Sooner or later, someone will come across this.’

‘The mortals might blame the beastmen,’ said Thalvess.

‘I’m sure they will. Partly. But then who killed the beastmen, they’ll wonder. I doubt they’ll concern themselves with which bodies have been drained of blood and which have not.’

He watched Thalvess’ face as the long-term implications of the massacre sank in. ‘Do we go on?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Kavak said. ‘We head back. We must speak with Lauka Vai. We have to warn her that a collision is coming.’

Jaras fled through the hills. Where he could, he cut between them. Where he could not, he went over, and that was when he felt most vulnerable. When he crossed their peaks, he expected to be seen.

The vargheists and their lords flew overhead when he was still making his way through the first of the glens. He dropped flat and hid in the shadow of a boulder. He shivered, waiting for the raptor cry as one of the monsters dived down to seize the new prey.

But the vampires flew on, dark silhouettes against the clouds, sailing on wings whose lines were sharp enough to cut the sky. He didn’t move until they disappeared over the next rise. Then he waited some more, resting for the first time since dawn, gathering a little bit of strength.

He started to fall asleep. He jerked himself to, adrenaline surging, heart pumping hard with terror. He couldn’t sleep. Not out in the open. He had escaped beastmen and vampires, but there was everything else that lived in Ghur that would hunt him if given a chance. It was dangerous enough during the day. Already, he had seen some movement high on the wooded hill to his left. All he had with which to defend himself was the knife he carried at his belt. He was not a strong man, and he was growing weaker. He was an easy kill. At night, he would not be able to see where he was going, let alone what was approaching. He had to reach the Colonnade before sunset.

After the first few hills, the land grew barren. The trees thinned out, then disappeared. The grass withered. Soon there was only rock, the hills dark, stony masses. They seemed to lean towards him when he approached, leviathans on the verge of tearing themselves free of the ground.

Jaras was hungry, and he was thirsty. He had lost his waterskin in the gorge, and though the river on its new course would no longer bar his way, it would not be there to help him, either.

By mid-afternoon, only two fears kept him walking. His body was a lead weight. Every shuffled step felt like the last effort he could summon. Then the fears would prick his heart, and he would take another step. He was afraid for himself, and he was afraid for the Colonnade. He had to keep going.

The clouds parted late in the afternoon, and he had clear skies as evening made its approach. The hills were so close, one after the other, that he had no idea how far he had to go. He wasn’t even certain he was heading in the right direction. The hills had become the entire realm. He would see nothing but them until he finally surrendered to their embrace and lay down.

His hand brushed against his knife. It was still there, as it had been a few seconds before. He had started checking on its presence for the sliver of reassurance it gave him. Now the gesture was unthought, a habit. He barely checked for hunting wildlife. He had no energy left to run or fight. He was so tired, so thirsty, in so much pain, he would have welcomed a quick death.

The sky was bright orange and starting to lose its intensity. It would shade to violet soon, and then, not much later, the end would come with night. Jaras stopped at the foot of a ridge that stretched for miles to his left and right. He could not go around it. He stared numbly at the slope.

I can’t climb. I can’t.

Then don’t. There’s no point. What’s on the other side? More hills, and they’ll be hills in the night.

This was as far as he could go.

He sank to his knees. He embraced hopelessness with a grateful sigh. He had done what he could. He would sleep now, and his fate would come for him.

He lay down on the stony ground. It was surprisingly comfortable.

No. Get up. Get up.

I can’t. Enough. I tried.

Get up or you’ll die.

Good. I don’t care any more.

Get up. The Colonnade needs you.

One fear was gone. The other remained. He couldn’t abandon his city.

No one else can bring the warning.

Get up.

We’re easily within the range of the Colonnade’s patrols. The memory of the Vengorian Lord’s words forced him to his feet. The Avengorii were close to the city, too close. There was something else in the vampire lord’s voice that urged him on too. The wound it had opened in his soul still bled. Because he did not understand the reason for the depth of the pain, he could not ignore it. There was something that he had to fight, even when he had no strength left.

He had to fight the vampire.

Jaras took a few stumbling steps up the ridge. When he almost fell again, he looked up in despair at the distant top.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

You must.

I…

There was movement at the top, a gentle swaying in the evening breeze. A line of tall grass nodded to itself.

No. Not grass.

Wheat.

The other side of the ridge was cultivated. One last climb, and he would be in the fields that surrounded the Colonnade and fed its population. He was almost there.

One last climb.

Weeping, this time with joy, he forced himself up the slope. Twice, he lost his footing and fell, crying out in frustration as he slipped back down. He grabbed at the stones, tearing off nails, arresting his fall. He stood again, and climbed again.

He made it to the top.

He looked out over the wheat field. He saw, in the dying light, the towering shape of the Colonnade.

Then he was running, shouting for help, pounding down the hill so fast he could not control his momentum. It didn’t matter. He was home. He was home.

And when he fell, surrounded by the waving wheat, he knew he could not get up again. He heard movement heading his way. He didn’t know if it was friend or beast.

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t move.

The dark claimed him.

It didn’t matter. He was home.

CHAPTER 3

The great pride of the people of the Colonnade was that they were above the bestial nature of Ghur, and so they had raised a city in their image. The Colonnade was built on a granite platform held aloft by two rows of immense pillars. The columns were polished granite too, and perfectly cylindrical. Each was fifty feet wide and two hundred feet high, and plunged another two hundred feet into the ground. When the land shifted, it rose up and down the pillars as if they were pistons, and the city remained stable, indifferent to the tides of the earth.

The city’s platform was an elongated oval. At its eastern end, the Castle of the Diamond Spire looked down from a high terrace onto the rest of the Colonnade, built upon the descending terraces radiating west. The castle’s walls gleamed with blinding white marble. It took its name from its central tower, whose high, tapering form was sheathed entirely in diamonds. Under the light of Hysh, it was the resplendent symbol of the Colonnade’s physical and moral elevation. It was the highest point in the Colonnade. It was the city’s summation.

At the opposite end of the platform from the castle, a huge, cobbled square dominated the lowest terrace. The square was the primary means of access to the city. Monumental engines stood at each corner, controlling chains that raised and lowered the square through the platform, to and from ground level. Every link in the chains was a leviathan. Hundreds of people could be brought into the city with each operation of the lift. There were smaller lifts located near the edge of each terrace, and one more provided direct access to the castle. It was rarely lowered, its use reserved for Lord Tarvynde and his entourage.

The terraces were the Above. The people who lived there considered it to be the Colonnade proper. In the Above, the houses were stone and finely hewn timber. What was built in the Above was built to last. The Above was the pride of the Colonnade.

On the other side of the platform hung the Beneath, the undercity. It was home to the poor of the Colonnade, the servants of the rich above and the labourers who worked the farmlands and the mines in the wider region under the city’s control. More chains hung from the underside of the granite, suspending a tangle of iron platforms on which were built the ramshackle homes and taverns of the Beneath. Some of the chains were as short as twenty feet, the roofs of the structures on their platforms brushing against the granite. Others reached halfway down to the low-tide ground level. Many platforms had been forged together along their edges for better stability, but many others dangled in isolation. Networks of suspension bridges and rope ladders linked the pieces of the undercity together. The people here walked as if on ships at sea, their wide stances compensating for the perpetual swaying of their world.

The sky of the Beneath was the darkness of stone. The nights were deep and starless. The days were shadowed twilight. Only when Hysh rose and set did its rays touch the undercity directly.

Atop the Colonnade’s granite platform, there was no fear of the movements of the land. It didn’t matter how high the ground rose. Even if it pushed against the platform, all it would do was raise the city. The pillars would hold the jewel of Ghur stable. In the undercity, the anxiety never went away. The ground had never, in the history of the Colonnade, come close to brushing against the bottom of the lowest of the hanging platforms. That did not mean it could not. The terror that coiled in the dreams of every inhabitant of the Beneath was a sudden, inexorable upheaval, one that crushed them all against the rock of the Colonnade.

Jaras was a Short Chain. He lived in the attic room of a boarding house built on one of the platforms that hung closest to the rock. When he looked out his window, he could see the folds and cracks and texture of the granite. He also had a vista of the undercity’s jumble below him. He couldn’t afford even the meanest habitation in the Above of the Colonnade, but he could enjoy the effect of being in a high tower, as if he were the lord of the Long Chains far below him. He liked to think that his home reflected his liminal position. He spent as much time in the Above as he did in the Beneath. He sang in the taverns of the lower terraces, and in the last few months before his journey to Fangshield, he had made the right connections to get him introduced to one of the grander homes just one level below the castle. The invitation to perform at an evening there had not yet come, though the expectation of its imminence had been one of the reasons for his impatience to come home. It was in the Above, too, that he had joined the outgoing caravan to Fangshield.

It was in the Beneath, though, that he found most of his work. There was no lack of demand in the taverns here, though the pay was worse. There was also always a group of labourers heading for the fields who would pay a bit to have a bard lighten the weight of the day.

So here, in the attic, he had felt poised between the Above and the Beneath, his direction of travel slowly but surely upward.

On the second day after his flight to the Colonnade, he was not thinking of his prospects. He lay on his narrow bed, resting yet sleepless, dressings on his wounds, his thoughts consumed with the question of whether his warning had been taken seriously, or even believed. He received his answer in the middle of the afternoon, when two members of the castle guard came for him.

‘Jaras!’ Bennor, his landlord, shouted from below, and he sounded alarmed. Jaras limped down the steep staircase of the house. Bennor waited for him on the ground floor. He was a balding, placid-looking man, except he didn’t seem placid at the moment. His expression was a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Behind him were the guards, wearing the diamond-studded capes of the castle.

‘Lord Tarvynde has summoned his council,’ one of the guards said. ‘You have been called to address it.’

‘If what I have to say can be of any assistance, then I am honoured,’ said Jaras.

Bennor looked less frightened and even more impressed.

Jaras followed the guards across four separate suspension bridges to a position next to one of the great pillars. A ladder carved into the side of the column led to a cylindrical passage drilled through the granite platform. Inside the stone tube, a spiral staircase took them to the Above. They emerged from a hollow plinth beneath a silver-plated statue of a Stormcast Eternal of the Maelstrom of Light Stormhost, mounted on a gryph-charger, one of the four that guarded the square before the castle gates.

Jaras had visited the castle terrace a few times over the years. He had never passed through the gates before. As he did so now, he gazed at the unobstructed splendour before him. His chest swelled with the pride that was his birthright as a citizen of the Colonnade. It was easy, in the Beneath, to forget that pride. Here, it came back to him with a vengeance, and his spirit flew with the soaring heights of the battlements. The walls thrust out from the keep like the prows of huge ships, sailing to every point of the compass. The Diamond Spire shone so brightly, he couldn’t look at it directly.

This is what we have carved out of Ghur. This is our repudiation of all that belongs to the beast. We are above all, and stronger than all.

Inside the castle, Jaras walked with the guards down a great hall. The ribs of its vault were painted in gold leaf. Canvasses easily fifteen feet long depicted the Colonnade in storm and sun, at war and at peace. In every painting, it floated high above the landscape, invincible and impregnable. Jaras gazed at the paintings, his footsteps echoing on the mirror-polished floor, and promised to be worthy of the history they commemorated.

The council chamber nestled at the base of the Diamond Spire, beneath the throne room. The lord of the Colonnade sat on a high dais at the apex of a horseshoe-shaped arrangement of elaborate oaken stalls filled with seats. The elevated row, whose occupants were almost, but not quite, at eye level with the lord, was reserved for the nobility of the Colonnade, the families descended from the founders of the city. A private box on Lord Tarvynde’s right belonged to the representative of the Maelstrom of Light.

The Stormhost stationed at the Colonnade was a modest one. The city’s Freeguild army was strong, and the immediate region of the Colonnade had known a long period of relative stability. The Maelstrom of Light had little involvement with the administration of the city and had their barracks in the west wing of the castle. They used the Colonnade as a base from which to strike out further and further in the campaign to push the forces of Chaos out of Ghur.

Today, the box was occupied by the Lord-Celestant Uxa Dawnbolt. If Jaras had had any lingering doubts about how his warning had been received, her presence put them to rest forever. Her silver armour seemed to shine with its own light, a rival to the Diamond Spire. She seemed to Jaras to be a monument to war given life. Her eyes were a frightening translucent grey. Lightning gathered inside them, he thought, just out of sight but ready to strike down the unworthy at any moment.

In the lower row of the stalls sat the wealthy merchants of the Colonnade, not a few of whom Jaras had hoped to get to know, but in circumstances less serious than these. Also present were Havol Torvassen, the general of the Freeguild, and Baveth Ullior, the Scholar of Tides.

We could have used one of your new charts, Jaras thought when he saw Baveth. The scholar was a small woman, almost disappearing in her robes, a wisp of white hair poking out from her hood.

In the centre of the horseshoe, a single chair faced the dais. The guards brought Jaras to the chair and left him there. He bowed before Lord Tarvynde, then to the councillors on his right and left. He hesitated, unsure whether to sit down or not.

Tarvynde resolved the dilemma for him. ‘Thank you for coming, Jaras Anvarheim. Please be seated.’ The lord of the city was middle-aged. The city had known peace because its lord had not, leading one campaign after another to rid the Colonnade’s lands of raiding beastmen. His face had been worn and tempered by war into hardened iron. It was, Jaras thought, a noble face, its sharp profile imperious as befitted the ruler of the city of the Diamond Spire.

‘Anvarheim,’ Tarvynde repeated. ‘Your family was once one of considerable means, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘You are not, my lord,’ Jaras said. ‘We suffered severe losses during the siege of the tzaangors.’

It had been fifteen years before, in Jaras’ youth, that the Colonnade had come closest to falling since its founding. Its isolation from the ground had helped little against an Arcanite cult that had been able to deploy so many forces riding daemonic discs through the air. Jaras remembered the destruction that had been visited upon the Above. He remembered the burning of his family’s home and holdings. He remembered his older brother being part of the heroic stand on the Colonnade’s outer ramparts. The final stages of the battle he could remember less well. His memories were of ruin and flame. The tide had turned, and there had been victory, but he could not recall how that had happened. In his mind, there had been war and loss, and then in the aftermath he had found himself impoverished, the last Anvarheim alive.

‘You have brought back dark tidings with you,’ Tarvynde said. ‘I will ask you to repeat them for the benefit of this council. Please tell us everything you saw and heard when your caravan was attacked. Leave nothing out. You have our attention, and we have the time and need to listen.’

Jaras obeyed. He relived the horror in the gorge. He told his story slowly, wanting every detail to be right. He cut himself short a few times, when he was about to versify the events. This was not the moment to use that skill he had honed as a bard. The other one, the precision of recall, was what he needed. Tarvynde and Dawnbolt interrupted occasionally to clarify a point. Otherwise, the councillors were silent.

Jaras trembled by the end, but he was glad, too. This hour in the council chamber was a victory. The need to save his city had pulled him on, and now he was playing the part fate had decreed would be his in the coming struggle. He was more than glad. He was proud.

When he had finished, Tarvynde and Dawnbolt looked at each other, their expressions grave. Anxious murmurs ran through the rows of the stalls.

Tarvynde held up a hand, commanding silence. ‘There has been news of this beastherd for some time. Other Free Cities have fallen to it, but far from here. We’ve heard rumours that it had turned from its southward course and begun heading east, but not that it had already come so close.’

‘Can we fight it?’ one of the merchant lords asked.

‘If what we have heard about its size is true,’ said Havol, ‘we will be massively outnumbered.’

All eyes turned to Dawnbolt. She said nothing, offering no reassurance.

‘Do we have to fight?’ said Theos. ‘Unless the brutes have learned to fly, they will pass beneath us.’

‘And devastate the farmlands,’ Tarvynde reminded him.

‘Those can grow again.’

‘And if they besiege us?’ a noble asked. ‘What then?’

Theos had no answer to that.

‘How long do we have?’ Tarvynde asked Dawnbolt.

‘My Prosecutors are flying west as we speak,’ she said. ‘They set out to find the main body of the beastherd as soon as we had the first warning. We’ll know when they return.’

‘The further they have to fly, the better for us,’ said Tarvynde.

Dawnbolt nodded once in agreement. ‘I am inclined to think the caravan encountered a raiding party that had ranged far ahead. Nonetheless, the beastherd is clearly heading this way.’

‘What about the Avengorii?’ said Baveth. She leaned forward, her ancient face emerging from her hood. ‘They are part of the bard’s narrative too.’

‘If we have to fight both, we are doomed,’ the noble who had challenged Theos muttered gloomily.

‘Who said that is what we must do?’ his neighbour on his right asked. Atella Reigehren was younger than her fellow aristocrats, barely five years older than Jaras. Her family was not a rich one, but it had played a crucial role in guarding the ramparts from the founding of the Colonnade to the present day. She turned to Jaras. Her long red hair swept back sharply from narrow features and piercing eyes, and she made Jaras think of a bird of prey given human form. ‘You said that the Avengorii arrived after the caravan had already been destroyed by the beastmen. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Jaras said cautiously. ‘Barely, though. If they had come a few moments earlier, they could have taken part.’

‘But it was the beastmen they attacked.’

‘Yes.’ The admission felt like a lie. He wanted Atella to understand the horror of those beings. Who they killed at a given moment didn’t matter.

‘And they didn’t harm you.’

‘They didn’t see me,’ Jaras pointed out.

‘What is your purpose in asking these questions?’ Tarvynde asked Atella.

‘Simply this,’ she said. ‘If we are outnumbered by the beastmen, then we should seek an alliance with the Avengorii.’

Jaras’ jaw dropped in shock. Hadn’t Atella been listening? Her proposal wasn’t just irrational. It was incomprehensible. The Avengorii were monsters. There was only one thing to be done with them.

He was relieved to see the rest of the council was as shocked as he was. A chorus of shouts and anger greeted Atella’s words. Tarvynde and Dawnbolt said nothing, but they looked darkly at the councillor. When the furore finally abated, Tarvynde said, ‘I feel I should admire your daring even to think of such an alliance, yet I can’t.’

Atella was undaunted by the outrage she had created. ‘I don’t think you should reject my proposal so quickly,’ she said. ‘If we do not make this attempt, how will we survive?’

‘The Avengorii may be capable of speech,’ said Havol. ‘That does not mean they can reason. We have had little contact with them–’

‘Thanks be to Sigmar,’ called one of the merchants, interrupting him.

‘But when we have seen them, they have been ravening beasts,’ Havol continued.

‘And we have destroyed the individuals who came too near,’ said Tarvynde, to a chorus of approval.

‘Fairer to say you hunted them, I think,’ Atella said.

‘And rightly so,’ Havol told her. ‘All the more reason to think no ambassador would survive an encounter with them, let alone enter into successful negotiations. We are also far from defenceless. Even if we are outnumbered, we can use the isolation of the Colonnade to our advantage. Let us not forget that once we seal the city off from the ground, the size of the beastherd will hardly matter. The brutes cannot enter our gates. They cannot reach us.’

‘Unless the ground rises high enough,’ said Atella.

‘That has never happened,’ said Tarvynde. ‘It won’t happen now.’

Baveth stirred. Dawnbolt noticed. ‘What is it, Scholar of Tides?’ she asked. ‘Do you know something to disquiet us?’

‘I wish I did not,’ said Baveth, ‘but I do. I have just completed another examination of the currents in the land. We are heading towards a deformation unprecedented in the history of the Colonnade. The ground will rise higher than I have ever seen. And it will not be long in coming.’

‘Beneath us?’ Tarvynde asked.

‘I am not sure, my lord. I have spent the night hoping to find an error in my projections, and there is much that I do not know as yet. What I can say is that it seems almost certain that hills will rise just outside our walls. I fear that it will become possible to reach our gate directly from the ground.’

‘The enemy will besiege the city,’ said Dawnbolt.

‘I fear that too.’

‘Maybe the beastmen know what is coming,’ said Atella.

Baveth nodded. ‘Perhaps. They may read the changes of the land instinctively. They are part of Ghur in ways we will never be.’

‘Very well,’ said Tarvynde. His expression was grim. ‘Our hand is forced.’

No, Jaras thought. No. There is always a choice. No.

‘Councillor,’ Tarvynde said to Atella, ‘if you believe so strongly that overtures must be made to the Avengorii, then you will make them.’

Atella bowed her head. ‘I will leave at once,’ she said.

No. You mustn’t parlay with monsters. They will destroy us.

‘May Sigmar watch over us,’ said Tarvynde.

To Jaras, the words sounded like a plea for forgiveness. He glared at Atella.

I won’t let you damn our city.

CHAPTER 4

The terraces of the Colonnade were counted in descending order from the castle. The Diamond Spire was the supreme expression of the city, first above all, the highest point above the brutishness of Ghur. Every level beneath it was a little closer to the ground, a little less blessed.

The residence of House Reigehren had its place on the third terrace, two below the castle. It had nothing of the luxury that typified the homes of the other important families of the terrace, and still less of the palatial glory of the mansions on the second terrace. It was built out of the northern ramparts, constructed from the same whitewashed granite blocks. It gleamed in the light of Hysh and was part of the greater glory that was the Colonnade’s beauty. But it was also a blocky, squat keep. Its lines were strong instead of graceful. It would always be a fortress, and never elegant.

It did not bother Atella that the house would always be seen as crude and faintly distasteful by the upper reaches of the Colonnade’s society. She had been on the ramparts fifteen years ago. If much of her family had chosen to forget the terror and the struggle of the siege, she would not.

Her rooms were in the house’s turret. It thrust up from the north-west corner, overlooking the outer wall. Her study was her favourite room. Standing at her desk, she looked out of windows facing north and west. Her view to the north was of the land beyond the Colonnade as it changed and twisted. West, she looked down on the descending terraces of the city. In this room, she saw what she had sworn to defend, and what threatened it.

She wondered how long it would be before the stain of the beastherd spread across the land.

Wait until my return. Wait until we are ready.

She grunted, suppressing a pained laugh at herself. What does ‘ready’ mean? Am I ready to speak with monsters? Am I ready to tie us to the Avengorii?

She didn’t know. She dreaded what she was going to face, and she wished this task was unnecessary.

But it is necessary. That much she believed absolutely.

She turned back to her travel bag, checking one last time that she had everything she needed for the journey. She had packed quickly after the council meeting, determined to be on her way before anyone changed Tarvynde’s mind.

‘You’re leaving tonight?’

Atella turned around at the sound of her mother’s voice. Yanna Reigehren had her hands clasped in front of her, a sign that this conversation was not going to go well. Yanna had some definite opinions to share, and was not going to be interested in hearing any disagreement. Her emerald robes had a long train, making her seem to glide without walking as she moved forward to show her daughter the errors of her ways. Like Atella’s father, Erulf, she had aged quickly in the last ten years. Their faces were creased with long-standing disappointment. The history of the Reigehren family did not matter to them as much as its future, and their firstborn refused to share their concern.

‘I’m leaving within the hour,’ Atella said. ‘I want to get as far as I can while I have daylight.’

Yanna pursed her lips, displeased. ‘I’ve been speaking with Ulliva Gastar,’ she said.

Better you than me, Atella thought. ‘Is that so?’ she said, carefully neutral. She didn’t want a confrontation. Even if it was inevitable, she wouldn’t be the one to trigger it, if she could avoid it.

‘She said that Vash heard about what happened at the council.’

‘I would think that by now most of the Colonnade will have heard. It would be surprising if Vash had not.’

‘It matters more that Vash heard, and what he thought.’

‘To whom? Not to me.’ So much for not being confrontational.

‘It should.’ Yanna took a breath, her prelude to making definitive pronouncements. ‘You are, by your words and actions, endangering the chance of a union of our families.’

Atella had known from the moment her mother had appeared in her doorway that she was going to raise this issue. She had known that her mother would say something to get her heated. She had known that she would respond combatively. She knew all this, and that knowledge was useless to her. It did nothing to prevent the inevitable duel, the one they had fought so many times before and would fight again, it seemed, without cease until the end of days.

‘The union of our families,’ Atella said, giving an ironic emphasis to each of the words. ‘How many times have I made clear that I have no interest in this union?’

‘Enough times to be disappointing.’

‘Not enough to make the idea go away, though.’

‘Because,’ said Yanna, ‘the union is too important to be brushed away on a whim.’

‘A whim…’ Atella muttered.

‘You will come to understand this.’

‘Will I?’

‘Your father and I see the wisdom of it. Ulliva and Senevon Gastar see it too, though Ulliva is beginning to wonder.’

‘Good for her.’

‘And Vash has understood from the start.’

‘Of course he has.’

The Gastars were a merchant family of the second terrace. They had been wealthy before the last siege and had flourished enormously since. Theirs was one of the largest of the textile trades in the city, their tapestries in high demand in all the Free Cities for hundreds of leagues around the Colonnade. When her parents had presented her with the idea of a marriage to Vash, she had wondered what there would be in the union that would interest the Gastars. That became clear the first time she had met Vash – not at one of the formal events Ulliva kept trying to organise, but at a council function. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and knew it. He had a look she knew well from many of the upper-terrace dwellers – one of a physique sculpted by private tutelage in fencing and the staged, indoor practice of war.

‘I was on the wall,’ he had told her, mere moments after introducing himself. ‘During the siege,’ he clarified, as if this were an event she might not be familiar with. ‘I was there.’

‘So was I,’ she said dryly. They would both have just come of age during that battle. If he had not been part of the defence of the Colonnade, that would have been surprising.

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ he said, simultaneously embarrassed and dismissive.

‘You were on the second terrace sector?’ Atella asked.

He nodded, carefully sombre. ‘On the north side. Dark days. Dark days.’

How stupid did he think she was? The north side of the second terrace battlements had been completely destroyed. All of its defenders had died. The only reason the Colonnade had not been overrun then and there was that infighting had somehow broken out in the rearguard of the tzaangors, causing enough disarray for the Colonnade forces to rally and hold the line until the Maelstrom of Light had turned the tide. If Vash had really been on the wall, he would be dead. Atella wondered how much of the combat he had actually seen.

I know very well where you really were. You were among the reserves in the castle, the reserves whose privilege it is never to be deployed except in the direst emergency. How frightening was it to be captaining the stores?

She never asked. She didn’t have to. She knew he had been protected from harm to the greatest extent that his family’s wealth could ensure. And that was why the Gastars were open to a union with the Reigehrens. She had fought. So had her parents. No matter how much she despised their political aspirations, she would never question their commitment to the defence of the Colonnade. The Reigehrens wanted social advancement. The Gastars wanted the confirmation of honour.

Atella had no intention of facilitating either. Her memories of the fighting on the wall made the games of society repulsively shallow. There was one memory in particular that was so intense she lived with it every day. It was of the height of the struggle, when the fate of the Colonnade hung in the balance. The tzaangors seemed to be everywhere. Atella hurled herself at them, with no thought of victory or even of what the next minute might bring. She was consumed by the killing of the foe. She seemed to be running through a rain of blood, soaked crimson, slashing through flesh with a fury that went beyond desperation and became exhilaration.

It was a memory she could not shake. Nor did she wish to. And at times, lying awake in the deep hours of the night, she would admit to herself that what she had felt was, in truth, not exactly exhilaration. It had been much closer to ecstasy.

‘Mother,’ she said now, ‘neither Vash nor I are society fledglings. We are now well past the age of being naive and pliable enough to be your chattel. Since we are reminding each other of the obvious, I am a councillor to Lord Tarvynde. I do not, and will not, answer to you. I never agreed the union. I never encouraged Vash. I have given you all my refusal more times than I care to count.’

Yanna shook her head. ‘To think my daughter would feel so little obligation to her family.’

Her mother’s dramatic woe startled a short, sharp, disbelieving bark of laughter from Atella. ‘Obligation?’ she said. ‘Obligation? My obligation is to the Colonnade. That has always been this family’s obligation.’ Her smile was more savage than she intended. ‘To think my mother would forget that.’

Her mother was ready for her. She might even have goaded Atella into that last declaration. ‘Yes, let us talk, then, about your obligation to the Colonnade. You are a councillor. And a councillor should act in the best interests of the city.’

Where are you going with this? ‘And so I am.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. I’m on the ramparts again, mother, as we were fifteen years ago, and this time the land will rise and the enemy will outnumber the tzaangors by tenfold and more. I am doing what needs to be done for the Colonnade to survive.’

Yanna sniffed, offended. ‘You are doing nothing of the sort. You seek to sully the city. You will force us to have congress with monsters.’

‘I expected something ridiculous from you, but that makes me sad all the same. Our family has a history of pragmatism, mother. You and father taught me that. I wish you hadn’t forgotten it. Why won’t you understand? We can negotiate with the Avengorii. Not with the beastherd.’ She spoke with more certainty than she felt. She was not going to admit to any doubts in front of her mother.

‘If your negotiations are successful, what will that do to us?’ Yanna asked. ‘Is a dubious alliance, one where our new-found allies will turn on us and devour us at the first opportunity, worth losing our purity?’

‘Purity is pointless to the dead.’

Her mother pointed at her, looking triumphant, as if Atella had capitulated. ‘With your words, you condemn yourself. You show your lack of faith.’

‘In what?’

‘In the meaning of our city. You believe the Colonnade will fall.’

‘I believe that it might,’ Atella said, ‘if we don’t do all we can to save it.’

‘No.’ Her mother shook her head. ‘The Colonnade will not fall. It is its destiny to rise above the beasts and the plains of Ghur. We stand above, Atella. We stand above, in every way.’

‘Keep telling yourself that. Now, please leave me. I have preparations to finish, and I’m running short of daylight.’

Yanna glared at her. She had hurled unassailable logic at her daughter, and it had been for nothing. Such a loss could not be permitted. She stayed where she was, silent, as if waiting for Atella to change her mind, which she surely must.

‘Mother,’ Atella said. ‘Go. Now. Please.’

‘You shame us,’ her mother said, gathering up her robe with an angry flourish as she turned to go.

‘You say that like it matters to me,’ said Atella. ‘Maybe I’m ashamed of you.’

The Pillar and Sickle was not the lowest tavern of the Beneath. It marked the boundary between the Short Chain and Long Chain regions of the undercity. Below the tavern was where the miserable of the Colonnade gathered, the accretion of dark, cramped, stinking homes dense as flies on carrion. The Pillar and Sickle was not that low, but it was low enough. It was over fifty years old, though it looked as if it had been slapped together the week before and would last only a few days longer, with its walls of cast-off iron sheets and reused timber. Its interior was thick with smoke from its hearth and the pipes of its patrons. Its tables were even thicker with grime. The ale it served could be drunk without too much disgust, as long as it was drunk quickly.

The Pillar and Sickle was the third tavern Jaras and Bennor had visited that evening. Jaras had not quite given up on the idea of a fourth, but his head was swimming pretty badly. He had eaten, but not enough, and he wasn’t entirely sure what it was he had downed just after arriving here. He had accepted a bowl of grey stew from a miner and finished it, with the right amount of enthusiasm and an additional helping of eloquence. What he had not done was look at the stew long enough to identify it, and his stomach was having mixed feelings about the experience.

He was drunk, and he was growing nauseous, but he could still sing, and he had an audience. He had found plenty of willing listeners at each of his stops. They all wanted to hear about the warning he had brought to the Colonnade. He was proud of his ‘Lament for Vela’. After the council, he had thrown himself into the composition, making the caravan leader the focal point of heroism and tragedy. It was going down well, inspiring all the tears and anger he had intended. But it was the prelude for his real message.

‘Ohhhhhhh, they’re the glory of the Colonnade,

Our council of virtue never swayed!

The brave and the wise know better than we

And will see us bleed for their policy!’

He had plenty of verses. When he began, his circles of listeners at first reacted with shock and anxiety. But he already had them in his grasp with the songs of the slaughter, and he did not let them go. They were already afraid, and now he unveiled to them how the council planned to sell them out to the Avengorii. When he was done, he gave his lute a mocking strum, but sat back in his chair with a grim expression to show that his wit had been in earnest.

He looked around at the faces in the Pillar and Sickle. Exhausted faces, bitter faces, lined and hungry faces. They were the faces of the Beneath, the faces of the back-breaking labour behind the wealth of the Above. Jaras could almost think of them as the true faces of the Colonnade, except that the siren memory of the Above was too strong. He had never felt completely at home among these faces. He did not belong with them. He would leave them when he could. But they had to know what had been decided without their knowledge. They had to know what was coming. They had given their lives in the thousands in the days of the siege, for no reward other than the return to servitude.

Jaras had spent the evening spreading word of the betrayal, and he felt he had done good work. The population of the Beneath was large. If it could be moved to anger, greater work yet might be done.

‘You’re lying,’ said a hunched old woman. He had heard the same frightened denial at the other taverns, at first. ‘You were never at the council.’

‘He was. I was there when the guards came to take him there.’

Jaras nodded solemn thanks at his landlord, as if he had not done the same thing two other times that night for the same intervention. The first thing he had done on his return from the castle was speak to Bennor, tell him everything, and convince him of the necessity to warn everyone in the Beneath. The landlord was well known as a pleasant drinking companion, one who was content to nod along wherever the conversation went. If he spoke up, the event was rare enough to warrant attention.

‘Believe me as you believe in the burdens of your lives,’ Jaras said. ‘Lord Tarvynde is sending Atella Reigehren to seek an alliance with the Avengorii. A pact with monsters. And what, do you think, will be the price the Colonnade will pay for protection against the beasts?’

‘Blood,’ someone muttered.

‘Blood,’ Jaras repeated. ‘The only exchange of value for vampires. And whose blood?’

‘Ours.’ Several people answered at once, louder, with more anger.

‘Ours,’ said Jaras. For the purposes of his mission, he was one of the people of the Beneath. ‘After all, that is our purpose, isn’t it? Our lot in life is to keep the shining exemplars of the Above safe and happy. In their eyes, we aren’t worth anything else. As long as we are not united in purpose, maybe they’re right. As long as we are divided, clambering over each other in our struggle not to be the ones furthest below, I think they are right.’

There were gratifying nods and murmurs.

‘What difference does it make?’ a hoarse voice rasped.

Jaras turned around. It was the first time this evening that someone had asked such a question. The speaker was a thin man leaning against the back wall. He was so gnawed by poverty that it was impossible to guess his age. His eyes looked old and dead. He was, Jaras guessed, from the lowest, most miserable levels of the Beneath.

‘So I die at the hands of vampires,’ the man said. A wracking cough shook him. ‘So what?’ he said when he had recovered. ‘How am I worse off? And maybe some of us become vampires. How is that not better?’

The man looked unconcerned by the anger his words stirred, but its presence pleased Jaras. He barely needed to counter the man’s argument. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked gently.

‘Parek.’

‘Parek, would you give up your birthright? Would you become a monster and destroy the potential of the Colonnade? We are not monsters. We, all of us, are the pure hope of Ghur.’

There was clapping now, and the pounding of mugs on the table in approval. Parek’s flat expression didn’t change. Jaras didn’t mind. He didn’t expect to convince everyone. He needed to stir enough to anger that maybe there would be a chance of stopping this atrocity.

The door to the tavern flew open and a woman stormed inside, brandishing a parchment. Jaras thought he had seen her at the second tavern he had visited. ‘Have you seen this?’ she demanded of everyone. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘What is it?’ said Bennor.

The woman handed the parchment to Jaras. ‘A proclamation,’ he said, reading it. ‘Announcing the quest of Councillor Reigehren, and commanding the support of all loyal citizens of the Colonnade.’

‘There are guards posting those all over,’ said the woman. ‘You were right.’ She turned to the tavern in general. ‘He was right!’

Tarvynde had anticipated what the reaction to Atella’s mission would be. He had tried to stamp out opposition before it began.

Too late. I got here first. The people have heard the truth from me.

The anger in the tavern was building to rage.

It wasn’t bad enough that the ground surrounding Skykeep was rising, General Levyas Pennevan thought. He stood on the ramparts and looked west, listening to the sounds of devastation on the march. The sensation the climbing earth created, that Skykeep was sinking, was even more disturbing.

The earth had begun to swallow up the pillar the day before, just as the drums and horns of the beastherd first reached the ears of the fortress’ sentinels. Whispers ran through the Freeguild Guard, soldiers asking each other in fear and wonder whether the beastmen had the power to control the changes in the land of Ghur, or if they could foretell what shifts would come and where. Either possibility was fearful. So was the third, which no one dared whisper, but Levyas knew his troops were thinking about it, because he was, too. What he wondered was whether Ghur was reshaping itself to favour the beastmen. If he was at war with the very realm, what chance did he have?

The ground was now less than ten feet away from the top of Skykeep’s pillar. It had never been this high, not even close. And to the west, the mountains were sinking. Soon, they would be gone, leaving the way clear to the horror on the other side.

Skykeep was strong, and until this day, Levyas had believed it impregnable. It was the smaller cousin of the Colonnade. A single, massive pillar a hundred feet wide supported the fortress platform, which extended another fifty feet into the air on all sides. The four towers and thick ramparts of the keep made it seem, until today, like the head of a mace suspended high over the land. It was the projection of the Colonnade’s power into the west, important enough in itself that Levyas carried the rank of general, even though he was subordinate to General Havol Torvassen. Skykeep protected the caravan routes in this region and savaged the incursions by Chaos into the territory. It was provisioned by the caravans and by the taxes collected for it by the Colonnade.

The ramparts today were crowded with soldiers armed with long rifles and crossbows. In the central courtyard, there was barely room for the massed cavalry of Skykeep to muster before the gates. It was a rare occurrence for the full strength of the fortress’ troops to be gathered within its walls, but they had all been recalled when the messenger had come from the Colonnade. Baveth Ullior’s charts had predicted a disastrous rise of the ground at Skykeep in advance of a similar catastrophe at the city. Before that warning, Skykeep had been the inflexible sovereign of the region, towering far above any threat, sending out its forces to impose the peace of the Colonnade. Normally, the cavalry and the ranged foot patrols would have been lowered on a lift near the western edge of the courtyard. It was a fraction of the size of the one in the Colonnade’s great square, but was massive enough for the purposes of Skykeep.

Not today, though. Today, for the first time in its history, the fortress would open its gates, and its warriors would ride through them to meet the enemy. Today, Skykeep had lost its commanding position. It was just another fortress on a low hill.

As we do now, so the Colonnade will do later.

Levyas regretted the thought a moment later. It implied the defeat of Skykeep.

But it might happen.

He was going to strike with all the power of the fortress. He didn’t know if that would be enough. That uncertainty was new to him. Even when the stories of the Orgo beastherd had begun to reach Skykeep, he had not thought of the beastmen as a terminal threat. But the sound that came to him over the shrinking mountains was huge. It drowned out the rumble of reshaping rock.

The Freeguild Guard were not standing alone. A contingent of Prosecutors from the Maelstrom of Light was based in Skykeep too, under the command of Knight-Azyros Avan Rightspear. The Stormcast Eternal joined Levyas on the wall, his features already obscured by his helm. He looked to the west, ready to fly to the attack.

‘Your preparations are thorough, general,’ Rightspear said approvingly.

‘I thank you, Knight-Azyros,’ said Levyas.

‘I hear the touch of doubt in your voice.’

‘Though this is a keep,’ Levyas said, ‘it has never had to take on a defensive role. That has never been our function, or our known strength.’ The tactics he and Rightspear had adopted played to the strengths of the keep. A cavalry served no purpose held behind walls. Even so, Levyas knew Skykeep could stay on the offensive for only a short time against the beastherd. The siege would come.

Rightspear placed a huge hand on Levyas’ shoulder. ‘Skykeep has always been a weapon. It will be so again now. We are not a wall protecting the Colonnade. We are its lance, thrown forward into the chest of the enemy. Let the foes come, and we will pierce their foul and blackened hearts.’

The Prosecutors had flown over the mountains during the previous days, taking the measure of the beastherd. Rightspear knew what was coming much more precisely than Levyas. His unwavering confidence gave Levyas hope.

And yet the drums, the horns, the bellowing… The beastherd was colossal, and Levyas could not picture the scale that Rightspear had reported. But he could feel its size now, through sound alone. The bestial fanfare vibrated in his spine and made his left eye twitch nervously. He saw the same anxiety reflected in the soldiers to the left and right on the battlements. They were ready to fight, but they were afraid, too.

An hour later, the mountains melted away. They left behind a plain of cracked stone leading to a gentle rise to Skykeep’s walls. And as the last of the peaks disappeared, as if they were the parting of a curtain, they revealed the beastherd.

Levyas stared. A stain moved over the land, horned and roaring. The herd was gigantic beyond what he had dared imagine. Monsters in the tens of thousands bellowed their hunger for the destruction of Skykeep. For long, dizzying moments, Levyas believed the unspoken fear was correct – that Ghur had turned on the humans who dared think they could inhabit the realm, and had given birth to the horrors that pounded towards the fortress.

The wait to attack became even more painful. There was no point in sending out forces too far to attack an enemy that size. Levyas and Rightspear had to wait until the beastmen were closer, and sorties, supported by the bows and rifles on the walls, would not be foolish sacrifices. So Levyas hoped.

Soon, too soon, despite the agony of the wait, the beastherd was less than half a mile away, too far to make out individual figures. Except there was one, even from this far, that stood out, mighty in its rage and power. Levyas’ eyes went to Orgo, drawn as surely as if he had been one of the brutes under the beastlord’s command. Orgo was there at the centre of the leading edge of the herd, and Levyas felt more than saw the towering horror. The creature was not as tall as the giant beasts that, here and there, loomed over their kin as they tramped forward, but he was greater than all of them, a being so huge in fury and strength that the legions of beastmen followed his every command.

‘We will pierce their hearts,’ Rightspear said again. He raised his voice, calling to all the defenders on the walls. ‘The beasts come in their thousands, but they are just beasts. Our numbers are the strong, the faithful, the tested. We are Sigmar’s storm!’ He spread his wings of light. ‘Let us show the beasts the truth of fury!’ He leapt upward from the battlements. His Prosecutors gathered around him, gleaming silver in the light of the late afternoon, and they streaked towards the beastherd.

Levyas raised his sword, and the battle horns of Skykeep answered the challenge of the beastherd with a fanfare of their own. The blast of the trumpets was ferocious. It deafened Levyas for a moment, and for that glorious heartbeat, he could no longer hear the drums and horns of the enemy. Then the beastherd’s cacophony flooded his senses again, making Skykeep’s horns sound thin and weak.

The iron gates opened. Levyas tore his eyes away from the beastherd and looked down into the courtyard. Salla Uvor, captain of the cavalry, looked up at him, waiting for his order to advance.

‘Would that I were riding with you, captain,’ Levyas said. The duty of commanding the full strategy of the defence kept him on the wall. He wanted to be mounted instead, racing to the foe so fast he could outstrip his doubts.

‘We will do you proud, general,’ said Salla.

‘Take your troops through the gates, and wait for my command to charge. Hurt the foe, but make no vain sacrifices. Skykeep can ill afford them.’

‘Understood, general,’ Salla said, as if Levyas hadn’t explained the tactic he wanted several times already. ‘We will draw the blood of the beasts and then deliver them to slaughter from our guns and crossbows.’

Salla and her cavalry rode out of the fortress to gather at the top of the hill, forming up in a wedge, the charge held back like an arrow by a taut bowstring.

Levyas turned west once again, in time to see the Prosecutors begin their attack.

This was the moment. Levyas gave the signal for the charge. The cavalry stormed down the hill, lances forward and swords drawn. Just before they reached the front lines, the beastmen came within range of the long rifles.

‘Now!’ Levyas shouted. ‘Cover the slopes with their dead!’

The rifles barked, so many firing at once that their reports sounded like the long, stuttering echo of a single shot. The guns were aimed to the left and right of the cavalry, and scores of beastmen went down, shot through head and neck, at almost the same moment that Salla’s riders smashed into the centre.

The strike happened precisely as Levyas had planned, hitting the enemy in a way that maximised and concentrated the power of Skykeep, but all he could think was that the cavalry was so thin a blade, nothing more than a needle trying to stab an ocean.

The intent of the charge was to kill the leaders of the herd, if possible, but bloody the nose of the enemy all the same, then ride back and hit again, while the guns thinned the front ranks, joined by the crossbows as the foe came nearer.

The Prosecutors hit the beastmen like lightning sheathed in sigmarite. Wherever their aethereal hammers and javelins hit, turmoil erupted, whirlpools in the tide. Beastmen fell. Others crashed into each other as they tried to avoid the conjured weapons. But the roars of Orgo echoed across the plain, holding his brutes to their goal, and the advance did not slow.

Spears in their hundreds flew up at the Prosecutors, accompanied by eldritch blasts of sorcery from bray-shamans. At the same time, flights of chimeras swooped in at the Stormcast Eternals. Each one of the attacks, on its own, was unworthy of Sigmar’s chosen, an insignificant irritant to be batted aside. Together, they took their toll.

The Prosecutors struck, pulled back, and struck again. They hit forward elements of the beastherd, their attack amplified by the cavalry charge. The options of the limited forces at the keep were few. If the leadership of the beastherd could not be killed, then enough damage had to be done to hurt the beastmen’s ability to lay siege, and that was, in the end, a delaying action. Though the Prosecutors flew with grace and speed, circling to the fortress before each strike, and though they killed hundreds, they could not stop the inevitable. One by one, the Prosecutors began to fall, telltale lightning marking the moment each legend was borne down and summoned back to Azyr. They concentrated their attacks on Orgo, but the powerful bray-shamans that flanked him used their sorcery to shield him from most of the blows – if the javelins that got through pierced his armour, he showed no signs of injury, and the shadow of his presence seemed to reach the sky.

The charge failed too. Its thrust shattered against the might of the beastmen. Three riders, Salla among them, closed with Orgo at the same time. He ran at them, roaring with delight, and slashed at them with enormous twin axe blades. His first blow cut Salla in two and decapitated the man riding beside her. With a guttural laugh, Orgo brought both blades down on the third rider, hitting with such force that the warrior seemed to explode in a cloud of blood.

As he trampled over the bodies of soldiers and horses, Orgo finally came clearly into view for Levyas. His horns, curving as they stretched back from his skull, were as long as a man. He wore a helmet so covered in vicious spikes, Levyas could not distinguish at this distance between the points of iron and the jagged tusks.

The beastlord was unstoppable. His legions were unstoppable. The herd thundered up the slope. The Skykeep cavalry, reduced to a remnant in moments, raced for the gates, routed.

The beastmen were faster. The tide closed over the riders and destroyed them. Cursing, Levyas ordered the gates closed. There would be no one left to return to the keep.

Crossbows and long rifles fired again and again. The beastmen dropped by the dozens, by the scores. The losses were meaningless when hundreds took the place of every enemy killed.

The tide rushed towards the gate. In the last hundred yards, Orgo shouted a command, and most of the beastherd slowed down. Two doombulls, horned giants maddened by blood and fury, ran together at the gate. Their enormous bulks slammed into it at the same moment as a great bray-shaman unleashed a massive arcane bolt at the barrier.

It exploded. Jagged chunks of iron hurtled across the courtyard, impaling and crushing defenders as they ran to defend the entrance. The doombulls stampeded through the breach, their colossal axes slaughtering multiple guards at every stroke. They parted to let their master through, and the beastlord entered Skykeep, the flood of his herd at his heels.

‘Throw them back!’ Levyas shouted, knowing already that it was the last command he would ever give. There was nothing else to say. There were no tactics left. There was only the desperate descent from the battlements to join the fray, a few hundred guards trying to turn back uncountable numbers.

Just before he made for the stairs, Levyas glanced up, praying to Sigmar there would be hope to see in the skies. He saw Rightspear in his glory, turning with such speed he might have been a vortex, his aethereal hammers smashing the skulls of three chimeras who had dared close with him. But two others came down from above before he could react, and they bore him to the ground. Levyas stared, horror slowing time to a crawl. Rightspear hit the ground at the feet of a ghorgon. The colossus slammed its hooves, huge as boulders, on the Prosecutor, crushing the chimeras but also cracking open his sigmarite armour. The ghorgon let out a bugling roar and stomped again on Rightspear, until the lightning of the Stormcast Eternal’s demise blasted upward.

The ghorgon fell, burning, but Rightspear was gone.

We are lost, Levyas thought, but he rushed for the stairs to fight to the end.

Levyas made it halfway down the steps. Orgo smashed his way up the stairs, stone exploding beneath his hooves. He hacked guards apart, his axes chopping through armour, flesh and bone as though they were cloth. He came at Levyas through a cloudburst of gore and, with a dismissive snarl, knocked him aside with one of his blades. The speed of the attack was so great, Levyas did not even see the blow. He was suddenly flying, and his body felt wrong as he arced into the courtyard. It pulled in two different directions. He was open to the air, trailing a stream of blood as he fell.

Levyas fell into the midst of the surging beastmen. They paid him no attention. Hooves smashed his bones. He could no longer see anything, but he could hear terrible things. He heard the screams of his dying troops. He heard the final snapping and cracking of his spine and limbs. He heard the thunder of hooves and clashing arms.

Then he heard a new thunder, and that was the walls of Skykeep coming down. Overwhelmed by pain and darkness and failure, the last thing he heard was the triumphant bellowing of the beasts.

CHAPTER 5

Three days’ march north-east of the Colonnade, the land turned harsh again. Arable ground gave way to the sea of shifting dunes that was the Sascathran Desert. The dunes broke like waves against wind-carved monoliths of sandstone and buttes that rose and fell from the desert floor, foundering ships in the storm. Arches of rock stood like the gates to cities that had never been. There were formations that resembled the ribcages of petrified leviathans. Clusters of pointed towers reached clawing for the sky. They would linger for a time, their grasp an eternal stasis. A day later, they could be drowned beneath the sand, because eternity in Ghur was a lie.

On the surface, it was a lie.

Beneath the sands, there was an eternity. The rock formations were the spires of the inverted, twisted fortresses that honeycombed the underworld of the desert.

The legions of monsters who had gathered around the skeletons of rock knew about the ephemeral and its lies. They knew about the truths too, eternal ones, truths carved in the agony of changing bone and the ecstasy of transcendent flesh. They travelled Ghur, shadows of destruction that haunted the worshippers of Tzeentch. They clustered like bats on the arches and the spikes of rock. They filled the caverns below in their thousands, the spawn of the city of nightmares.

A huge, square-topped monolith of rock stood hundreds of feet above the sands. This was the gate to the city. Its cliff walls were vertical corrugations that, from a distance, resembled wrinkled skin, the cavern mouths a hundred open lesions.

The wind whispered with the sand. It mourned over the towers. It sang, high and sharp and whistling, through the caves of the butte. It serenaded the monsters, embracing its kin. Some nights, the monsters sang back. The choir of horrors celebrated their truth, their selves and their queen.

In the city, fortresses hung from cavern roofs, their gnarled towers pointing down to the silent depths. Their interiors were architectural delusions, as distorted as the beings who moved through them. Floors canted, staircases spiralled in on themselves, and corridors slithered like snakes. In the centre of the largest of the keeps was a chamber of shadows and night-black gemstones. Here, the Mother of Nightmares held court. This was her throne room, but if ever the land shifted more profoundly and swallowed castle and throne, she would leave without complaint. She called no place home, but claimed everywhere in the name of nightmare. There had been a home before her ascension, when she had been of the order of the Askurga Renkai. That home and the order were lost to her now, and that was a liberation. Now all of Ghur could feel the mark of her claws. Wherever her eye fell, so could the scythe.

She rested on a sculpted platform of jewelled leviathan bone, a throne suited for the greatest of monsters. A being far greater and more blessed in her transformation than any of her subjects, Lauka Vai towered over Kavak where he knelt before the platform. The scaled lower body of his queen and saint was that of a drake. The wings of the forelegs were enormous. The claws protruding from the webbing were longer and more savage than swords. Lauka Vai’s upper body, sheathed in violet plate, was still as she had been before her transformation. Her long, raven hair, streaked with a single stripe of death grey, framed a face as majestic as it was terrible. In its lines and planes were the vastness of pain that she had seen and inflicted, and a fury held in check by a will that was its only equal. Her eyes were a blank, pitiless yellow. Kavak could not meet their gaze directly any more than he could stare at Hysh.

Lauka Vai coiled her tail around the platform as she contemplated what Kavak had told her. He kept silent, as did Hevat Grask. The other Vengorian Lord was amongst the queen’s earliest followers. None of the other Lords were present. Hevat Grask was, like Kavak, one of the few Avengorii who could control his bloodthirst, at least temporarily, in the presence of humans. That he was here could not be a coincidence.

Finally, Lauka Vai said, ‘Orgo is a more formidable commander than we had supposed, if his beastherd is much more massive and closer than expected.’ Her voice was deep as mountain roots, echoing as a funeral bell. It slithered too, a serpent and a touch, filling the mind with insidious thoughts of what the body might become.

‘The Colonnade is directly in Orgo’s path,’ said Kavak. ‘Clearly he means to claim it.’

‘So you said.’ Lauka Vai cocked her head. ‘I understood you the first time.’

‘I apologise, my queen.’

Lauka Vai waved a hand. ‘No need, Kavak. No need. But I note your determination to ensure I knew the city was threatened. You seem troubled by the spectre of the Colonnade’s destruction.’

‘I am,’ he said.

‘The concern is still there,’ she said, not unkindly.

‘My concern is for the consequences to the Avengorii,’ Kavak insisted.

‘Leaving the Colonnade to its own devices could be useful to us,’ Lauka Vai mused. ‘Its defence would slow Orgo down. It would damage the beastherd. Perhaps leave us with easier prey.’

Kavak said nothing, unsure if Lauka Vai was serious or probing his reactions.

‘If this city falls,’ she said, with a smile of death, ‘that will be a fitting reward for its arrogance.’

‘What do the mortals of the Colonnade know of purity?’ said Hevat Grask. ‘They trumpet their watchword from their towers. They have raised their homes above the land and so declare themselves above all that lives in Ghur. Where is the purity of the flesh unchained? Where is the purity of the liberation of monstrosity?’

‘Nowhere in the Colonnade,’ said Kavak. ‘I will swear to that. Do not mistake my reasons for a lack of eagerness to see its destruction.’

‘I don’t,’ Lauka Vai said. She leaned forward, yellow gaze unblinking. ‘Do you?’

‘I am convinced that this is the reality of our situation,’ Kavak told her. ‘If we do nothing, I believe the Colonnade will fall. Orgo will lay a siege the city will not be able to wait out. Its resources will make the beastherd even stronger. Our odds against Orgo are uncertain as things stand now. They will be worse if he takes the Colonnade.’

‘Your argument is coloured by your past, Kavak Anvarheim,’ said Lauka Vai.

He couldn’t answer for a moment. ‘I know it is,’ he admitted, struck hard by the truth.

‘Good. Remember that. This is not a flaw. This is the sign that your true moment may have come at last, and that I may teach the city a lesson long in the making. How long before the beastherd reaches the Colonnade?’

‘Maybe two months, as the tides of Ghur permit.’

‘Very well. Leave me now. I will consider your words.’

Kavak bowed low, his long forehead touching the floor of the throne room. He made his way back up through the fortress to the surface, into the night of the dunes.

Anvarheim. He had not heard the name in years. He had not thought about it in as long. Lauka Vai rarely pronounced it. Kavak had discarded it with his old self and his old body. The Mother of Nightmares had been right to use it just then, though.

She sees me better than I do myself.

He leapt into the air. He soared up into the night. Lined on the edge of the butte’s peak, terrorgheists and zombie dragons roared greetings to their brother in horror. Kavak stretched out his wings. Though their flesh was torn and flapped in tatters, they propelled him through the air with power and precision. He glided, feeling the subtle changes in the air currents streaming against his body. The slightest movement of a wing finger and he rose higher. He banked suddenly, turning the ground below him. With a series of strong beats, he shot up a hundred feet and more, then turned his head to the ground, folded his wings and dropped like a stone. He bared his fangs in the exhilaration of the fall. Moments before impact, he spread his wings again and levelled off with painful suddenness. He skimmed the surface of a dune, then rose once more to a lone column of sandstone. He landed on the top and perched there.

Anvarheim.

He grimaced.

Why do I want to save the Colonnade? Do the old reasons still hold?

Perhaps so. Did that mean the new reasons were invalid and that he was wrong?

No. I don’t think so. Saving the Colonnade is in our interest.

Save it how?

He didn’t know. Things were different now. He couldn’t save the city of his birth the way he had fifteen years ago.

Fifteen years ago.

The tzaangors were coming, bringing siege to the Colonnade. Kavak had seen the scale of the army, and he knew the truth. He knew that something greater than a siege was coming. Doom was coming to the Colonnade.

He had taken his guard patrol out farther than any had dared go yet, looking for the main army of the enemy that had been sending raiding parties into the city’s fertile lands. At the top of a rise, looking down onto a wide plain, he and his comrades had seen the full scale of the Arcanite cult. Then they had run, as swiftly and as silently as they could, but not swiftly and silently enough, because they had encountered a group of tzaangor raiders. They had managed to kill the avian beastkin, but at a fatal cost.

Only Kavak and Herved Falhelm were still alive, and Herved was badly injured. He was bleeding from a tzaangor blade that had slashed him across his stomach. Kavak supported him as they stumbled south through rugged hills. Herved could barely move his legs. He had one arm around Kavak’s shoulders, and with his other hand he was trying to keep his insides from slipping out. Soon he wasn’t walking at all, and Kavak was dragging him. In the last glimmers of twilight, they reached the top of a slope. The hollow ahead of them was bathed in the deep shadows of overhanging oaks.

‘Can we hide here?’ Herved gasped.

‘Yes,’ said Kavak. It was an imperfect shelter, but it would do. If they were being followed, where they hid did not matter, because Herved had left a trail of blood that would lead their pursuers directly to them. If they weren’t followed, then this was as good a place as any.

‘Have to rest,’ Herved said, barely able to whisper.

Kavak got them down into the hollow. He laid Herved down against the slope and kneeled beside him. He wanted to dress Herved’s wound, but he had nothing that would help, and all he could see of the injury was a wet, black mass spreading down Herved’s stomach and legs.

‘Rest,’ Herved said again. His forehead was clammy, his breath shallow.

Kavak looked up into the sky for guidance. They were miles from the Colonnade. He couldn’t carry Herved all the way. He had to make it back and deliver the warning.

‘Go,’ Herved whispered.

Kavak shook his head, though he knew that Herved was right.

That was when the sky darkened and began to rain black blood. A huge, winged figure circled slowly, high above the hollow. Kavak froze and put his hand over Herved’s mouth for silence. The shape turned twice over the hollow, and then dropped straight down. The Mother of Nightmares landed two yards from them. There could be no mistaking this being for anything else. The world of reason seemed to shrivel and die in her presence. From her towering height, she gazed down on the two mortals. Herved jerked in terror. Kavak’s hand, numb, fell away from the pommel of his sword. The majesty of horror stunned him into helplessness, and his sanity teetered at the edge of the abyss.

‘I address the dying one,’ said Lauka Vai.

‘He isn’t…’ Kavak began, then trailed off. Lies were pointless before such a being, and he could barely speak. He wondered, giddy with fear, why so insignificant an insect as himself was worthy of destruction by so great and terrible a monarch.

‘I bring you a choice,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘You cannot be saved. You can live on.’

‘No!’ Herved gasped, terror for his soul granting him a last burst of energy. He shut his eyes. Spared the sight of the Mother of Nightmares, he could speak. ‘I am a citizen of the Colonnade. I will not stain my being. Kill me first!’

Lauka Vai frowned. Kavak flinched at the mere suggestion of her anger. He looked down at Herved, surprised to find himself questioning his comrade’s choice.

‘I am…’ Herved tried again, but he could not say any more.

‘Silence,’ Lauka Vai commanded. She stepped forward, brushing Kavak aside as if he were an insect, sending him sprawling. Lauka Vai reached down, grabbed Herved with one hand and lifted him to her jaws. She bit, tearing his neck open with a wet, ripping sound. Kavak knew the smell of fresh blood too well, but that wasn’t what he smelled now. Herved’s blood turned black and sluggish as it flowed into the vampire queen’s mouth.

Kavak didn’t run. He fought through the horror-induced awe and struggled to his feet, grasping hold of the will to die with honour. He stood tall, waiting for the end to come. The Mother of Nightmares finished with Herved, dropped the corpse and turned to Kavak. When he managed to draw his sword, she smiled. The blade rusted before her, but he did not drop it.

From the depths of his terror, Kavak summoned a spark of bravado. ‘I will die fighting you,’ he vowed.

Lauka Vai cocked her head. ‘Must you die? Must I kill you?’

‘You will have to, if you mean to prevent my return to the city.’

Lauka Vai shrugged, the gesture sending a ripple down the membranes of her wings. ‘What is it to me if you return to the Colonnade or not?’ She spread a wing. ‘You are free to go.’

Astonished, Kavak backed up a step.

‘But tell me,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘What difference will your return make?’

‘I have seen the enemy. I must warn the city of the size of the army that threatens us.’

She smiled coldly. ‘How will that knowledge help the defenders of the Colonnade?’

Kavak said nothing.

‘Will your return affect the Colonnade’s chances of survival?’ she pressed.

Kavak held his silence, though both of them knew the answers to the questions. The vampire queen waited him out. At last, Kavak said, ‘I have my duty.’

‘To defend the city.’

‘Yes.’

‘To save the city.’

‘Yes.’

‘What will you do to fulfil your duty?’

‘Anything. Whatever I must.’

Lauka Vai nodded. ‘I have seen the tzaangors too. The Colonnade’s odds are not good. They might be improved.’

‘How?’

‘Through the means your comrade refused.’

Kavak stopped breathing. His heart beat faster.

‘I think you are more reasonable than your comrade. Though the choice is yours. Leave without fear of me if that is your will.’

Kavak stayed where he was. Everything Lauka Vai said was true. The tzaangor army was too big. The Colonnade’s height was not protection enough. There were horrors of the air accompanying the Arcanite cult. The siege would be long. It would be bitterly fought. But he could see no possible ending except defeat. He thought of his younger brother, still a youth, excited by the prospect of war, unable to imagine that he and the Colonnade were not immortal. Everything Kavak loved was in the city. The thought of its destruction was beyond bearing.

‘I would give my life to save my city,’ Kavak said.

‘Your life?’ Lauka Vai seemed to think this through. ‘Yes, your life. That will be asked of you. But not your destruction.’

The implications of the choice before him sank in. Kavak already knew what he was going to say. He put off his fate for a moment longer. ‘Why do you offer me this choice?’ he asked.

Lauka Vai looked off in the direction of the city. ‘The Colonnade exalts the purity of its mortal forms. Your people hunt mine whenever they can. They would purge us from Ghur, if they had the power, yet they are also a bulwark against Chaos. I have in mind a lesson for the lords of purity. I see in you the potential to be a tool of instruction.’ She turned her blank, yellow eyes back to Kavak. ‘I offer the chance now of possibly averting the destruction of the Colonnade. I offer you the power you need to be the city’s saviour. Do you accept?’

Acceptance ran contrary to all the teachings of the Colonnade. The Avengorii were anathema. He would be damning himself in the eyes of his family. He might also be saving everything he loved.

Something else worked at his soul. When he looked at Lauka Vai, he saw a monster, a thing of foul appetites, a grotesque malformation of the flesh. At the same time, he felt the need to take the knee before her. He trembled before the power of her presence. Nobility and monstrosity combined in the Mother of Nightmares in ways Kavak could not understand. He couldn’t even understand how he could see anything beyond horror in the creature before him.

‘I accept,’ Kavak said.

Without another word, Lauka Vai advanced on Kavak and seized him. The greatest terror he had ever known gripped him, terror that was sublime. Even before her fangs sank into his neck, he felt the dawning of worship.

The pain of transformation was another form of the sublime. He lost the weakness of his mortality, but he also lost his identity.

And now. Fifteen years later. Doom calls for the Colonnade again.

I became a monster to save it once.

He remembered how the reknitting of his bones and the flowing change of his flesh had maddened him with agony, agony that went on and on when Lauka Vai took him, still in the process of altering, to the Sascathran Desert and subjected him to the korak’hor ritual. He was not destroyed by the ordeal and had emerged a Vengorian Lord.

His new fealty was as absolute as the monstrosity of his new self. But he remembered what he had been. Lauka Vai had made certain of that, and she had sent him to save the city he no longer served. By then, the siege of the Colonnade had been underway. With Hevat Grask, and a small but powerful force of the Avengorii, he had attacked the rearguard of the tzaangor host. He had been so consumed by the fire of his becoming that he was barely aware of the other vampires.

The strike had served its purpose. The Avengorii caused enough destruction to sow disarray in the ranks of the tzaangors and give the Colonnade the chance it needed to gather its strength and defeat the Arcanite cult. At the time, the victory had existed only at the edges of Kavak’s consciousness. The pain and the loss and his new-found hunger had fuelled the fury of his attack. Hunger and massacre had consumed him. Full consciousness and lucidity did not return to him until well after the battle.

He had fulfilled his oath. He had saved his city, though it was lost to him.

Do you regret the price?

He recoiled from the question. He revelled in the power of his body. In Lauka Vai, he had a leader for whom he felt a love and loyalty that showed how shallow his devotion to the Colonnade had been. No lord of the city could hope to inspire as she did.

But Kavak could not face his own reflection.

He shook himself, stretched his wings and folded them again, as if he could shed unwelcome thoughts.

Lauka Vai was right. The fragments of Anvarheim would not let him go. They shaped his thoughts about the beastherd and the Colonnade. He was right about strategy. He was sure of that.

He was also sure that he was not yet completely free of his humanity.

Let the Colonnade fall. Then you’ll be free.

No. I can’t do that.

He jerked out of his reverie. He sniffed the air.

Someone is coming.

CHAPTER 6

Ten of the Freeguild Guard escorted Atella on her journey to the Sascathran Desert. They were less than three hours out from the Colonnade when they took their first casualty.

Beyond the city’s cultivated lands, the vegetation ran lush and wild. The trees here were not to be trusted. Many of them were thorners, indistinguishable at a distance from their immobile brethren. If approached too closely, their flexible thorns uncoiled from around the trunk, whipping out to hook prey and pull it back for the tree to devour. The thorners could be identified by the spiral striations faintly visible in their bark, the mark of the camouflaged barbs. Gavar Loeverin was watching closely for the thorners – so closely he didn’t pay enough attention to the ground at his feet, and he stepped onto the vine of a sawrose.

The attack was too fast for anyone to help. The vine snapped around Gavar’s ankle, jerked him off his feet and yanked him into the brush. The sawrose had been supine. Now the plant reared up, revealing its crimson flowers, each as wide as Atella’s forearm. Triumphant in their vicious beauty, they snapped down onto Gavar’s face, neck and chest. The teeth hidden by the petals ground against his chestplate, bored into his neck and tore his face off. He was dead in moments. Other sawroses stirred nearby, excited by the blood in the air.

The rest of Atella’s escort prepared to burn the thicket of carnivorous plants down. Their captain stopped them.

‘Don’t be fools,’ Fassar Guelstein said. ‘You’ll only bring worse down on us. There are predators in Ghur that do not fear fire. It is a siren’s call to them.’

The troops stepped back from the thicket and put away their flints and torches. Sharing a glare of hatred at the plants, they moved on, more cautiously, into the forest, which grew wilder and thicker.

Just before nightfall, as they made their way between towering, ancient trees, the ground started to shake beneath huge footfalls. Trees splintered and fell in the near distance. Something immense was approaching.

‘Take cover!’ Fassar hissed.

One of the men drew his bow.

‘Are you mad?’ Fassar said, shoving the man’s weapon down. ‘Can’t you hear it? This beast is too big to fight! Our only hope is to pass unnoticed.’

‘There!’ said Atella, pointing. A nearby tree had roots so enormous that they formed a V-shaped gully next to the twenty-foot-wide trunk. Atella and the guards jumped into the dark shelter and crouched next to the trunk, waiting.

The leviathan came into view to the left, smashing through the trees as though it were wading through tall grass. Atella winced as trunks came down, crashing to both sides of the hiding place. Even if the monster did not see them, it could crush them beneath its feet or with a shattered tree. The beast was bipedal and reptilian. It walked leaning forward, balanced by a tail that ended in a curved stinger. A rigid, horned neck frill extended behind a skull that was more than ten feet long.

The beast charged forward with a purpose. It had the scent of its prey. Atella gripped her sword, bracing for the moment the jaws gaped her way. But the monster thundered past the hidden party. The earth shook even harder, and the beast bellowed a challenge. It was answered by another roar, and a second monster appeared. It barrelled forward on all fours. It was lower at the shoulder but more massive in the body. Its entire head opened up like a webbed, clawed hand, its spine-covered, venomous tongue shooting out to grasp and poison its enemy.

The beasts collided, and the world trembled. The earth shifted beneath Atella. There was a sharp crack, and a wedge-shaped fissure ran up the trunk.

‘Run!’ Fassar ordered.

The party jumped over the roots and sprinted north, away from the warring beasts. More trees were felled, and Atella had to rush out of the way into thick underbrush, heedless of possible sawroses or other, smaller animal predators waiting to pounce on the leavings of the victor.

Behind, the giants thrashed, tearing themselves and the forest apart. The roars hammered Atella’s ears. She couldn’t hear herself as she ran.

Someone was screaming, and they were almost inaudible. Near her, one of the younger guards yelled, ‘Are they chasing us? Are they chasing us? Are they chasing us?’

‘Shut up,’ Fassar snapped. ‘Save your breath and run.’

The party did not slow down for long minutes. At last, the ground felt stable again, though the snarls followed Atella for some distance yet.

Fassar called a halt for the night at a spot where the land rose sharply. The forest thinned a bit here, and the heaps of moss-strewn boulders offered some defensible positions and relative safety. The party made camp under an overhang. The air between the rocks was damp, and the night breeze chilled, but a fire was still too dangerous.

Atella drew her cloak tightly around her shoulders and leaned back against a stone. If sleep was beyond her grasp, she would at least try to rest.

Fassar crouched down beside her.

‘I am sorry about Gavar, captain,’ Atella said.

Fassar grunted. ‘Save your apologies for when we total all the dead this voyage of yours will have cost us.’

‘I do not want there to be any more. I really hope there won’t.’

‘Your hopes are all very well, councillor.’ From his tone, it was clear he was barely holding himself back from saying something far more biting. ‘The question is whether the sacrifices will be worth it.’

‘We’ll know before long,’ Atella said. ‘Once we reach the dunes.’

‘You really believe that?’ said Fassar. ‘You really believe in trying to forge this alliance?’

‘I would not be here if I didn’t. I would not be asking your guards to risk their lives.’

Fassar was silent.

‘You do not believe in this mission, I take it,’ said Atella.

‘I am following the orders of Lord Tarvynde. I will discharge my duty faithfully.’

‘A politic answer, Captain Guelstein. It tells me exactly where I stand. So let me be clear. I love the Colonnade as much as you do. My every action is dedicated to saving our city.’

‘By contaminating it.’

Atella sighed. ‘I am too tired to rehearse that argument yet again. Believe me, you are far from the first to raise it. I know I can’t convince you that you’re wrong, so I won’t try. Do me the courtesy, at least, of believing that you can’t change my mind any more than I can yours.’

‘I owe it to the Colonnade to try.’

‘And then what? We just go back? That really would make Gavar’s death pointless, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not if a tragedy was prevented. Any link between the Avengorii and the Colonnade would be a tragedy.’

The longer this conversation dragged on, the more exhausted Atella felt. ‘I am set on my course, captain. Nothing will turn me back from what I understand to be my duty. Only death will stop me.’ She gave him a hard stare. ‘I could easily suffer a misfortune along the way, though, couldn’t I? I could be killed and eaten by any number of predators. Who could prove otherwise when my escort returned, sorrowful, without me?’

‘Do not insult me,’ Fassar said stiffly.

‘I apologise. If you are insulted, then you are honourable. I said what I did to make a point. Killing me would be easier than trying to change my mind.’

Fassar stood up. ‘I will see you to your destination safely, Councillor Reigehren. On my honour.’

‘And on mine, I will save the Colonnade.’

The party lost another guard the next day, snatched from the ground by a forty-foot tree serpent. The deaths weighed heavily on Atella. She had been honest with Fassar, but knowing how much her escort resented the purpose of the mission made her feel even more guilty. When they reached the Sascathran Desert the following evening, she was grateful the losses hadn’t been worse, but felt no relief.

The forest thinned quickly as the ground became drier, finer. The transition was still abrupt, the trees ending suddenly before the ocean of sand. The land was moving when the party arrived at the edge of the desert. Fassar raised a hand, calling a halt until the new change was over. Dunes shifted like snakes. The sand flowed in great hissing whispers. The light of far Azyr shone in the night, and the sand glowed a faint grey. When the desert settled and the movement stopped, Atella could see a fair distance into the dunes. Some miles off, there were rock structures just visible.

‘Wait here for me,’ she said to Fassar.

‘You don’t intend to go on alone?’

‘I do.’

‘My duty–’

‘Will be to see me safely home when I return. If we venture into the lands of the Avengorii like this, we will look like a party of war.’ If a suicidally foolish one. ‘I stand a better chance of being listened to if I am alone.’

‘I took a vow to protect you,’ Fassar insisted.

‘Against an army? Because that is what we have come to find.’

Fassar shook his head. ‘You are mad.’

‘Perhaps. If I do not return within two days, you must assume my madness has led to my death, and return to the Colonnade.’

Atella turned and headed off into the sands. Once she crossed the first dune, she felt completely alone and strangely at peace. There were a hundred ways she could die without accomplishing what she had set out to do. She was taking a huge risk in leaving her escort behind. She had no idea how far she would have to journey before she found the Avengorii, or if she ever would. But she was not dragging the others any further on her fool’s errand. And she felt safer in the openness of the desert after the forest. The feeling was an illusion. She knew that. Yet it persisted, and she forged on, perversely cheerful, at ease with her decision.

Atella walked for hours, the night growing colder. The rock formations gradually drew closer. Sometime before dawn, she saw movement on the tops of the huge arches and craggy spires.

If I see them, they’ll have seen me.

They? What are they?

She didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she hoped she had found the Avengorii. There was nothing reassuring in the silhouettes. She was too far away to make them out, but their lines disturbed her.

She slowed down. An instinct made her look up, and she saw a winged shape flying above her. It dropped like a striking raptor, and she froze. The monster came down a few yards before her, its impact hurling a burst of sand skyward.

The vampire loomed over her, tail twitching dangerously. The claws of his forelegs scraped the sand in hunger, and beneath the menacing shape of his helm his jaws were parted, dark saliva oozing from his fangs.

I’m going to die. My quest was for nothing. Atella put her hand on her sword, ready to fight though she knew she could not win, and knowing that if she drew her weapon first, she would ensure her doom.

Something came over the vampire. It was as if, Atella thought, a greater force than his need to kill took hold, and commanded him. He folded his wings and tilted his head, looking at her with curiosity.

She did not recoil. Somehow, she sensed that it was important not to. The monster was hideous and had to know the effect of his appearance on mortals, but the way he held himself suggested a core of pride.

And there was more. The pride was justified. She responded to it on a level that surprised and confused her, as if she were in the presence of nobility embodied by monstrosity. Over the years, Atella had read all that she could find in the archives of the Colonnade about the Avengorii. The dynasty of nightmares so close to the city had fascinated her, especially since the siege, though she was not sure why. There was not a lot that was known, or that she felt she could trust, but she knew that the creature before her was a Vengorian Lord.

‘Who are you?’ said the vampire. The rasp of the voice sent a shudder through her soul.

‘I am Councillor Atella Reigehren of the Colonnade.’

‘Reigehren,’ the vampire repeated, as if tasting the name and finding it familiar. ‘I am Kavak, and I wonder why a councillor would leave the Diamond Spire to wander the Sascathran Desert.’

‘I come to find the Avengorii.’

‘You have found us. To what end?’

‘Negotiation.’

‘Really?’ Kavak’s red eyes glinted in the darkness. He seemed amused. ‘You come to negotiate with monsters. What is it you wish to discuss?’

‘My hope is to forge an alliance between the Avengorii and the Colonnade.’

Kavak tilted his head back and roared with laughter at the skies. The gales of harsh, grinding mirth went on and on. Then he looked back at Atella. ‘You will forgive me. I laugh at the whims of fate.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘Perhaps you will soon. You are a brave mortal, or a foolish one, to seek us out, never mind for such a reason.’

‘I do this because I must.’

Kavak’s head tilted to the side, almost as if he were listening to something from afar. Then he seemed to approve. ‘If you would negotiate with the Avengorii, then you must speak with the Mother of Nightmares.’

Atella found she could not swallow. Lauka Vai. There were whispers of her in the Colonnade, whispers that were hushed as soon as they began. She was the legend that fascinated and terrified, the story that must not be told but could not be ignored. When Atella had conceived of her plan, she had suppressed the thought of who might be facing her. The idea of meeting the myth from the night was a thought too far. It could not be contemplated safely. Now the reality was closing in.

‘I…’ Atella said, struggling to speak.

‘Can you?’ Kavak asked, curious.

She cleared her throat and did her best to push down her fear. ‘I can do whatever I am called upon to do to save my city.’

‘Ah,’ said Kavak. ‘Ah, yes.’ For a long moment, he appeared lost in thought. ‘Tell me, councillor,’ he said, ‘does time move in cycles, or in spirals?’

‘Spirals?’ She didn’t know what he was talking about.

‘The echoes can be deafening. They are now.’

Baffled, Atella said nothing.

‘You find me cryptic. The fault is mine.’ Kavak crouched before her. ‘I will take you to Lauka Vai,’ he said. ‘You have my word that no harm will come to you until you stand before her. After that, your fate lies in her hands.’

‘I understand, and you have my thanks.’

‘The journey will require trust. Will you grant it?’

Atella took a breath. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then climb on my back and hold fast.’

Atella hesitated. She felt more and more that she had fallen into a dark dream. Reality felt distant, uncertain, and maybe that was why she found the courage to do what Kavak said. She was grateful for his armour, so that her hands did not touch vampire flesh.

She held on, and Kavak leapt into the air. He flew north, towards a massive tower of rock. Huge shapes on its peak spread their wings and bellowed in welcome. Flights of bats took off from within the caves pockmarking the flanks of the tower, and a storm cloud of wings surrounded Kavak and Atella as they flew towards one of them. Atella looked straight ahead, forcing herself not to flinch as the swarms flapped around her, the night itself broken up into a million wings and chittering shrieks.

Kavak soared into the cave. It was dark here, except for a faint phosphorescence emanating from some of the bodies clinging to the walls. Atella had a blurred impression of shapes her mind could not properly encompass, as if she were rushing through a tunnel of nightmares still forming. Then Kavak descended a long shaft, and when they emerged, she saw the city of the Avengorii.

She did gasp now, in shock and wonder. Torches and glowing fungi lit the immense cavern. It was so vast, she could not see its far walls. A legion of monsters filled the honeycomb of smaller cave mouths. Fortresses hung from its ceiling, their towers as twisted as they were majestic. Atella imagined the great and the mighty of the Colonnade condemning the world beneath the dunes as a disgusting inversion of their city. Where the Colonnade held itself above Ghur and its bestial nature of claw and blood, this cavern was lower than the beasts, its denizens the embodied horrors of an appetite that refused to end even with death.

That view was wrong. Atella knew it at once. It was the Colonnade that was the inversion. This dominion was far greater than the Colonnade, the construction far older, the truths expressed in stone more profound.

A zombie dragon crossed paths with them as Kavak banked towards the largest of the fortresses. The huge creature turned to fly beside them. Streamers of rotten flesh clung to the dragon’s skull. Empty eye sockets regarded Atella, curious about the tiny prey that had been brought into the heart of death. The zombie dragon veered off just as Kavak reached the main gate of the keep.

Atella’s sense of perspective kept tumbling. The fortress looked upside down, but when Kavak landed inside the entrance hall and she dismounted from his back, she was not standing on its ceiling. Vampires did hang from the ribbed vault, though. She looked at them, then looked quickly away before she began to stare. There were shapes that resembled humans, but they were mixed with parts of beasts. Strange forms rustled as if they could feel her eyes, and she lowered her gaze to Kavak.

‘Stay close,’ he said. ‘If you do not wish to become prey.’

Atella nodded her thanks. Kavak marched swiftly down the hall and disappeared in its gloom. Atella ran to keep up. Above her, things whispered and stirred. Words and guttural snarls were one, and she could not tell them apart.

Kavak ushered her down the halls and staircases of the fortress, and into the throne room. Vengorian Lords lined the chamber, the nightmares come to attend their queen. Most of them had some semblance of the human form from the waist up. From the waist down, like Kavak, they were reptiles, and they were immense bats. There was every variation of patchwork limbs, and claws. Ravenous faces watched her, waiting for her judgement of revulsion, waiting to feast if their queen released them.

Atella kept her expression neutral and her breathing as steady as she could. The Vengorian Lords did not need to worry about her looking at them with horror. Her gaze was held by their queen.

Atella felt dizzy, her senses overwhelmed by Lauka Vai’s presence. The amalgamation of creatures below her waist made darkness uncoil in Atella’s mind. Chilled, Atella realised that Lauka Vai was not going to inspire new nightmares. She was the source of all the nightmares Atella had ever had. But from the waist up, she was the warrior queen. Power surrounded her. It radiated from her. Physical power, and magical. The power to lead and the power to inspire.

Inspire.

Nightmares and loyalty. Terror and worship. Horror and exultation. Lauka Vai commanded all those things, and there was no distinction between them.

It took all of her will for Atella to remember why she was here, and not fall on her knees. As it was, she bowed her head. She could not do otherwise before such a being.

Strangely, she was glad for the presence of Kavak beside her.

‘We have been told why you are here, Councillor Atella Reigehren,’ said the Mother of Nightmares. ‘But I will hear it from your own lips.’

‘I have come in the hopes of forging an alliance between the Colonnade and the Avengorii.’

A susurrus of whispering ran through the throne room. Lauka Vai raised a hand and silenced it. Her will whipped through the chamber, and Atella felt it, a force as real as chains. It was the reason the Avengorii were not feasting on her blood. It was the source of the commands that directed Kavak. If it was turned on her, Atella believed she would burst into flames.

‘Did I not tell you that your moment had come, Kavak?’ said Lauka Vai.

‘You did, my queen.’

‘And what do you hope?’

‘I hope you will look kindly upon Councillor Reigehren’s proposal.’

Atella was startled. She wondered how she came to have an ally before negotiations had even begun.

The Mother of Nightmares smiled, and her smile birthed terrors. To Atella, she said, ‘I wonder why we should consider an alliance. The Colonnade has never been a friend to the Avengorii. We have memories of the monster hunts. Your fellow citizens have often sought to purge us from the regions the city claims as its own.’

‘I know they have,’ said Atella.

‘The past may demand reckonings,’ said Kavak. ‘But none as great as what the future threatens.’

‘You are fortunate,’ Lauka Vai said to Atella. ‘You had an advocate for your cause before you arrived, and I have already been thinking about the wisdom of an alliance. I concede its value against the beastmen.’

The vampire nobles stirred again. The back of Atella’s neck burned with the heat of their outrage.

‘However,’ Lauka Vai said, quieting her subjects again. ‘However. The Avengorii will not be the Colonnade’s army by proxy.’

‘I would never suggest that you should be.’

The pupil-less eyes studied her. Atella felt as if she no longer possessed any secrets.

‘No,’ said Lauka Vai, ‘I believe you wouldn’t suggest it. Equally, I believe that others intend precisely that outcome. There are terms that must be agreed upon. You will return to the Colonnade with my ambassador. The advocate you did not know you had.’

Kavak bowed before his queen.

Atella turned to him. ‘Will you tell me why you want this alliance?’

Lauka Vai answered for him. ‘You shouldn’t be surprised,’ she said to Atella. ‘Kavak still bears traces of the Anvarheim he was.’

‘Anvarheim?’ Atella croaked.

‘The Colonnade was once my home,’ Kavak said. ‘I became what I am so that I could save her, once.’

‘Anvarheim,’ Atella said again. ‘It was Jaras Anvarheim who warned us about Orgo.’

‘Jaras?’ Kavak hissed. ‘He was with the caravan?’

‘He was,’ said Atella. ‘He is…’ she began, but stopped. It was not her place to finish.

‘He is my brother,’ said Kavak, his rasp resonant with deep pain.

CHAPTER 7

It was day when Kavak flew Atella back to her escort at the edge of the Sascathran Desert. In the skies, the darkness of the Avengorii travelled with him, the dark clouds, heavy with blackened blood, shielding him from the light of Hysh. He landed a dozen yards away from the mortals, then took off again as soon as Atella was on the ground. There was no point in giving the guards a chance to react badly before she could speak to them.

Kavak flew low over the canopy of the forest, hunting. He struck down, landing on the back of a tusked predator almost as large as a terrorgheist. He ripped the animal’s throat open and tore out its spine. It slammed to the ground, dead, eyes wide with incomprehension. Its blood clotted at Kavak’s touch, and he gorged on it. Then he shot between the trees, already resuming his hunt. He needed to be fully in control of himself when he arrived at the Colonnade and faced what waited for him there. He had to dampen down his hunger as much as possible, without hunting so much that he gave in to the frenzy of the kill.

It occurred to him, as he took down a six-legged reptile that had been following the scent of the mortals, that he was clearing the way through the forest for Atella and her escort.

They will not thank you for your efforts.

She might.

He wasn’t sure why he took pleasure in reminding himself of that fact.

And she would be alone. As she will be at the Colonnade. Make no mistake. What do we think we will accomplish?

The destruction of Orgo and his beastherd. That is the goal. No one believes any alliance will last a moment beyond that. I don’t believe it will.

Do you hope it will?

That would be pointless. Why would I?

The answers were obvious. Thinking about them was futile. They were only a source of pain, and there was enough pain to anticipate as it was.

He was returning to the Colonnade. The impossible was going to take place. Kavak had made his choice fifteen years ago, knowing that his return could never happen. He had paid the price willingly, knowingly.

Sated from the blood of his latest kill, he flew straight up, above the trees, and circled slowly over the mortals, watching their progress.

He had never wished to return. He had found his home as one of the Avengorii. He owed fealty to Lauka Vai, not Lord Tarvynde, and in the Mother of Nightmares he had found a leader greater than any mortal.

But he was going back.

His return did not feel like a gift.

He dreaded it.

They were making good time through the forest. Kavak had left a trail of destruction, and it was one that the party could use. The vegetation had withered at his passage. The dead ground was easier to walk on; the dangerous plants were at a distance and clearer to spot.

‘Are you satisfied, councillor?’ Fassar asked. ‘Is this what you wanted?’

‘A real chance to save the city from the beastherd heading for it? Yes, captain, that is what I wanted.’ She was tempted to avoid arguing with him at all. But this was a rehearsal of the debates she would have to engage in when they returned. She might as well use Fassar to prepare herself for Tarvynde and the council.

And all the rest of the Colonnade.

No, she could not convince everyone. Those in power would have to be enough.

‘But one of the Avengorii within our walls…’ said Fassar.

‘What miracles did you think I could work?’ Atella asked him. ‘Did you think the Avengorii would agree, without any further negotiation, to bypass the Colonnade and do our fighting for us?’

‘I did not ask for their aid at all,’ Fassar reminded her.

‘Our pride will be our destruction if we are not careful.’

‘A lack of vigilance will be as well.’

‘A single vampire will enter the Colonnade,’ said Atella. ‘One. Hardly a threat to the might of the Maelstrom of Light. Or to the Freeguild, or am I mistaken?’

Fassar refused the bait. ‘One vampire may not be a direct threat to the city,’ he said calmly. ‘But it will not end with one. Soon there will be more. And then there will be too many. And then we are lost.’

‘We are lost without them,’ said Atella.

They reached the site of one of Kavak’s kills. He had butchered the creature, spreading its huge carcass over an acre of forest. Clotted, scabbed blood stank in pools. A foul rain had fallen here, killing the trees. Their branches hung with dead leaves. A few yards away, a cluster of sawroses was heaped on the ground, rotting.

‘Our return is already easier than our journey out, isn’t it?’ Atella said.

‘Easier? To walk through death? Easier?’

‘Death is always your companion, captain.’ Kavak’s grating voice came from overhead, startling them both. He was perched twenty feet up, in the branches of a tree just off the trail. ‘You owe it more than you think.’

Fassar jerked his head away, his face contorting with hate.

The Vengorian Lord stayed on his perch, this time not giving the party the gift of his absence.

The return journey took several hours less than the outward trek, and the party arrived at the Colonnade’s lands in the middle of the next day, under the shadow of the blood-laden clouds. The labourers were out in the fields, and they fled, screaming, when they saw Kavak. He had landed next to Atella’s escort as soon as the forest ended, and walked level with them, just far enough away to avoid being a direct threat but close enough so that he would be seen by others to be part of the same group. Atella detached herself from the guards, putting herself between them and Kavak.

They followed the trail of frightened shrieks towards the Colonnade. As they came into bowshot, Fassar called a halt. One of the other guards lifted a horn and blew. The note sounded, clear and pure and strong. It was the call of return and of victory. Kavak hissed softly in amusement. The captain and his troops looked anything but pleased with their victory. Kavak’s satisfaction was petty. He acknowledged it. He also knew that pleasures of any kind would be few for him today.

You are right to look grim, captain. This return doesn’t feel like a victory for me either, and I have been gone much longer than you.

Atella came up to him. ‘Now it is my turn to ask for your trust. Will you stay here until you are called?’

‘You must prepare the way for me,’ said Kavak sardonically.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘exactly. Without irony.’

‘I wish you luck, councillor. You will have need of it.’

‘I will try not to keep you waiting long.’

‘Thank you.’ He cocked his head. ‘Are you going to swear that I will not be harmed?’

She hesitated. ‘I swear that I will do everything I can to prevent any acts of folly on the part of my fellow citizens.’

‘A wise and politic answer.’

Atella sighed. ‘It is not the assurance I would choose to give.’

‘I would not have believed you if you had been more categorical. Remember that I know the Colonnade. My ties to the city are all but broken. My memories are not. Will you do me a favour, though?’

‘If I can.’

‘Speak to my brother. There is no easy way to tell him about me. But speak to him first, before I arrive. If you can.’

‘I will try.’

‘In return, I promise not to tear the city down if some sentinel is reckless with a bow.’

Atella smiled. It had been a long time since Kavak had seen a mortal smile. It delighted him to see her do it. ‘I seem to be in your debt,’ she said, ‘whether on the threshold of your city or mine.’

‘Clever of me to arrange that, isn’t it?’

She was still smiling when she left him.

Word of Atella’s return spread quickly through the Colonnade. Jaras hurried down to the Pillar and Sickle as soon as he heard. It was Bennor who brought the news to him, along with stories of people fleeing from the work in the fields. She had brought a Vengorian Lord with her. That was worse than Jaras had feared, and better than he had hoped. She had proven his every warning right. Dragging Bennor along with him, he made for the tavern to reinforce his message to whoever was there.

Though it was still only afternoon, the Pillar and Sickle was crowded with labourers who had fled directly from the fields to the temporary comfort of ale and company. Jaras didn’t have to say a thing when he entered.

‘You told us!’ a woman shouted. ‘You told us!’

Others took up the cry, their faces creased with fear. They gathered around him as if he were a prophet. People were looking to him for guidance. It was a new sensation, and it wasn’t unpleasant, in spite of the circumstances. He was angry too, and he was frightened. But responsibilities were gathering on his shoulders, and he promised himself he would be worthy of them.

‘What do we do?’ Bennor asked.

‘We stay vigilant,’ Jaras said, aware of how inadequate a response that was. He tried harder. ‘We stay united. The day may come that we will have to act if our rulers refuse to do their duty.’

Now his words had gone from the inadequate to the dangerous. His heart beat faster. He was afraid of what he had just said. He was also glad he had said it, because it was the truth. He held his breath in the silence that fell in the tavern. Everyone else was just as aware of the risk he had taken. The safe thing would be for them to condemn him, perhaps report him to the Freeguild.

Instead, there were careful nods and murmurs of agreement. Flagons were rapped against tables in approval.

Then the door to the tavern flew open and the guards were there.

Jaras’ heart stopped.

‘Jaras Anvarheim?’ one of the two guards said, looking at him.

‘Yes,’ he croaked.

‘Lord Tarvynde sends us. You are commanded to join the council as it greets the Avengorii ambassador.’

Not what he had expected to hear. Why me? he thought, but did not say, in case the order was rescinded. It was clear why he had been asked to testify about what he had experienced before the council. Being part of this delegation was far more confusing. His family might have had some influence once, but it had never been part of the nobility, never part of the Colonnade’s inner circles of power. He could think of no reason why he was wanted.

Not that he had any intention of refusing. He was becoming the centre of things in the Beneath, and now he was going to be at the centre in the Above, too. There were intimations of destiny here, and he welcomed them.

‘I will come at once,’ he said.

The guards nodded and stepped out of the tavern. Jaras started to follow, then paused in the doorway. He looked back at the frightened people. ‘I will be vigilant too,’ he promised.

Anxious faces nodded in understanding. He would be the eyes of the Beneath. He would tell the people the truth.

All the way to the castle square, Jaras worked at the puzzle of his summons. Was this an attempt to silence him? Did Tarvynde know what he had been doing in the Beneath? Until today, he had been circumspect after his initial condemnation of Atella Reigehren’s mission. He had hoped it would be a failure. He was surprised she had survived the journey, let alone been successful. Whatever his views, though, this invitation didn’t make sense as a way to silence him. An arrest, yes. Greeting an ambassador, no.

Ambassador. So that was the word being used for the monster. What a corruption of language. Jaras didn’t think he could even compose a satire about it. The perversion was beyond mockery. It should make anyone who employed it cower in shame. And Atella, the traitor, should be hung from the battlements.

He saw her when they reached the square. She was standing with Lord Tarvynde and Lord-Celestant Uxa Dawnbolt in the centre, facing north. The rest of the council formed a semicircle around them. Behind the council were rows of the Freeguild Guard. Behind them towered a score of the Maelstrom of Light’s Liberators.

Jaras wondered where he would be standing. To his shock, the guards led him to the centre of the square.

Atella looked as if she wanted to speak to him, but as soon as he arrived, Tarvynde raised his arm. In answer to the signal, a row of guards blew into their fanfare trumpets. The heraldic blast filled Jaras’ heart with pride and dread. He stood tall to hear the sound of what the Colonnade embodied. He feared the sight of the thing that would answer.

Atella was saying something to him. He could not hear her over the fanfare. He stared away from the traitor and looked towards the walls.

The trumpets sounded. The summons was unmistakeable, and Kavak launched himself into the air. It was a long, vertical flight past the huge pillars of the city, though it was not as long as he had remembered. The ground was rising again, he guessed.

He shot up above the walls. Even under the dark clouds, the white stone of the Colonnade shone with aggressive purity. The Diamond Spire dazzled. This was what he had sacrificed himself to save, and it was part of the further irony of the day of his return that though he did not regret the cost, what he saw now did not seem worth the price. The city’s beauty was an artifice and nothing more. It was the creation of pride and the source of pride, a shallow, brittle circularity.

Why would I want to return?

Because Lauka Vai wishes it. Because I am the agent of the lesson she will teach this proud city. The beastlord Orgo will fall before the combined might of the Avengorii and the Colonnade. But the Colonnade will not come out of this unchanged.

In the square before the castle gates, the glory of the Colonnade had been arrayed to greet him. He circled the square, descending gradually, trying to read the political battlefield laid out below him. A point was being made with the splendour of the delegation. The Freeguild in its parade colours was not here to welcome the return of a lost comrade, though Kavak had no doubt they knew who he was. No, Tarvynde and his councillors had commanded this display as a declaration of intent and of identity. We are the Colonnade. We are pure. We are strong. Know your place.

It occurred to him that Atella, perhaps, had a different intent. She knew, and appeared to understand, what he had done for the city. She might wish the fanfare to be a welcome and not a warning. He thought this might well be true.

He flew lower, slowing down, making ready to land. He saw Jaras in the centre of the square, looking up with hatred and fear.

Does he know?

Atella was gesturing, trying to get Jaras’ attention and failing.

He doesn’t know.

He circled one more time, bracing himself to be among these creatures of blood and flesh. So much prey below him. So much blood to take. His frame vibrated with the need to dive into the Colonnade and slaughter until the streets ran crimson. He tensed, fighting the instincts of frenzy. Lauka Vai’s will was with him. It reached him from the Sascathran Desert, and gave him the strength he needed to hold back the impulse to kill.

He came down. He landed a few yards from the four figures in the centre of the square. The Lord-Celestant wore her helm, its impassive silver face giving away nothing of her thoughts. Her warhammer was sheathed, a signal that she did not consider him a threat but that she could deal with him if he chose to make himself one. Jaras looked as if it was taking him a heroic effort not to break and run. Atella’s expression, by contrast, was one of sorrow and apology. And Tarvynde…

Tarvynde was imperious, the man elevated above all other citizens of the city elevated above all Ghur. His eyes were cold, the corners of his mouth turned down in ill-concealed contempt. Kavak sensed an air of triumph in him too.

Why is he pleased? Be wary.

Tarvynde took a step forward. ‘You know me,’ he said, ‘because you know the Colonnade.’

Kavak bowed to the creature of meat, holding back his snarl and taking the formal high ground. ‘That is true,’ he said. ‘I remember you well, Lord Tarvynde.’

The assembled councillors, already uneasy, now murmured in confusion. Tarvynde turned to them. ‘The Avengorii have sent as their ambassador a former son of the Colonnade,’ he said.

Kavak saw what Tarvynde was doing. He was reminding the councillors that new information would always come to him first. He would always know more than they would.

‘This is Kavak Anvarheim,’ Tarvynde announced. He turned to Jaras. ‘Your brother has returned.’

Jaras swayed. The horror on his face was so pure, so complete, that Kavak could not look at him.

Jaras collapsed, unconscious.

CHAPTER 8

Atella climbed the stairs of the castle’s south-west tower. The views through the narrow windows alternated between the late-evening gloom of the land beyond the Colonnade and the Diamond Spire, glittering in the glow cast by the great signal light at its peak. At the top of the stairs, she reached a short hall. Two guards were stationed outside the door at its far end. She greeted them, then said, ‘Has our guest asked for anything?’

‘Guest,’ one of the guards spat. ‘Is that what he is?’

‘Yes,’ said Atella. ‘A guest. Why? Did you think he was a prisoner? Do you think a Vengorian Lord would be stopped by that door?’ Or by you? She let the unspoken question hang in the air.

‘He hasn’t asked for anything,’ the guard said after a moment, sounding sullen and noticeably more nervous.

‘Then if you’ll excuse me…’ Atella said, and stepped towards the door.

‘We will escort you,’ the other guard said.

‘You will not,’ she told him.

The guard looked horrified. ‘You shouldn’t be in there alone.’

Atella laughed. ‘I have already been alone with the ambassador. Him, I am inclined to trust,’ she said pointedly.

The guards stepped aside. Their glares spoke volumes, which she ignored.

Atella entered the chamber and closed the door behind her. Inside, Kavak was coiled near the window. His long body took up a large portion of the space, though he could fly out the arched window if he chose to. The furniture had been removed from the chamber, leaving it bare. For someone without wings, it would have been a prison.

Atella looked around. ‘I hesitate to ask if you are comfortable,’ she said.

‘My needs in the Colonnade are few. These walls are dark and without polish. That pleases me. This space is perfectly adequate for my purposes.’

‘Have you…’ She wasn’t sure how to frame the question. How did one enquire of a vampire as to whether they had dined, or been offered something to eat?

Kavak took pity on her. ‘Have I hunted?’ he finished. ‘Yes, I have.’ Her unease must have shown, because he added, ‘In the forest. For animal blood.’

Atella nodded, relieved. ‘I came to apologise,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘For not speaking to Jaras before you arrived.’

‘I saw you try.’

‘I should have tried harder.’

Kavak waved a hand, dismissing concerns and griefs of small import. ‘In the end, I don’t think it would have made much difference.’

‘I also want to apologise for this,’ said Atella, indicating the bare stone of the chamber. ‘Your needs aside, this is unacceptable discourtesy.’

Kavak grinned. There was no way for the expression not to look predatory, but Atella understood no threat was intended. ‘What use would I have of luxury?’ he asked. ‘The truth is, this amuses me. Are your fellow citizens pretending to themselves that I am their prisoner?’

‘It seems that they need to.’

‘Would I be right in guessing the decision to make this my quarters was a complicated one?’

That made Atella laugh. ‘You would be right. It shames me how right you would be.’

‘Tell me.’

‘The council would have preferred to see you caged in the lowest region of the Beneath.’ Her cheek twitched in anger as she thought of the debate, and how close things had come to the entire point of the negotiations being forgotten. Her success was being treated as a crisis, the impending threat of Orgo all but ignored. ‘But you are an ambassador, and the council has, thankfully, been unable to forget that completely. Much to its dismay.’

‘I flew under the Colonnade a short while ago. The Beneath has grown in my absence, and not changed for the better. It is even more of a warren. It would be very hard to keep track of me down there.’

‘That is, precisely, why you are here. Your chamber in this tower provides a comforting illusion of containment.’

‘That illusion can have its uses,’ said Kavak. ‘I will choose to be grateful for whatever advances the negotiations, or at least does nothing to hinder them.’

‘I will try to think the same,’ Atella said. ‘I will take my leave, then, and see you in the morning, when your trials will begin in earnest.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said the vampire. ‘I enjoy speaking with you.’

‘I was in need of sensible conversation myself,’ Atella admitted. Their exchange, so anodyne, felt disconcertingly weighty.

‘Then please, stay a bit longer.’

She stayed, not in spite of Kavak’s monstrosity, but because of it. She stayed because the transcendence of horror that she had experienced in the presence of Lauka Vai lingered with her. The transcendence surpassed any experience she had ever had. She found that she needed that sense of something vast, something that made the Colonnade and its pretentions seem small. She had been raised in the Colonnade’s culture of purity, but ever since the siege, she had grown more and more disenchanted with it. The Avengorii, in their very being, were a repudiation of the Colonnade’s teachings, and they embodied something that was a different, stronger, more absolute purity. It pulled her. It called to her.

So she stayed, bathing in the reality of the monstrous.

In the morning, the council met with the ambassador from the Avengorii Dynasty.

If he had stretched his wings, Kavak would have taken up so much of the centre of the council chamber that the councillors seated on both sides of him would have felt he was reaching for them. There would still have been a few yards of distance, but it was easy to gauge the effect he would have. The temptation to indulge in it was there. Do you fear me, mortals? You should. I could show you why. But no. This was not the time or the place. He suppressed hunger and anger, and kept his wings folded tightly against his body, containing the threat of his presence as much as he could.

There was nothing he could do about his voice, though. A shudder swept through the merchants and the nobles as he began to speak. ‘I will begin by stating the obvious before any of us tries to suggest otherwise,’ he said. ‘Neither the Avengorii nor the Colonnade have, or should have, any illusions about what we are attempting. This is not an alliance that comes naturally. It is, though, a necessary one. Councillor Reigehren believes this. So do I.’

‘Councillor Reigehren has spoken persuasively,’ said Tarvynde, sounding less persuaded than Kavak would have preferred.

‘I’m glad she has,’ said Kavak. ‘Because she is telling us all an important truth. The threat of the Orgo beastherd is real. We must fight it together.’ He paused. ‘Let me repeat. Together. The Avengorii will not be the tools of the Colonnade. Our forces must stand side by side.’

‘Of course they will,’ said Tarvynde irritably, his honour offended.

‘Then we are in agreement so far. I am encouraged, Lord Tarvynde. Permit me to point out a second obvious, and equally relevant, fact. This will not be the only such threat in this region.’

Silence. Atella was nodding. She understood. The rest of the council was frowning, suspecting a trap.

‘You are implying something,’ said Tarvynde. ‘Make it plain, ambassador.’ He did not try to hide how much it pained him to use that title. At least he was looking directly at Kavak. Most of the other councillors were either averting their gaze or staring at him with revolted fascination.

‘I shall be clear,’ Kavak said. ‘I was merely establishing first principles for what I will now say. Lauka Vai has commanded me to deliver the following terms. If this is to be an alliance, it will be a real one. The legions of the Avengorii will come. They will base themselves outside the Colonnade while we prepare our combined assault on Orgo.’

‘That is no different from what we expected,’ Tarvynde said, looking relieved.

‘I am not finished. Lauka Vai will enter the city.’ He paused so the collective intake of breath he had expected did not drown out his next words. ‘And there will be a permanent Avengorii delegation within the walls of the Colonnade. A small one. No more than two of us.’ He stopped talking. It was time now to wait out the roars of outrage and horror.

When the wave of noise finally faded, Tarvynde spoke again. ‘That is unacceptable,’ he said, barely holding back his rage.

‘What do you propose instead?’

‘The obvious course of action. The Avengorii will remain outside the Colonnade. All of you. We will send our delegation to you in order to coordinate strategies. There is no need for your kind to take up residence here.’

Your kind. Kavak doubted that Tarvynde had even noticed using the insult. Atella had, though. She winced.

‘What you propose,’ Kavak said, ‘is an alliance of convenience. Your convenience.’

‘If that is not acceptable to the Avengorii, then there is little for us to talk about.’

Kavak struggled to hold his temper. Had Tarvynde been this arrogantly ignorant when Kavak had still been mortal and fighting for the city? ‘I said the alliance was necessary,’ Kavak said. ‘I believe that absolutely. I also know that it is more necessary for you than for the Avengorii. If the worst happens, can the Colonnade retreat from the advance of the beastmen? Can your pillars walk?’ Kavak swept his eyes over the council. Were they afraid yet of something other than him? They had better be. ‘I remember the lands of the Colonnade well. I know that they have risen recently. How much higher are they going to rise? Since you were willing to countenance Councillor Reigehren’s proposal at all, then you fear or know the worst.’

There was more shouting now, and at least one argument was breaking out in the council’s ranks. But the overwhelming majority was still against a permanent Avengorii presence in the Colonnade. Kavak said nothing, letting the currents of the debate flow. In the middle of the discussion, the door to the chamber opened and a Prosecutor of the Maelstrom of Light appeared. His armour was badly damaged, and he could barely walk. Dawnbolt rushed over to him, Tarvynde right behind her. The three spoke quietly, and then the injured Prosecutor withdrew. The Lord-Celestant and the lord of the Colonnade conferred with each other for a few moments. Tarvynde shook his head sharply and glanced significantly at Kavak. Dawnbolt was impassive, but carried the day. They returned to their seats, and with Tarvynde glowering at her, Dawnbolt addressed the council.

‘We have received tidings,’ she said, ‘of which the council must be made aware. They have a bearing on your discussions.’

Kavak noted the your. Dawnbolt was holding herself and the Maelstrom of Light aloof from the negotiations, even as she was intervening in the debate. He wondered what that meant. Had the Stormcast Eternals already decided what their course of action would be? I can’t see how they could do one thing and the Colonnade another. Dawnbolt was impossible to read, but Kavak watched Tarvynde even more closely. There were deep political currents here, and Lauka Vai would want to know which way they ran.

‘Skykeep has fallen to the beastherd,’ said Dawnbolt.

Her declaration was met with stunned silence, and then an uproar of shouted, frightened questions. Kavak said nothing, observed the panic, and thought it likely that Orgo had done much to move the negotiations forward.

When Tarvynde managed to restore order, Havol Torvassen asked, ‘How long until the beastherd reaches here?’

‘Six weeks,’ Dawnbolt told the general. ‘Maybe less.’

‘And the land rises,’ Atella said, seizing the moment. ‘What is the projection there? When will it reach the height of the columns?’

All eyes turned to Baveth Ullior.

‘Soon,’ said Baveth. ‘My charts are not yet complete. But not much more than a month, if that.’

‘Then,’ Dawnbolt said, ‘I suggest you make your peace with necessity, Lord Tarvynde.’

Tarvynde glowered at Kavak for a long moment before he answered. ‘I will not dispute the Lord-Celestant’s wisdom,’ he said. ‘The Colonnade accepts the terms of Lauka Vai.’

The roars from the councillors began again, but Dawnbolt silenced them, and now she turned to Kavak. ‘The peace must be kept,’ she warned, her voice as calm as ever, but with the threat of a storm behind it. ‘Lauka Vai must be true to her word. You do not want us as enemies.’

Kavak bristled. Will you repeat those words to Lauka Vai? he wanted to say. He caught the look of hope on Atella’s face, and he relented. And then, looking again at Tarvynde, he saw a glint of satisfaction in the man’s eyes, a trace he was unable to conceal.

Things clicked into place. Tarvynde, Kavak realised, had always known that he had no choice but to accept the Avengorii’s terms. He had performed a charade of rejection for the benefit of his council. Their horror at the idea of the monstrous Avengorii staining the purity of the Colonnade was a mirror of the revulsion of the citizens at large. Tarvynde had established that he was of the same mind. He was, Kavak thought, seeking to forestall a rebellion against his rule. The blame for the agreement would fall on the Maelstrom of Light, beings so removed from the mortal that they could not be expected to understand what they were forcing on the city, and beings so powerful that no one would dare fight against their decree.

Did you play a willing part in this charade, Lord-Celestant? How much do you know or care of the Colonnade’s political games?

Tarvynde was less of a fool than Kavak had thought. He was also more dangerous.

The worst of Kavak’s anger passed, but it did not vanish. Just as he understood Tarvynde better, he looked forward with greater anticipation to the lesson Lauka Vai would teach the city. The Colonnade’s arrogance of purity was an obscenity, and deserved to be confronted by its worst fear.

‘The Avengorii will honour this agreement,’ Kavak vowed. ‘We look forward to our new relationship with the Colonnade.’

He kept his tone serious, but the words resounded with irony in his ears.

CHAPTER 9

Jaras sat at a corner table in the White Tauralon, nursing ale, grievance and grief. It was two days after the Vengorian Lord that had been his brother had left the Colonnade, four days since Tarvynde had said the words Kavak Anvarheim. The four days might as well have been four heartbeats ago. The pain, the hate and the anger were as fresh as the first stab of the knife, and they had only grown deeper.

The White Tauralon was a mid-terrace tavern and theatre. Its white marble columns and walls were garish with interlocking fronds of gold leaf. Residents of the lower terraces were drawn by the ostentatious luxury of its decor. Those from the upper terraces came to indulge in an atmosphere that was just seedy enough to be exciting. All were lured by the decadence of the spectacle.

The White Tauralon’s tables were on three levels. On the third, the most expensive seats were theatre boxes, and their patrons had the choice of anonymity or celebrity, sitting unseen at the rear of the boxes or making themselves visible for the entire establishment by leaning against their balconies. On the stage, the performances were dances, songs and short plays. Almost everything took the form of encomiums to the heroism of the Colonnade and the triumph of its philosophy of supremacy and purity. What was different in the White Tauralon’s approach to familiar subjects was its presentation. The costuming was excessive, a riot of colours and materials so overwhelming that at times the performers seemed to blend together, becoming an unbroken eruption of silks.

Then there was the portrayal of the Colonnade’s foes. The bestial and the enemies of purity paraded across the stage engaged in shameless, seductive corruption before they were righteously defeated. They were a sweaty indulgence, draped in the aura of the forbidden, an expression of everything the culture of the Colonnade had repressed, and so found fascinating as long as it was contained within a proscenium arch, and ultimately defeated by the representatives of virtue. The defenders of the Colonnade usually took the form of Freeguild guards, though sometimes the singers, dancers and actors portrayed the physical expression of the virtues themselves, and the performance became entirely symbolic.

But still very sweaty.

The White Tauralon was not an establishment that Jaras could frequent as a simple patron, not if he hoped to set anything aside and one day leave the Beneath. He earned some fragments of realmstone and drinks there as a bard, moving between the tables of the ground floor, performing songs in between the main events on the stage. He had been spending a lot of his time here since Atella’s return to the city. He showed his face in the Beneath enough to make it clear he had not gone into hiding, but he did not trust himself to say the right things to the people who were looking to him for answers and leadership. No one did that in the Above. He was merely an amusement. That gave him time alone with his thoughts.

His thoughts weren’t pleasant company, and they would not leave him alone.

He didn’t want to believe the creature was Kavak. But Tarvynde had declared that this was so, and the vampire had not denied it. And when, at the close of the formal greetings, the monster had turned towards Jaras as if he wanted to speak with him, Jaras had fled.

He might still have tried to tell himself that it was all a lie, a charade mounted for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, but why would the lord of the Colonnade and a horror of the Avengorii work together to torment someone so unimportant? Even so, he might have tried to believe this was somehow the case, and he might even have been successful, because the need to pretend that the monster was not his brother was that strong.

He might have been able to do this, if he had not heard the Vengorian Lord speak. It was the same voice he had heard the day of the caravan’s slaughter. It had sounded familiar then, despite its transformation into a harsh snarl, but he had dismissed the impression as a delusion. He couldn’t now. He recognised his brother’s voice.

Jaras had been too young to fight on the ramparts during the siege of the tzaangors. He had looked up to Kavak. He had invested his dreams of heroism in his brother. He had mourned Kavak when he had disappeared. He had held Kavak’s memory sacred, a hero fallen in the defence of his city. More than that, Kavak had died in defence of the ideals the city embodied. Jaras couldn’t remember when the Colonnade’s principles had become so important to him. He thought it might have been after the siege, after Kavak’s disappearance. The philosophy of the Colonnade gave his loss meaning, and his loss made the philosophy all the more crucial. He would do anything for the city. Just as he thought his brother had.

He should have despised Kavak’s memory. His brother was a traitor. Jaras couldn’t begin to imagine how a man who had exemplified the ideals of honour could turn against his duty and his identity in so foul a way. He didn’t want to imagine. After he fled the square, he hid in the Beneath, ducking into shelter whenever he heard the beating of wings. Kavak was looking for him, heedless of the terror his presence spread in the suspended streets.

Jaras’ instinct was to hide even after Kavak had departed the Colonnade. He overcame that quickly. That was the tiny sliver of pride he clung to. He couldn’t hide. If he did, he would surrender the Anvarheim name to ignominy. He would not do that. He would not let Kavak win. So he was present, in the Above and the Beneath. He let his grief and anger show.

When he was ready, he would return to his work in the Beneath. For the moment, he wasn’t sure what form it would take, or what he could say. If he was stoned to death for what his brother had done, he wouldn’t see it as an injustice.

In the Above, and in the White Tauralon, he was left to himself when he wanted to be. Because he was ignored, he heard rumours. Those were always useful to store away. And when he sang and drew attention to himself, he received sympathy as well as wine and ale. He chose his songs carefully. He set aside all satire for the moment. He performed old favourites, tunes that everyone knew and could sing with him. They were emotional songs, tragic tales of familial betrayal. Their relevance to his situation was obvious. Instead of hiding from his name’s disgrace, he embraced the tragedy, and was rewarded.

More than a few patrons bought him drinks. One who did every night was Ollam Reigehren, Atella’s younger brother. Jaras cultivated him. Ollam shared his sister’s red hair, and that was the only thing they had in common. Like Jaras, Ollam had been too young to fight in the siege, and the fact that he had yet to hold up his family’s tradition of protecting the city had left him with a permanent, pinched expression of embarrassed disappointment. He was quick to anger and quick to get drunk. He was rarely circumspect in his opinions when sober. When he was in his cups, not at all. Jaras had seen him in the White Tauralon often enough over the years, but they had never spoken until a few days ago. Since the return of Atella, he had become eager to have Jaras’ company, as if in response to a shared sense of familial betrayal.

This night, the White Tauralon was full. People were drinking hard, responding too boisterously to the stage show, and looking for reasons to fight. The atmosphere of simmering violence was something Jaras had never seen before in this establishment. But today, Lord Tarvynde had issued a proclamation. It set out the broad strokes of the agreement with the Avengorii, and it forbade anyone to speak against it. So the outrage and the fear had to find another outlet, and for many, whoever was closest would do.

Jaras had let the last few interludes go by without a song. He had no need to stir anything up here. Tarvynde had done that for him. And he didn’t want to make himself too visible. He had never been one for brawls, and the hatred for Kavak might point his way, despite his efforts to show that this was a hatred he shared. Faced with the present reality of violence, he decided that he didn’t want to be stoned to death, after all.

He felt safer when Ollam entered the White Tauralon and waved for Jaras to join him. Ollam wasn’t alone. He was keeping company with Havol Torvassen, as he had been doing quite a bit of late. Jaras got up to make his way over, and conversation on the floor ceased as people turned to watch the entertaining but hardly significant bard become part of the general’s party. Jaras followed the two men up to the third level, where they settled in at a private booth overlooking the stage. Two large bottles of wine were placed before them immediately, and Ollam helped himself. His face was already flushed. He had been a few drinks in before arriving.

Havol poured himself and Jaras drinks too. He sipped slowly, while Ollam downed half his goblet at once. Havol was watching Ollam and the crowd below closely. He was looking everywhere except at the stage, registering the currents of the mood of the White Tauralon. Jaras told himself to be careful what he said.

‘You heard the proclamation?’ Ollam asked him.

‘I did,’ said Jaras.

‘We will welcome the Avengorii with the true hospitality of the Colonnade,’ Ollam recited as if Jaras had answered in the negative. ‘They will be our allies in the coming struggle. Let none speak against this and break unity.’ He drained his goblet and refilled it. ‘That sounds like a threat to me,’ he said to Havol.

‘It’s going to be a difficult time,’ the older man said. ‘We will need order to get through it.’ His tone was one of studied neutrality, as if he were reciting too. He was giving nothing away about how he felt.

‘You can’t tell me you agree with it!’ said Ollam.

‘It’s what is commanded.’

Ollam shook his head, took another drink and turned to Jaras again. ‘You understand. You know this is obscene. You know what it’s like for family to betray you.’ He looked mournfully into his wine, then continued, self-pity changing the course of his rant. ‘We had everything lined up with the Gastars. It was a perfect match. And she threw it away!’

Jaras decided to twist the knife a bit to see what that prompted. ‘There have been whispers of worse,’ he said. ‘Rumours of rumours that she has done much more than reject Vash Gastar.’ The proposed match between the Reigehrens and the Gastars had been the subject of gossip for months. Its failure had drawn even more social curiosity.

Ollam stared at him, but did not look surprised. The whispers had reached him, then. He slammed his goblet on the table, sloshing wine. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ he demanded.

‘It?’ said Jaras.

‘Your sister’s marriage?’ Havol asked.

‘The proclamation!’ Ollam shouted, as if they were both stupid for not keeping up with him.

‘We’re not going to do anything about it,’ said Havol. ‘We’re going to do what we’re told.’ He slipped, then, just a bit. Jaras heard the anger behind the words.

‘Tarvynde can’t believe this is the right thing to do,’ Ollam said, pleading.

‘These are his orders until he is persuaded otherwise,’ said Havol.

Ollam stared at him blearily, confused and unsatisfied.

‘Speaking of persuasive,’ Havol said to Jaras, ‘I hear that’s what you have been in the Beneath.’

‘I don’t know if I would say that,’ Jaras said, choosing modesty as the safe bet, unsure what point Havol was making.

‘Oh, I would,’ said the general of the Guard. ‘I think Lord Tarvynde would agree.’

‘Is that a problem?’ Jaras asked.

‘Just an observation.’

An observation to what end? Does Tarvynde expect me to rally support for his vile proclamation? And he still had no idea why the lord of the Colonnade had commanded that he be present for the arrival of Kavak. He had fled the instant the ceremony had ended. He had served no purpose at all.

Or had he?

‘Lord Tarvynde hears what is said in the Beneath,’ Havol said. ‘I think that is to everyone’s benefit, don’t you?’

That sounded like tacit encouragement.

‘I do,’ said Jaras.

‘Something I don’t understand,’ Ollam slurred, trying to get back into the conversation. ‘Why did he wait so long to issue the proclamation? Everyone knew what the agreement was two days ago.’

‘Presentation,’ Havol said.

Ollam nodded as if that meant something.

Maybe it did, Jaras thought. Maybe Tarvynde had wanted rumour and gossip to run wild before he issued the official line. Maybe he and Tarvynde were working together after all, at a safely deniable distance.

And maybe, just maybe, without knowing it, he had had Tarvynde’s ear from the start.

Three days later, the Avengorii arrived at the Colonnade.

At their approach, the sky turned grey, then black. Heavy, stagnant rain fell, the drops slithering down the walls of the city, leaving black trails and the stench of old blood. In the Above and in the Beneath, many citizens hid, shuttering their windows and locking their doors, crouching in terror and covering their ears. They sought to block out any hint that the horrors had come, even though they knew some of the monsters were here to stay, and that sooner or later their eyes would be blasted by the sight of the things that had dwelt until now only in fearful whispers.

The fields were deserted. The fear that had greeted the arrival of Kavak was an insignificant ripple compared to the wave of panic that came when the legions appeared at the edge of the woods. All work on the lands of the Colonnade ceased on that day, and the people took what shelter they could in the city.

Not everyone hid. Thousands gathered before the castle. They came from all walks of life, and the people mingled with little thought of rank for the first time since the war against the tzaangors. Jaras was among the onlookers. He had already suffered his great shock, he thought. He already knew the worst. There was nothing that could horrify him more than that sight of his traitor brother.

As the dark rain plummeted from a sky that had brought night to day, a flight of vargheists arrived, the vanguard of the official Avengorii delegation. Next came ten of the Vengorian Lords, and Jaras began to doubt the wisdom of having come. At the sight of these creatures, those patchwork things of bat and reptile, of ragged wings and hooked claws, he felt as if he were seeing fragments of his own bad dreams over the great square.

The monsters did not land. They circled, a show of power and force, but kept well above the city. Then two more Vengorian Lords descended through the centre of the ring of vampires, and behind them came their ruler, who made all who had come before seem the merest hint of horror. For she was monstrosity in its awful divinity. The gathered people screamed. Jaras covered his face with his hands, though he peered through his fingers, unable to look away as the Mother of Nightmares flew majestically down into the square.

She landed with her vast wings spread, and towered over all around her. Lauka Vai’s shadow seemed to spread across the entire Colonnade. Jaras felt it cover him and freeze his heart.

‘I greet you, citizens of the Colonnade,’ she said, her voice booming across the square, reviving old fears and creating new ones. ‘The Avengorii have come to save you.’

The words sounded like the promise of doom.

CHAPTER 10

The grand ball was held on the evening of the day after the arrival of the Avengorii. Atella didn’t know whose idea the ball was. She knew it was part of the traditional welcome to honoured delegations, but the Colonnade’s isolation from other major Free Cities meant that it had been some time since that particular form of political ritual had been invoked. She found it hard to imagine that anyone on the council and in the powerful families of the city would want to associate with the Avengorii in any way that wasn’t absolutely necessary. It hardly seemed like something Tarvynde would wish to host, given how reluctant he was to accept the vampires’ presence inside the Colonnade. Yet the ball would not have taken place without his authorisation.

The event had an awkward start, and almost didn’t take place at all. The problem was the ballroom itself. The hall was one of the jewels of the Diamond Spire. It was two hundred and fifty feet long, and forty feet wide and high. Its walls were gilded in gold and bronze. The gently arched ceiling was covered in frescoes depicting the heroic construction and defence of the Colonnade. The central image celebrated the city in all its glory. It conveyed the Colonnade’s supremacy by depicting it flying, without the need of columns, over the bestial lands of Ghur.

The problem with the hall was also the source of its most glittering effect. Twenty floor-to-ceiling mirrors, each composed of hundreds of individual mirrored surfaces that very slightly angled away from each other, lined every wall. They reflected the hall and the ornate chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, multiplying the size of the space and sending shafts of light glittering in every direction. The ballroom celebrated the apex of the Colonnade’s artistry, and the Avengorii would not set foot in it.

The Vengorian Lord Hevat Grask was the other member of the Avengorii sent by his queen to be part of the permanent delegation at the Colonnade. He had arrived an hour before the ball was set to start. He took one look into the hall, hissed and withdrew. What followed was heated discussions between Kavak and Tarvynde’s representatives, with much anger about insults, but no actual explanation as to the nature of the problem. It was not resolved until Kavak sought out Atella. ‘The mirrors,’ he told her. ‘My fellow Vengorian Lord and I are proud, and we will not come out and say that we will not look at our reflections, but that is what must be addressed.’

So now, as the ball began, every last mirror was covered by a tapestry hastily brought in from other chambers in the castle. The hall was still grand, but diminished. The tapestries brought the walls closer to one another, making it seem narrower than it was, where before it had seemed to stretch off to infinity. The Colonnade’s lustre had been dimmed, and that amused Atella. She was growing more and more sick of the city’s pride and its displays.

At the north end of the hall was the throne for Lord Tarvynde. Lauka Vai rested beside him, and though she had curled her reptilian legs on the floor, she was still taller than the lord. Tarvynde’s throne should have made him the centre of attention down the perspective of the hall. Instead, the eye skipped off him and to the vampire next to him, and there it was held in fearful awe.

At the other end of the hall, the musicians were assembled on a raised platform. After Tarvynde had made a half-hearted, and very brief, opening speech of welcome, they began playing to an assembly that showed no immediate signs of wishing to dance. Members of the council and the cream of the Colonnade’s noble families lined one side of the ballroom, facing the two Vengorian Lords with stricken looks. Kavak and Hevat Grask had exchanged their armour for what Atella imagined were formal robes. They were grotesqueries, elaborate patchworks of sanded flesh, some of which she was sure was human. The robes clung to the forms of the vampires, almost as if they were dripping from the Avengorii like curtains of wax.

Atella couldn’t take her eyes off the vampires, held by the spell of monstrousness.

On the mortal side, servants passed with refreshments, offering crystal goblets of wine on silver trays. Nothing was offered to the vampires, and Atella noticed that the trays lost all their lustre, turning dark and tarnished whenever they came near the Vengorian Lords.

Atella was just making her way down the hall towards Kavak and Hevat Grask when Vash Gastar came up to her with a pleased smile on his face.

‘This is pretty clever, don’t you think?’ he said, very confidential and closer than she would like.

Atella suppressed a wince and moved half a step to the side. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It shows them up for the beasts they are,’ Vash said, ‘us having drinks while they have none.’ He took a satisfied sip of his wine.

Maybe the ball was Tarvynde’s idea after all.

Vash moved in close again, the gesture smooth and natural in the most studied sense, in the middle of taking another drink. It was as if it had happened without any intention on his part, and the art of the gesture cried out to be noticed and appreciated for what it was, as did all the other aspects that collectively made up the firstborn son of the House of Gastar.

Vash was as handsome and as gilded as the ballroom. Every gesture was polished, and every pose honed. In his dress and manner, he was a perfect match for the frescoes, as if he were the depicted heroes, all of them. Vash Gastar, founder and protector of the Colonnade, his profile unblemished by the scars of combat.

That miracle was due to the fact that he had not served on the walls during the siege. He had been, thanks to his family’s influence, part of the reserves within the castle. He had helped oversee the distribution of weapons, a task that was necessary, but not necessarily one for an able-bodied citizen of his age. He had come out of the war without a scratch, a fact that had been noticed by others less fortunate, though less so by the members of other rich families who similarly were kept off the front lines for as long as possible. Marrying a Reigehren would do wonders to erase that lingering stain.

‘Our parents are furious with you,’ Vash said, as confidentially as before.

‘So I gather,’ said Atella. This was, she knew, meant to be her cue to look at Vash with a worried expression, gaze at his finely wrought features and into his empathetic blue eyes, and seek his reassurance. At least according to the narrative Vash seemed to be constructing for himself. Instead, she watched the other attendees. So far, no one had dared attempt to engage the Vengorian Lords in conversation, and the stance of the vampires suggested a barely restrained urge to devour the company. A few of the nobles had found their courage, though, and started to dance. The careful, elegant formality of the steps seemed, after what Vash had said about the wine, to be yet another rebuke to the monstrosity of the Avengorii.

‘I’m not angry, though,’ said Vash.

Lucky me! ‘Is that right?’ Atella said, without any interest at all. She shook her head to the tray of drinks a servant offered her.

‘Yes, it is. I think what you have done is very clever.’

‘I’m flattered.’ She wasn’t. Then she was worried. ‘What is it you think I’ve done?’

‘You’ve brought the vampires here. They’ve agreed to fight for us…’

‘With us,’ Atella corrected.

‘Oh, of course.’ Vash touched the side of his nose and winked. ‘They’ll fight with us. And then they’ll be on their way.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Why would they stay? They know they’re not welcome. They know they don’t belong here. They’ll return to their holes of their own accord. Wouldn’t you, after a few more events like this one? And then we can go through the whole charade again the next time they’re needed.’

Atella took a deep breath. It was really not worth her time or her energy to get into an argument with Vash. It was pointless. He was pointless.

‘That was very courageous of you,’ Vash went on, ‘deciding to take the blame for bringing the vampires here. You’ll be forgiven once they go, though. Once people see that I’ve forgiven you, they’ll understand.’

His presumption was so breathtaking, she didn’t have a response to it. Even if she said something cutting, he wouldn’t believe her. He would think she was flirting. There was nothing she could say that would conflict with his ironclad sense of self-worth.

Vash put his empty glass down on another tray as it went past. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I think people should see that I’ve forgiven you now. That will save time later. Send the right message. You know.’

I really don’t want to know.

‘So,’ said Vash, as if he had just successfully concluded a complex set of negotiations, ‘shall we dance?’

The musicians had just finished one piece, and there was a pause before they began the next one.

Her gorge rising, Atella walked away from Vash without answering. She marched down the hall towards the throne and stopped before Kavak. She smiled. ‘Will you do me the honour of joining me for this dance?’ she asked.

The Vengorian Lord smiled, teeth glinting over his lower lip. He looked at her curiously. ‘You have not yet had your fill of the monstrous, then,’ he said.

‘Only of a particular kind.’

Kavak bowed. ‘In that case, the honour is mine,’ he said, and followed her into the centre of the floor. Two mortal couples darted away from them, shooting Atella murderous glares and Kavak terrified ones.

As Atella and Kavak took up their positions facing each other, it suddenly occurred to her that, in a moment of self-righteousness, she might have placed him in an awkward situation. She had no idea if, with his body, he could dance. She opened her mouth to apologise, but the first chords of the lutes sounded, and without hesitating, Kavak extended a hand to her. She placed her hand on top of his, and they began their turn about the floor.

Kavak could dance. He was graceful in his horror. The claws of his six legs scraped against the floor. His tail made sinuous, scratching noises.

‘You remember your steps well,’ Atella said.

‘Hardly,’ said Kavak. ‘I was never a good dancer before.’

‘Where did you learn?’ she asked, then wished she hadn’t, worried she was insulting him.

He wasn’t offended. ‘There are balls of a kind in our realm,’ he said. ‘As for here, I observe and learn.’

She was impressed. ‘You’re a quick study.’

‘We must be,’ he said. ‘Of more than just dance.’

She took his meaning, and she saw now that there was a predatory quality to the elegance of his steps. It was not aimed at her, though. He was not moving around her as if about to strike. The predator was innate, a core of his being, moulded into every muscle of his frame. She found that she enjoyed watching him. Every movement was infused with purpose, and she found that attractive. The way Kavak inhabited his body was the opposite of Vash, where movement was just another form of ornamentation. Kavak’s form knew war and survival. He was a being who knew sacrifice. Vash had only a distant acquaintance with the existence of the word.

‘We are being watched,’ Kavak said, as they rotated around each other once again.

‘I imagine so. By my family in particular, I suspect. With outrage.’

‘And revulsion. If they are who I suspect, based on the looks directed our way, then you are correct.’

Atella felt another gaze too, one much more powerful. She took a quick glance to her left and saw the blank yellow eyes of Lauka Vai fixed on her.

‘Your queen…’ she began.

‘She approves,’ said Kavak.

Atella smiled with sudden pleasure.

Lauka Vai’s approval suddenly meant more to her than her family’s wrath.

CHAPTER 11

‘They’re holding a ball for the Avengorii!’

Jaras walked the swaying streets and rope bridges of the Beneath, and he spread the word.

‘They’re holding a ball for the Avengorii!’

Night in the Beneath was profound. The platform of the Colonnade blocked all light from the stars. The only illumination to pierce the pitch-blackness came from the oil lamps in the windows and a scattering of others mounted on iron poles. Jaras could not see more than a few yards ahead, at best, as he made his way through the warren, but he had lived there long enough to know his path by feel. All the inhabitants of the Beneath were sure-footed. They had to be. Those who were not did not live long.

‘They’re holding a ball for the Avengorii!’

For now, he was not stopping at any one tavern. He wanted his news to travel as quickly and as widely as possible. He might return to the Pillar and Sickle when he was done, there to reinforce and build on his message. But his immediate goal was for all the Beneath to know the crimes of the Above. He was nightwatchman and town crier, and he had come to raise anger. Maybe this was what Tarvynde wanted him to do, at some level of the complicated political game he was playing. Jaras didn’t care. With enough anger, there would be strength in the Beneath, perhaps enough to force the powers in the Above to turn from the path to damnation.

Jaras did not walk alone. People filled the roads and joined him, wanting to know more. They talked among each other, their voices growing louder and angrier, and that drew still more of a crowd.

‘A ball?’ a man asked. ‘What about protecting us from the vampires?’

‘The council isn’t interested in protecting you,’ Jaras said, speaking loudly. ‘That is what this ball means. They are embracing the monsters that will look to you for prey.’

He was carrying his lute. He strummed a harsh chord, then sang.

‘Our hands! Our sweat! The blood in our veins!

They belong to our betters, the masters of chains!

The lords of the city, the strong and the wise,

Now feed us to monsters, and revel in lies!’

Shouts greeted his verse. ‘Will you submit?’ he asked.

‘No!’ came the answering roar.

The anger was good to hear. He hoped there really was strength gathering. The people would need it. Over the last few days, the Freeguild Guard had forced them back into the fields around the Colonnade, and to the open-pit mines to the south of the city. They laboured within sight of the massive Avengorii gathering, sheep pushed out before wolves. Whatever Tarvynde’s actual sympathies might be, he was still making the people work, and no one had dared raise a hand in rebellion. Not yet, at any rate.

Earlier, Jaras had ventured out into the fields during the day. He had headed north-east as far as he dared, as close to the Avengorii as he could make himself go. He had walked among the labourers, sung for them, clapped shoulders and arms. He made sure he was seen. He comforted the people with solidarity, and he confirmed every fear. They had been lied to enough.

The closer he came to the edge of the forest, the more the people paused at their work and looked up the slope, faces drawn with anxiety, to where the evil shapes had gathered. There were many creatures with wings perched in the trees, and even more on the ground, half-hidden in the shadows of the forest. They moved, and rustled, and the sounds of hideous voices came down into the farmlands like the warning touch of nightmares to come.

‘What do they want from us?’ Jaras was asked again and again.

He answered with the simple truth. ‘They want us.’

He had stayed out in the fields until dusk, then hurried back to the Colonnade. Once there, he had visited the White Tauralon, but had not stayed long. As soon as he heard about the ball, he had hurried back to the Beneath.

Now he was spending the night by spreading his warnings of betrayal. More and more people were joining in the march, coming in on the rope bridges from other platforms to see what was happening and then staying to add their voices to the protest as they followed him through the narrow, zigzagging streets. Before a line of boarding houses crowding in on each other like crooked teeth, he began another chant.

He felt emboldened to say what he wanted after the encounter with Havol and Ollam. There were guards about, but fewer than usual, and the ones he did see ignored him and his growing following. Jaras wondered again what Tarvynde’s game was. Why was he making it easy for Jaras to stir up resentment? Maybe, maybe Tarvynde was secretly convinced that dealing with the Avengorii was a betrayal of the Colonnade.

Maybe he’s trying to have things both ways. Then he can choose which side to support according to which suits him best.

Jaras didn’t like that idea, even though it also struck him as plausible. If that was what Tarvynde was doing, it meant he believed he would be able to crush any kind of trouble in the Beneath if he had to. And he was probably right. The Freeguild had all the weapons. The warrens of the Beneath might have the superior numbers, but if the Maelstrom of Light decided to intervene, then any attempt at rebellion was the most futile of dreams.

But I’m not trying to start a rebellion. Not really. I just want people to know the truth. I want us to shout long and loud enough so the council will hear the truth also. That’s all.

In the street, he sang his song again, about the perfidy of the Above. Everyone near him joined in, and the noise of the crowd was so big, so fierce, that it did sound like a revolt.

None of his lyrics mentioned the Stormcast Eternals. He still had faith in them, even if Dawnbolt had acceded to the idea of the alliance. He couldn’t believe they would let the Colonnade fall to monsters. What worried him was their distance from simple mortals. They might not understand how terrible the situation was for the people of the city. They might not see how damaging any alliance, no matter how brief, would be.

Especially for us in the Beneath.

He had no trouble seeing himself as whatever part of the Colonnade suited his mood of the moment.

There were no squares in the Beneath. There were no open areas large enough to hold a big crowd, and it was impossible for vast numbers of people to gather at a single point. In the darkness of the winding alleyways, Jaras could not see far enough back in the line to guess how many people had joined his procession. But he could see a few lit torches behind, before the suspended houses blocked his view. There were more torches, twinkling fireflies, on the bridges that led towards his position. There were people coming from all sides. He caught glimpses of moving lights on some of the bridges above and below him too.

That was good. The word was spreading. He was accomplishing what he had set out to do tonight. He wasn’t sure what would come next, and was foggy about the longer term. He would focus on tonight, then. He was at the centre of the event in the Beneath, and people were listening to him. All of this was good.

He turned around the next corner, and stopped. He was on one of the largest of the Beneath’s platforms, midway down its depths. The street here, or what was called a street in this part of the Colonnade, was a bit wider than most. He was standing before the Beneath’s Temple of Sigmar. There might not be the space for a gathering, but this was still the point where most people would come, instinctively, in times of distress. The temple was a humble one, a poor cousin to the magnificent building, with its golden dome, located in the centre of the Above. It was still the largest structure in the Beneath – built almost entirely of timber, or not even the great chains holding its platform would have been able to support it. Its single spire reached up towards the stone sky of the Beneath. The lamp burning inside the belfry sent out a weak glow, and most of the temple was a vague mass of black.

Jaras looked at the faces surrounding him. They were faces marked by hard living. Even the youngest looked cracked and weathered from labour and the never-banished spectre of hunger. The faces were angry. To be sacrificed not just to the mines and the fields but also to monsters was too much. Some expressed their anger with mutters. Others shouted to burst their lungs, as if their yells could bring down the mansions of the Above. Jaras gave them the words for their rage.

‘Our hands! Our sweat! The blood in our veins!

They belong to our betters, the masters of chains!’

Each time he shouted those bitter words, Jaras felt the thrill of risk. Singing them here, in front of the temple, he felt that he was pleading with Sigmar. Look upon us! See what is being done in this city, this reflection of Azyr in the wild darkness of Ghur. Send us your strength and justice!

When the song ended, he heard the flapping of wings.

Jaras held his breath. The crowd fell silent, everyone responding to a sudden, instinctive fear even if they had not heard the sound of the predators.

The people nearest Jaras pressed closer to him, as if he could protect them.

‘What is that?’ someone asked.

‘Avengorii,’ Jaras whispered.

A shadow whipped through the air, edges of night with sudden movement. Jaras caught only a glimpse, but he knew the monster was there. So did everyone around him. The crowd bunched together, a terrified flock in the presence of winged predators. The air turned cold. The torch flames wavered and sank back. Lanterns dimmed. Something flew past the temple’s tower windows, blotting out the light. Then it settled on the peak, crouching. In the dark orange glow from the windows, red eyes looked down on the people of the Beneath.

Frozen, Jaras stared up at the eyes. After another few moments of frightened silence, the people began to scream. They fled, streaming into the temple and back down the alleys, running for the shelter of tavern and home.

Jaras stayed where he was. At first, he couldn’t move. He was the frozen prey, and in a moment, he would feel the monster’s teeth. They would open his throat wide. There would be pain and blood, and the worst sort of death.

The moments passed, and the vampire did not move. When Jaras felt he had control of his limbs again, he also realised that the vampire was not attacking. It was just watching him.

Is that Kavak?

There was no comfort in the thought. He felt observed by a predator.

As he began to overcome his initial terror, he told himself that the vampire couldn’t attack. A slaughter in the Beneath would end the treaty then and there, and the Colonnade and the Avengorii would be at war. If the vampires were going to destroy them, now was not the time. Not just yet.

They will, though. If we don’t destroy them first.

He wanted to run. Anger revived his courage. The Pillar and Sickle was not far from here. There would be comfort there. There would be company, four walls and a low roof.

No. I will not hide from the foe.

He still had his message to spread.

He looked away from the red eyes above, turned from the chapel and headed for a rope ladder leading down to the next level. He travelled quickly down bridges and ladders. The quarters grew more and more cramped and miserable. There would be no room to fly here, the longest of the Long Chain regions. He was in the lowest portion of the Colonnade.

Here were shelters that were barely worthy of the name. They clustered together, walls of discarded tin and damp sod leaning against one another, holding the indigent and the beggar, the old and the weak, the miners and labourers who could not work enough any longer to earn their keep anywhere but here. This was the home of the desperate and the criminal. Jaras had avoided it until now. He despised the people who lived in this squalor. They were the visible reminder of how far one could fall from the Above. He avoided them as if their misery were contagious, a slick that would coat his skin and stay with him when he travelled back upchain, ready to drag him down. He had relied on word of mouth to send his message to these depths. It was time, though, for him to be present here too. He must be known, and he must be seen.

Jaras looked around, his shoulders tense and his skin crawling from the encounter with the vampire. The cramped surroundings reassured him. No red eyes looked out from the shadows. He didn’t think he had been followed.

The terror of the vampires had not reached here. No one from the Long Chain regions had been part of the march. There were a few people about, many in rags, all of them looking at Jaras with cold suspicion. He didn’t look hungry, and he was well dressed by the standards of anywhere in the Beneath. Here, he stood out as much as if he had been a noble from the upper terraces. Self-conscious but determined, he moved through the cramped, filthy alleys. Foul water dripped from the levels above, and the footing was slippery with stinking muck.

They’re holding a ball for the Avengorii! The rallying cry stuck in Jaras’ throat. The people he saw did not look receptive. He didn’t want to shout. He found that he was moving as quietly as possible. He decided to look for a tavern.

What he found wasn’t a tavern in the sense that the rest of the city understood the word. It was a shack, larger than most, built from bricks of sod. A dirty sign against the outside wall read ALE. Jaras brushed aside the worn cloth that hung in the doorway and went inside. The interior was hot, stuffy and dark. It stank of sweat and unwashed bodies. There was an unpleasant tang that hurt Jaras’ throat and made his eyes water, and he worried he was smelling the vintage offered by the establishment. Candles of yellow tallow on the makeshift counter cast a sullen glow over the gloom. Men and women leaned against walls or sat on stools, drinking from tin cups. They looked at Jaras when he entered. They said nothing, waiting.

Jaras approached the barkeep and bought a cup of the ale. He tried not to show his wince of apprehension as he raised it to his lips, and tried even harder not to show his disgust when he swallowed. The stuff was rancid, and he feared how his stomach would react in a short while. The drink was also powerful. It burned down his throat and chest like acid. Whatever this was, ale was a misnomer, and it would take hardly any to get him massively drunk. Which he supposed was its purpose.

He made himself stand in the centre of the shack. ‘Have you heard?’ he said, as if he were a regular and not the subject of a dozen hostile stares. ‘The Above is welcoming monsters into our city. They’re throwing a ball for them. A ball.’

There were a couple of mutters that sounded like agreement. There was also more silence.

‘So what?’ a man asked, his voice cracked, his breathing permanently thick with dust. It was Parek, the man who had challenged him before at the Pillar and Sickle.

‘So that shows the truth of what’s happening, doesn’t it?’ Jaras told him. ‘They really are letting vampires come to live among us.’

‘And?’ Parek insisted.

‘And who will be their prey?’ Jaras asked. ‘We will.’ He hoped the we sounded sincere.

The man grunted. ‘What difference does that make?’ He spat. ‘Will we be worse off? Like that matters to you, Short Chain. You with your eyes on the Above.’

‘It does matter to me. We all matter, Parek. Or we should. And what difference does it make if the Avengorii are permitted to hunt us? I think you’ll know the difference when one of them sinks its fangs into your neck.’

‘A quick death,’ said Parek. ‘Maybe painless.’ He coughed, sounding like his lungs were full of wet sand. ‘Can think of worse. And what do you care, Short Chain?’

‘Short Chain?’ someone else said before Jaras could answer. ‘Not for long, he isn’t. I know who this is. He was from the Above, and he’s bound there again, if he has anything to say about it.’

Parek laughed. ‘So we matter, eh? We matter to you?’ He got off his stool, limped over to Jaras and poked him in the chest. ‘You’re not going to stand on me to get back to the Above, Short Chain.’

The rest of the patrons had left their drinks and were gathering around Jaras. There was no one friendly now.

‘I’m sorry for bothering you,’ he murmured. ‘I just thought you should know.’

‘I’m touched, Short Chain,’ said Parek. ‘Full of gratitude, I am.’

Jaras pushed past the woman behind him and left the shack. The group followed him. Outside, when the people in the street saw trouble taking shape, they gathered around Jaras too, eager for their share.

Someone tugged at his lute, and the strap over his shoulder jerked him sideways. He stumbled, and there was angry laughter. He tried to push through, but hands grabbed his arms.

‘Short Chain thought we’d be useful to him,’ said Parek. ‘Thought he’d see what the Long Chains had to offer. Let’s show him.’

‘Release him or die,’ said a deep, rasping hiss.

No one moved. The hands let go of Jaras.

Kavak crouched on the roof of the ale shack. He was armoured, his helm covering the top half of his face, but Jaras knew it was him, and he hated the fact that he could recognise the monster so easily. That there should be anything recognisable in the monster was sickening.

The Long Chains hesitated, locked in place by fear. Kavak spread his wings. In the confines of the alley, he was colossal, his body an assemblage of bad dreams filling the space, ready to destroy flesh with tooth and claw, tail and blade. The Long Chains broke and ran, leaving Jaras alone in the street.

He wasn’t sure what was worse, the beating he would have received or the situation he was in now. Word of Kavak’s intervention would spread like a grass fire. He would never be able to set foot in this part of the Colonnade again. Even if he dared, there was no chance his message would be listened to.

‘What do you want?’ Jaras said. He would be damned if he was going to thank the vargheist for saving him.

‘I want to speak with you,’ said Kavak.

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Then listen. That’s all I ask.’

Jaras wanted to turn his back and walk away. That would be the right gesture. The strong one. The dramatic one. But then where would he go? Would he be able to climb the levels fast enough before the mob caught him again? So he just nodded.

‘You think I’m a traitor,’ said Kavak.

Jaras broke his determination to remain silent immediately. ‘You are a traitor,’ he said.

‘What do you think happened to me? Why do you think I disappeared?’

‘You succumbed to temptation.’

‘I see. What kind of temptation would that be?’

‘Power,’ Jaras snapped, contemptuous. ‘Immortality. You tell me what weakness made you give up your humanity.’

‘You think the Avengorii are obscenities,’ said Kavak. ‘Would you feel any temptation to become such as we are?’

‘No!’ Jaras shouted, horrified.

‘Yet you think your brother did. If you can’t imagine that anyone would be tempted to become a monster, then why believe that is what happened to me?’

‘I don’t know what corruption you hid from me when we were growing up. But it must have been there, for you to want to be this… thing.’

‘You can imagine no other cause for my transformation.’ Kavak sounded disappointed.

One did occur to Jaras now, though he did not like it. He could no longer attribute any kind of innocence to his brother. Even so, he asked, ‘You were forced?’

‘No,’ said Kavak sharply. His eyes glittered anger in the dim light. ‘I was not. I was given a choice, and I took it. I became what you see in order to save the Colonnade. And I did. I did save it.’

Jaras snorted. ‘When? How? I don’t recall a Vengorian Lord leading the charge on the battlements.’

‘Has no one here wondered why the rear ranks of the tzaangors underwent a sudden collapse?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I suppose not. The enemy fell on itself because of the sheer power of the Colonnade’s purity.’

‘That is your claim as saviour of the city?’

‘It is. I and my fellow Avengorii sowed havoc in the tzaangors. Without our intervention, the forces of the Colonnade would have been overwhelmed. And that intervention happened because Lauka Vai gave me the chance. The chance to save your precious city.’

‘I hear your contempt. You loved this city once.’

‘I did. I do not any longer, though I do care for some of those who inhabit it. And this is the truth too: I have come to save the Colonnade again.’

‘You lie, monster.’

‘You lie, monster,’ Kavak repeated, sounding amused. ‘You are a bard, aren’t you? You always had a gift for performance. Do you always convince yourself, Jaras? I do wonder about that.’

‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He made as if to go, still unsure what direction he would take. It would have to be fast, once Kavak left.

‘I said I came to save the Colonnade,’ Kavak said. ‘Let me prove it.’

Jaras hesitated. Go. Don’t listen to any more lies. Just go.

Curiosity held him where he was. The need to know everything, to know the extent of the monster’s falsehoods so they could be exposed for what they were, meant he could not walk away.

Despite himself, he said, ‘How?’

CHAPTER 12

As the night began to give way to dawn, Kavak flew west, with Jaras on his back. Jaras’ skin crawled from contact with the vampire. He felt tainted. From the moment he had realised he would have to climb onto the monster’s back, he had done his best to disassociate himself from his body. He had to hold the present moment at a distance, or be sick with horror.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Jaras asked. He raised his voice over the wind rushing past. Kavak flew quickly, even with the extra weight.

‘To the people that my kin and I must save today, and where your skills might prove useful.’

‘My kin,’ Jaras repeated.

‘Yes, my kind. That is what they are now, and have been for what is now close to half my life. My ties to them are stronger than any you have in the Colonnade.’

‘You seem very certain about that.’

‘I am. More certain than I am in the pillars of the city. I say this as one who has known both worlds.’

Jaras went back to his first question. ‘You still haven’t said where we’re going.’

‘To Farwilde.’ It was a small village due west of the Colonnade, at a distance of several days’ march.

‘Why there?’

‘It is one of several villages in the direct path of the beastherd. The Prosecutors are helping the ones under immediate threat, but they cannot be everywhere. Lauka Vai has said she will save the people of this one. Orgo will be upon it in two days.

‘Save the people how? By carrying them off?’

‘No,’ said Kavak. ‘Most of the Avengorii could not come so close to mortals without feasting upon them. You and I fly to warn the people that they must flee immediately. Lauka Vai and the rest will spur them, if necessary. It would be better if they did not. Horses and wagons from the Colonnade are on the way towards Farwilde already, but the people must make good time now or be annihilated.’

The mental image was one Jaras had trouble forming. ‘What does this have to do with me?’ he asked.

‘The people are more likely to listen to you than to me.’

Jaras’ short bark of a laugh was one of total disbelief. ‘This is your proof? I have to trust your word that this is true? You want me to urge the villagers to flee their shelter. Why? To be picked up and slaughtered by the Avengorii?’

‘If that was what I wanted, then the Avengorii would have wasted a lot of time and energy entering into an agreement with the Colonnade only to tear it up immediately. You were never stupid, Jaras. Try not to be now.’

The scolding sounded so much like his exasperated older brother, memories of childhood rushed up in Jaras’ mind. He said nothing for a while, wrestling with the grief they brought. When he spoke again, he did so with petty venom. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you enjoy the ball?’ He didn’t care that he was being small-minded. He wanted Kavak to feel some of the hurt he did, and he had no difficulty imagining how the Avengorii had been received. Whatever the implications and the political reasons for the ball, he had no doubt that the aristocracy of the Colonnade would not have hidden its revulsion. He had seen the faces when Kavak had arrived, and when the greater horrors had come.

‘Yes,’ Kavak said. ‘I enjoyed myself very much.’

Somehow, the vampire made his rasp sound bright and cheerful. The sound was so horrible, Jaras never wanted to hear it again, and said nothing else for the rest of the flight.

They arrived at Farwilde near the end of the day. The village’s situation was a testament to the increasing violence of the land’s upheavals. It had been in the middle of an arable plain. Now it was at the bottom of a steep, narrow valley. The outer faces of the new, craggy ridges were sheer enough, but the inner ones to the west were almost vertical. It was as if a massive jaw had opened up and swallowed Farwilde. The eastern slopes at least, though rugged, could be climbed without too much difficulty. That was the way the people would have to flee.

‘Hold fast,’ said Kavak, and he plunged towards the valley floor. Jaras clung on with a death grip, the wind screaming past his ears, the cliffs blurred into a streak of grey.

Kavak circled low once over the village, and Jaras heard shouts of fear come from below. Then the Vengorian Lord landed a few hundred yards from the village’s wooden palisade. The valley floor was so narrow, the eastern and western walls of the fortifications were flush with the cliffs. Jaras shuddered at how close Farwilde had come to being crushed.

He dropped to the ground. His skin crawled from being in contact with the Vengorian Lord. He felt soiled, as if monstrosity were contagious.

‘Make haste,’ Kavak said. ‘You have less than an hour.’

‘Before the beastherd arrives?’ The land to the west was mountainous, and Jaras had not been able to see far in that direction while in the air. There had been smoke rising into the sky in the distance, but that had been the only possible sign of the beastmen.

‘There should still be a day or more before Orgo arrives,’ Kavak told him. ‘Though perhaps he is only a few hours away. But it is the Avengorii who are hard by. You must convince the villagers to leave before my kin reach this valley.’ He paused. ‘The Avengorii’s methods of persuasion will be harsh.’

‘An hour is not a lot of time.’

‘And you’re wasting it, little brother. An hour is all I could manage.’

‘What happens if I fail to make your argument?’

‘Then terror will drive the villagers off. It would be better if they left of their own accord. Don’t you agree?’

Jaras pictured the horror of being descended upon by a legion of nightmares. Kavak was right. He was wasting time.

Torn by mistrust and disgust, he walked quickly away from the monster. A short distance from the gates, one of the guards atop the spiked battlements hailed him. ‘Halt and state your business!’

Jaras stopped where he was.

‘Move and you will be shot,’ the guard said. The order was unnecessary, except perhaps for the guard’s peace of mind. He sounded nervous. The huge betrayal of the land was reason enough, but Jaras wondered if the villagers were feeling intimations of the doom that was coming for them.

‘I am Jaras Anvarheim,’ he called. ‘I have come from the Colonnade with urgent news. I must speak with the mayor of Farwilde at once.’

‘We saw you arrive,’ said the guard. ‘What is that thing that brought you?’

‘The reason I must see the mayor,’ Jaras answered. He raised his arms and turned around slowly. ‘I am unarmed. I am here to help.’

‘Help with what?’

‘Your survival.’ He spoke firmly, even though he was riven by doubt. He had always been able to perform well, regardless of circumstances.

He must have been right about premonitions casting their shadows over the people, because the guard didn’t challenge him any further. The wooden gates opened to him, and another guard advanced to be his escort. She had the drawn face and sunken eyes of someone who had not slept in days.

They passed through the walls and into the community of several hundred souls. The fortifications were sturdy, as they had to be in Ghur. With their line of tree trunks sharpened into stakes leaning out from the walls, they were enough to hold many of the realm’s predators at bay. They would not be enough against a beastherd that could threaten the Colonnade. Orgo would sweep over Farwilde, leaving nothing behind, and the massacre wouldn’t slow his advance in the slightest.

The houses were simple, solid wooden structures with peaked roofs. One main road ran north-south through the village. Smaller alleys branched off it to the east and west, adding another few rows of homes. In the village was the town hall and the temple to Sigmar. The hall was not much bigger than the homes. The temple was smaller than the one in the Beneath, though it felt more spacious with the square of tamped-down earth around it.

The square was crowded. The sight of Kavak flying overhead had been the trigger for most of the population to gather here. The town hall’s floor was raised above ground level, and the mayor, Teaxa, stood at the top of the steps leading up to it. She was a farmer, like most of her fellow citizens, and long years of hard work and hard weather had rounded her posture. She faced Jaras with an authority that seemed well earned. The people parted before him, and looked to her for reassurance and answers.

‘I hear you’ve come to save us,’ she said. ‘From what and how?’

‘From the beastherd of Orgo. You are in its path, and will be destroyed if you remain here.’

Teaxa looked alarmed, but not altogether surprised. The murmurs of fear from the crowd had the ring of confirmation, as if something long dreaded was now at hand.

‘The land has imprisoned us,’ said Teaxa. ‘How are we to flee?’

‘You can climb to the east,’ Jaras said. ‘And you must do so at once. Move quickly, and you will encounter help from the Colonnade in due course.’

‘You come bearing this news, yet you arrive on the back of a horror.’

Jaras grimaced. ‘It was the only way to warn you in time.’

‘You don’t sound convinced of what you are saying, Jaras Anvarheim,’ said the mayor.

Because I’m not. Was he betraying these people by doing what Kavak had told him? Orgo was coming. That was true. The village was in danger. But he kept feeling as if he were lying. He cursed the Avengorii, and he cursed Tarvynde and the council. He tried again, speaking what he knew to be true. He wasn’t sure he believed most, or any, of what Kavak had told him, but flight was the only chance he could see for these people. It was the wager he had no choice but to take.

‘I did not choose to come here as I did,’ he said. ‘I loathe the creature that brought me. Yet this is the reality we face. The Colonnade has entered into a treaty with the Avengorii.’

‘What does that have to do with us?’

‘The Avengorii are coming to force you out. If they harm you, the treaty will collapse. But they will not allow you to stay.’ He realised he was using Kavak’s reasoning. It was sound, even if he didn’t trust it.

‘And if none of us survive to tell the tale, who in the Colonnade will know that the Avengorii broke faith?’

That possibility had troubled Jaras too. The only answer he had was one that he despised. ‘I do not think that will happen, because, though it shames me to speak these words, the creature that waits beyond your walls is… was… my brother.’

Teaxa stared at him. She didn’t answer. The people were silent for a moment, then began arguing with each other. They were no less afraid, just more uncertain.

Jaras let the arguments swirl around him.

Say more. Make them accept what is going to happen.

I’ve said all I can. What else is there?

You would find the words you need in the Beneath.

There I know that I am telling the truth.

The only thing he believed with certainty was that he had come here for nothing.

Light faded from the sky as suddenly as if a coffin lid had slammed down over Farwilde. The arguments died away. A cold wind blew from the east, even though the valley was too narrow to permit it. The people turned in frightened wonder. As one, they looked up at the top of the east cliffs.

Hundreds of silhouettes of horror gathered at the edge of the cliff, then soared into the air. At their head was the Mother of Nightmares. When her great wings beat, it was as if they were the cause of the wind that chilled the heart.

Lauka Vai descended to a point halfway down the valley. She circled slowly over the centre of the village. Above her, the horde of monsters hovered, waiting for her command.

Though people had begun to scream, her voice drowned them all out.

‘People of Farwilde,’ she said. ‘The beastherd of Orgo is coming to destroy you. Leave now, or we will make you run.’

She spoke, and all Jaras could hear was the voice of monstrosity, and the voice of terror and death. He cowered at the sound, and he had known it was coming. He had been able to prepare himself.

Lauka Vai did not drop down any further. She continued to circle. Yet she must have given a command, because the hundreds of vargheists that had come with her now dropped towards the square.

Jaras crouched and covered his ears as a sea of screams rose to drown him.

CHAPTER 13

A storm of wings and clawed feet plunged towards the square, a cyclone of monsters. The villagers tried to flee. There was a sudden, massive surge away from the centre of the village, everyone trying to run in every direction at the same time, and the hundreds became like thousands in the chaos of their terror. Instead of running for the gates, they ran for their houses and the temple and the town hall. They jammed the doors, trampling and crushing each other. The vargheists snarled in anger at the villagers, and Jaras thought they were surely going to descend on the people and reduce them to shreds of meat. Some force seemed to hold them back, barely restraining their blood madness, and they attacked the roofs of the buildings instead, tearing them off, destroying the illusion of shelter.

The guards on the walls tried to defend their village against the invasion of nightmares. They turned their bows on the vampires, and the barrage of arrows was ferocious for so small a force. It was also as futile as it was brave. The arrows did nothing but further anger the vargheists. In quick, low, swooping flights over the walls, they battered down the guards. One vargheist seized a guard with its talons and began to rise, its jaws wide and slavering. Then Lauka Vai thundered, ‘No!’ and the vampire dropped its victim before flying high, shrieking in anger and hunger.

Jaras did not move from where he stood when the Avengorii descended. Helpless, uncertain, horrified, he had nowhere to turn or run. He didn’t know what to do, though as the panic erupted, he was agonised by the feeling that he should be doing something. He had a responsibility. He wasn’t sure what it was. He had been half convinced it was to keep the villagers calm when the Avengorii came, to urge them to obey. Then he wondered if he should have been warning instead of trying to reassure. Now it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do.

At first, he couldn’t move. The arrival of so many monsters at once had him rooted to the spot, as terrified as anyone else. Then, caught in the middle of the panic, he struggled to stay on his feet. He tried moving towards the town hall, thinking for a moment that its raised steps would be an escape from the danger of the mob, but too many people were pushing in that direction.

All he wanted was to escape.

All everyone wanted was to escape.

And some of them blamed him for what was happening.

Amid the screams were shouts of anger. The villagers could not fight the Avengorii. They could take out their fear on him. He was knocked back and forth by the rushing bodies, and then a blow staggered him. He didn’t see who hit him. He wavered, his vision blurred. A punch to the gut had him doubled over, and then he lost his balance.

Jaras fell. Feet pounded over him. He couldn’t see. Pain pushed him into a deeper blackness. He screamed in pain as a heel ground into his outstretched hand. Then he couldn’t breathe. He tried to curl into a ball, but his limbs were all distant lands of agony. They were beyond his control, hammered by the panic of others. Oblivion gathered at the edges of his pain. It grew wider, darkness gathering to take him once and for all.

From somewhere a long way away came a huge snarl. It made the distant attacks stop. His body, calling to him from so far off, was no longer being hit. The encroaching darkness hesitated.

Something took him in a hard grip. It lifted him into the air. The rush of wind against his face brought him round, pushing the darkness back. He opened his eyes and saw the roofs of Farwilde receding below him. Kavak had seized him, and was carrying him up towards the ridgetop once more.

‘Where…’ Jaras croaked. His ribs felt like shattered porcelain when he tried to breathe.

‘Back to the Colonnade,’ said Kavak.

‘No,’ said Jaras. He hissed at the pain of trying to shout. ‘No,’ he said again. He was finding it easier to think again, though his consciousness was at the centre of a throbbing ache. ‘I will see this. You wanted me to witness it. So I will.’

Kavak didn’t answer. He landed on the ridge, placing Jaras gently on the ground before landing beside him. Jaras moved to the cliff edge. He looked down into the valley, at the hideous shapes dropping and rising as they razed the village. Screams rose up from Farwilde, and the wailing continued as the people finally fled their homes, running up the eastern slopes as fast as they could manage, their fear given spurs by the monsters that flew over them, wolves herding sheep. Jaras watched the exodus, shaking at the fear of the villagers. He watched until the ragged train of refugees dwindled in the east, urged on by the swooping wings of horror. It was very hard for him to believe that he wasn’t witnessing a slaughter.

‘Is this your rescue?’ he said to Kavak, his voice trembling with fury.

‘It is.’ The Vengorian Lord’s rasp was quiet.

‘Are you even capable of shame? I hope you are. You should be feeling it now. I saw nothing like a rescue. I saw a village destroyed and a population terrorised.’

‘A population that has a chance of survival because of their fear.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Why would I wish you to see a massacre? What good would that do?’

‘I cannot guess how monsters think. Perhaps you thought to awaken my bloodlust. Perhaps you want me to fall as you did.’

Kavak growled. ‘Even though you are my brother, there are limits to the foolishness I will endure from you. I had my period of naivety. That was when I was a mortal, and believed unerringly in the doctrines of the Colonnade. I have learned much since then. I know who my true kin are. I know what they are capable of. I know what we are capable of. Could we have devoured Farwilde? We could. We did not. Lauka Vai has given her word, and despite your judgement of what you have seen, these people have been saved.’

‘I wonder if they will agree.’

‘If they do not, once they are at the Colonnade, then they were unworthy of our help.’

‘Who sits in judgement now? Are the innocent of Farwilde to submit to the judgement of monsters?’

Kavak’s lip curled in anger. ‘I see that everything I say, and everything we do, is damned in the sight of the pure of the Colonnade. So be it. I understand more than ever the terms Lauka Vai exacted from your city. You will not be allowed to turn away from us after we have saved all of you from the beastmen.’

‘You still call this saving?’ said Jaras.

Below, a fire had started in one of the houses. Perhaps a lantern had been thrown at a vampire by a desperate villager. It had spread, and there was a line of burning buildings now, sending up dark curtains of smoke.

‘You leave ashes in your passage,’ Jaras said.

‘You would have preferred us to do nothing?’ said Kavak. ‘Should we have left the people to their doom?’

Jaras didn’t answer. He had watched the village emptied, and now he watched it burn, and the sights made nonsense of Kavak’s words. He stored away each scream, each struggling person, each snarl of the vargheists, and the tang of smoke as it rose from the valley floor. He would remember all of these things. He would remember what he had witnessed on this day, and the Colonnade would know of it.

Unchecked, the fires continued to spread. Soon, even the palisade was ablaze. By the next day, there would be nothing but charred, fallen timber to mark where the village had been. The destruction would be total.

As it was always meant to be. Jaras felt the grim satisfaction of conviction.

Not all the Avengorii had flown back east. Many remained over Farwilde, including Lauka Vai.

‘Why are they staying?’ Jaras asked.

‘To greet the enemy,’ said Kavak. ‘We shall stay as well.’

‘I have already seen the beastherd at work.’

‘The caravan? You saw nothing. Not even a splinter. You will stay and witness. You will see the true threat to your city.’

So they stayed on the ridge, through the night and the next day. Jaras lit a fire to keep warm, and Kavak hunted. Jaras went hungry, unable to think about eating after Kavak returned, the blood of some animal dripping from his lips. They spoke little. Jaras wandered back and forth along the ridge, watching for what would come, keeping away from the thing that had been his brother, hating the sight of the swarm of vampires that circled endlessly high above the ruins of Farwilde. Their queen hovered at their centre, patiently awaiting the arrival of her adversary.

At the end of the second day, Jaras heard a deep noise in the west. At first, he thought it was simply thunder in the dark grey sky. It grew louder, and he realised he was hearing voices. Thousands and thousands of them, roaring with bestial fervour. He stared at the mountains opposite, fearing what he would shortly see.

‘What…’ He trailed off. He knew the answer to his question, though he was afraid of it.

‘Yes,’ said Kavak. ‘Orgo has come.’

Jaras turned away. His nerves had been scraped raw by the sight of the Avengorii. He didn’t want to see the beastmen, not even from a distance. The memories of the caravan massacre rose in his mind, strong and bloody.

‘No,’ said Kavak. ‘You will not be so selective in what you witness. You choose to see the worst in what we did here. Very well. Think what you will. But you will see what we saved these people from. You will see what is coming for the Colonnade.’

‘I already know.’

‘You only think you do. What happened with the caravan is nothing. You saw the violence meted out by a handful of the beastmen. You do not know what it means when a beastherd of the Twistfrays descends on you. So today, your ignorance ends. Climb on my back.’

Jaras shook his head.

‘Do as I say,’ Kavak growled. ‘Or I abandon you to the beastmen.’

Hating himself, and hating his brother, Jaras obeyed, and Kavak took them high into the air. The thunder in the west grew louder yet, and the beastherd appeared. Its legions flowed over passes and down the slopes, a horned and hoofed deluge staining the land. Monsters in numbers he could not count arrived at the far ridge. Jaras saw brutes of the kind that had killed the merchants of the caravan. There were many other kinds, too, even more huge and terrible. The most frightening of them all was the behemoth in armour who advanced onto a spit of rock that jutted out over the drop.

Kavak stayed well out of range of attack. Though the beastlord was a distant figure, he seemed huge and close in Jaras’ eyes. His presence was colossal, like Lauka Vai’s, and Jaras knew, as he knew the fall of night, that this was Orgo. His was the will powerful enough to govern the massed ranks of beasts. His was the desire to hurl the Colonnade from its pillars.

Flanked by her escort of Vengorian Lords, trailed by her legion of vargheists, the Mother of Nightmares rose until she was fifty feet above the level of the ridges. When the beastmen saw her, their bellows were loud enough to crack the mountainsides. Orgo brandished axes with blades so huge they looked like they could decapitate a Stardrake at a stroke. He roared at Lauka Vai, and his voice vibrated through Jaras’ bones.

Lauka Vai’s answering laughter, contemptuous and angry, rolled across the mountains. It chilled the exuberant roars of the beastmen. It seemed to Jaras that a shadow passed over the entire herd. Lauka Vai beat her wings with slow grace, hovering in place, taunting the legions of brutes. They bellowed promises of blood, and Orgo’s voice was the loudest of all. Lauka Vai laughed again, and slowly turned her back on the foe.

‘Flee!’ Orgo roared. ‘Flee before our might! Flee as long as you can! Slaughter is coming. Your slaughter! The blood of the Avengorii will flood the land!’

‘Blood,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘Ah yes, there will be blood. There will be a great tide. Its waves will rise so high they could drown the Colonnade. Prepare for that, Orgo. Prepare for my promise.’ She wheeled away from the outraged roars of the beastmen. She and the Avengorii began the long flight back to the Colonnade.

Kavak followed at a short distance back. Once the beastherd had disappeared over the horizon, Jaras said, ‘Stop. Put me down.’

Kavak did as he asked. They stopped on a wide plain. The wind whispered through the nodding grasses. Jaras looked up at the sky, leaden with black rain, and shook with the anger of despair.

‘You wanted me to see the truth of things,’ he said to Kavak. ‘I have seen it. The truth is a war of monsters with the Colonnade in between.’

He had seen another truth, too, one that he would never admit to Kavak. He already knew the terrible awe he felt whenever he saw Lauka Vai. He hated himself for succumbing to it, but he had no control over his reaction. She was too truly the queen of her subjects. He had felt something similar when Orgo appeared. And the truth was that these two beings possessed more majesty than the rulers of the Colonnade could ever dream of. The truth was so disgusting, it made him need the destruction of the Mother of Nightmares and the beastlord more than ever.

‘The Colonnade is not caught between forces,’ Kavak said patiently. ‘It faces destruction by one and has the support of the other.’

‘You heard your queen. Waves of blood will drown the Colonnade.’

‘Could. She said could, not will. A bard surely knows the difference?’

‘Your parsing of words does not interest me,’ Jaras declared.

Kavak’s fists clenched, then relaxed with visible effort. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t suppose it does. Is there nothing we can say to one another?’ The hissing voice sounded mournful.

‘Nothing,’ said Jaras.

‘Then I will take you back and trouble you no longer.’

‘As long as there is one of your kind in my city, you will trouble me.’

CHAPTER 14

On the night of the ball, when Lauka Vai took her leave to prepare the flight to Farwilde, the Vengorian Lord Hevat Grask stayed behind and lingered in the hall, forcing the nobles of the Colonnade to linger too. He was enjoying inflicting his presence on the mortals who feared and despised him. With the musicians gone, the elite of the city milled about, uncertain, their desperate need to leave etched into their faces.

Advancing on his reptilian legs, his ragged wings folded tight against his body, he bowed before Lord Tarvynde. ‘My profound thanks for the evening,’ he said. Hevat Grask crafted his smile to appear diplomatic while conveying sardonic menace.

I know what you think of us. I know the ball was meant as a farce. But we took it from you. We made you suffer instead of the other way around. Treat fairly with us, Tarvynde, or we will take much more from you.

Tarvynde pressed himself back in his chair. He muttered something that could, if the vampire squinted, pass for a courtly response. Then he rose, made excuses and left before any of the other Avengorii could thank him in their turn.

His smile still in place, Hevat Grask caught up to Baveth Ullior before she reached the exit of the hall.

‘I did not express my thanks,’ he said, ‘for our dance earlier. Allow me to convey them now.’

The Scholar of Tides cringed. She stared at the floor. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said quickly. She shuffled her feet as if to move away, but Hevat Grask had placed himself between her and the doorway. Her face twitched at the mention of the dance. She was working hard to forget it had ever happened.

‘The evening was a fine one, don’t you agree? I hope there will be many more to come.’ He transformed his anger into courtly precision. The disgust of mortals filled him with rage. Look at me! he wanted to shout. What makes you so worthy in your form that you can judge me? He could not bear to have his self-loathing reflected back at him. He reacted with forced pride. By staying in the ballroom as long as possible, he was compelling his hosts to delay too, and remain in his presence just a bit longer.

‘I’m sure there will be,’ said Baveth. She didn’t sound like she was really listening to what she was saying. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to see around Hevat Grask.

‘Then I will look forward to developing our acquaintance.’

She looked up at him, then. She couldn’t help it. And she couldn’t hide the horror she felt.

I could show you so much more than you fear. I could teach all of you the true measure of respect you owe us.

Baveth opened and closed her mouth. No words came out.

Keeping his smile fixed, Hevat Grask moved aside. ‘I will see you anon, then,’ he promised.

Head down, Baveth fled.

Hevat Grask left the hall. He had made his point. He had given his pride something to feast on, at least for a little while. There were other things to do this night. He had the rest of the Colonnade to explore.

Though his wings were leathern rags, he could still fly. Not as well or as quickly as many of his kin, but well and fast enough. He left the castle through an open window and flew the length and breadth of the Above. He was a shadow in the sky, landing on rooftops to watch and listen. He harvested the conversations of the Colonnade.

He wanted to harvest more. With Lauka Vai no longer nearby, it was harder to rein in his bloodlust. For now, he suppressed it by concentrating on being a different form of predator and learning as much about the prey as he could.

The social structure of the city interested him, as he knew it did Lauka Vai. He would have many things to tell her when she returned from Farwilde. He was painfully aware of how his self-disgust and his pride warred with each other. That made him pick up on the contradictions that underlay the Colonnade’s identity. The people saw themselves as having risen physically and spiritually above the predatory nature of Ghur, yet they were consumed by the need to move higher on the terraces, and to look down on those who were their social inferiors. What was that except yet another form of predation? It had taken Hevat Grask only the few hours since his arrival to see these forces at work. It interested him that the people of the city did not, but it did not surprise him. Perhaps a rare few did see the Colonnade and themselves for what they were. That would take an uncommon self-honesty. If too many people saw things clearly, the city’s social organisation would collapse.

It wasn’t long before he tired of the Above. He had seen enough, for the time being. He made for the Beneath, where resentment festered, more and more consciously down the lengths of the chains. He dropped deeper and deeper, looking for those who had no illusions about their city.

He was also looking for prey.

When the monster came and saved Jaras from a needed lesson of Long Chain justice, Parek fled with the others. He ran from the presence of the bard’s pet vampire, but he didn’t go far. He couldn’t move quickly, and hadn’t been able to for a long time. Not with his lungs in the state they were. He got as far as the first shack and went around the corner of its wall. There was a heap of discarded wood and chunks of sod sticking out from the wall, and he ducked down behind it. When he heard the vampire and the bard speaking, he raised his head slowly until he could see them.

This was something interesting. He couldn’t remember when he had felt genuinely curious about anything. Chronic hunger had a way of killing interest.

Parek watched the exchange. He noted Jaras’ contempt. Ah yes, there’s your true self showing through, Short Chain. Jaras’ condescending solicitude in the drinking shack hadn’t fooled him for a moment. He was also struck by the power of the Vengorian Lord, even while the monster was still, and by its hideous dignity.

They’re holding a ball for the Avengorii. The reason for Jaras’ outrage seemed very humorous all of a sudden. Parek liked the idea of a ball for monsters. He liked the idea of the rich scum of the Above getting a taste of something they didn’t like for a change. Something to disturb their stinking purity, just like he did. Just like every Long Chain did. It was nice for the Abovers not to be reminded of the people who hung low under the shadow of the platform. It was nice for them to go about their lives with their food and their building materials magically provided. They could ignore Parek and his fellow travellers in darkness. Parek was down here, far from the Diamond Spire, out of sight and, for the most part, out of mind. The rare encounters he had had with an Abover, when one of the mine owners had visited the open pit for an inspection, had made it clear to him how the Long Chains were viewed. Their poverty was a moral failing. If they had been true to the Colonnade’s ideals of purity, they would not be in their miserable states. The broken bones, the missing limbs, the dust-clogged lungs and all the physical marks left on them by their lives of drudgery were the visible evidence of their impurity. The cost of their immorality was their perpetual hunger and their lack of shelter.

The Short Chains looked down on them too. Once, on one of the rare occasions that Parek had had the energy to climb higher in the Beneath, he had overheard someone jokingly ask why the Long Chains complained if they didn’t have shelter. After all, it never rained in the Beneath.

Only it did, down here. The liquid filth of higher levels dripped and spattered endlessly. The rain of misery. The rain of squalor. The rain of ignorance.

The Avengorii, though, were in the Above. They were impure, and they were powerful. Parek saw how much Jaras hated talking to the vampire, and though the creature frightened him, he found himself admiring it too, and appreciated the obvious discomfort of the Short Chain bard.

The discussion ended, and the monster flew away with the bard on his back. That was interesting too. That made Jaras’ thinly veiled invitations to rebellion seem all the more suspect.

What is your game, Short Chain?

Parek couldn’t guess. He decided he didn’t really care.

He got up from his hiding place and wandered through the dark lanes and swaying bridges. There were few people about. Word of the monsters had spread. Those who had shelter had sought it. Those who didn’t were hiding wherever they could. The people feared what might be flying in the dark. And there was something. As he walked, Parek kept thinking he saw movement, sudden blurs, and heard the sound of flapping. At first, he thought it was his nerves – still jangling after the encounter with the vampire – that were making him imagine things. Then he realised, with a lurch of his heart, that another monster moved in the dark above. And then he became more and more convinced that it was tracking him. It kept flying near. He ducked and threw himself down against the side of a building, in the stinking gutter, every time he thought he sensed the presence in the night above him.

Am I being hunted? The suggestion of something in the dark followed him from street to street. Why? Why bother with me?

He had said to Jaras that death by vampire was no worse than life in the lower platforms, and perhaps even a liberation. Now he didn’t want to shed his life. He just wanted the thing in the air to leave him alone.

He stopped beside a tumble of wreckage. There had been a few huts here, built one on top of the other, and they had all collapsed. He looked up into the blackness, widening his eyes as if that might pierce the dark and he would see what was stalking him.

A snarl came from above and behind.

Parek jumped. He turned around and looked up into a tangle of disused stairs and bridges. A monstrous shadow lurked at its centre, a spider in its web. The shadow moved, leapt into the air and landed on the rubble. The vampire had the body of a man from the waist up. His skull was hairless, his eyes a glowing white and his ears almost as sharp as his long fangs. From the waist down were four scaly legs. He flapped his wings once, shaking tatters of flesh, and then tucked them into his side. Over his human torso, he wore a robe of flesh.

The vampire looked at him hungrily. There were thirty yards between them, and the vampire’s need for blood washed over Parek and held him in place. The monster trembled on the verge of leaping, but was just barely holding himself back. ‘Do not flee,’ the Vengorian Lord commanded. ‘Come no closer.’

‘Who are you?’ Parek quavered.

‘My name is Hevat Grask, and I have been learning much about this fine city of yours.’ He drew out the word ‘fine’ until it became a vicious hiss. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘Parek.’

‘Parek,’ Hevat Grask repeated. ‘Parek,’ he said again, more slowly, as if he were tasting the sound. The way the vampire said his name frightened Parek to the same degree that Jaras’ condescending use of it angered him.

‘Parek,’ Hevat Grask said a third time, ‘is this a fine city for you? Do you live in purity?’

‘No,’ said Parek, beginning to feel curiosity in the midst of his terror.

‘No,’ Hevat Grask repeated. Those white eyes looked around, taking in the misery around them. ‘No indeed.’

‘Are you…’ Parek hesitated. ‘Are you hunting?’

‘I have been observing. I have been learning.’ A pause. ‘Yes. I am hunting.’

Parek found it hard to talk with his mouth so dry. ‘Do you hunt mortals?’

‘Lauka Vai has ordained that we do not. We hunt the creatures of Chaos. We drain animals.’

‘Never mortals, then?’

Hevat Grask gave him a huge smile. ‘It is difficult for our kind to be near mortals. The will of our Mother of Nightmares holds us back from turning the Colonnade into a slaughterhouse. Even so, most of my kin would fall on you and tear your throat open if you were a single step closer than you are now.’

‘One step closer,’ Parek whispered.

Hevat Grask regarded him with a fullness of attention Parek had never experienced before. ‘Do you know what would happen if you took another step?’

Parek felt as if a crimson cloud were filling his senses, a cloud shot through with the lightning of madness and a hunger that could never be sated. The cloud filled him and surrounded him. It seized him with tendrils of blood-fog, and it began to pull. He felt the approach of savagery, of ravening monstrosity that was only ever delayed and never truly suppressed.

The numbers of the Avengorii do not grow through births.

Did Hevat Grask speak those words? Were they a thought born from within the crimson mist, or borne along its currents? Parek didn’t know. The promise of the monstrous pulled on him; hideousness terrified him and enticed him.

I have always been part of the hideous.

Where did those words come from? The thought was his, but its shape seemed to emerge from elsewhere. It frightened him even more, and it angered him too, because it was true. The Abovers looked at Parek and the other Long Chains as subhuman, as a stain on the purity of the city.

Born into servitude, his useful life spent digging in the mines until they wore him out, he knew his existence had been determined by the choices of others and by brute necessity; he had never had any choices. He had always been despised. The Abovers would not hesitate to call him a monster, though a powerless one.

The numbers of the Avengorii do not grow through births.

When he took a step forward, he still did not know if it was his will moving his body. He opened his mouth to cry out in terror, and that was genuine; that came from within.

He did not have the chance. Hevat Grask launched himself at Parek, jaws wide, white eyes blazing.

What happened to Parek then was not gentle.

Oblivion never came to mask the pain.

Nor did it for the other prey that night.

Or on the nights that followed.

CHAPTER 15

Kavak and Jaras were silent for the entire journey back. Neither spoke until they reached the Colonnade, a day later. Jaras broke the quiet as the pillars came into view.

‘Where are they?’ he demanded. He had been watching for the train of refugees since they had left the ruins of Farwilde, and he had not seen them, or the force that was supposed to have been sent to meet them.

Kavak’s eyesight was better, and he saw the refugees from Farwilde first. ‘At the base of the west pillars. They are alive. All of them.’ But that doesn’t really make any difference to you, does it? ‘The Prosecutors must have been able to escort them. The two days they had to run seem to have brought them within range of help. What happens to them now is up to the munificence of Lord Tarvynde and the council, who didn’t want to greet them in the great square of the Colonnade.’ They would all be housed in the Beneath. He had no need to point that out. He suspected that most, if not all, of them would wind up in the lower reaches.

‘Take me to them,’ was all Jaras said.

Kavak angled down towards the clusters of villagers. ‘Well?’ he said as they drew closer. He was being foolish in trying to debate with Jaras any further, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Do you see? They are safe.’

‘I see the frightened,’ said Jaras. ‘I see people who will never again sleep without nightmares.’

‘You will see what you will.’ The desire to debate, having surged, now vanished, leaving Kavak feeling exhausted. His undead body did not know fatigue the way his mortal form had. His spirit could, though. He wanted Jaras off his back. His brother was lost to him. It was time to fly away from a futile struggle.

‘Leave me there,’ said Jaras.

‘I can take you to the Above.’ Kavak went through the motions of the offer. There was no need for Jaras to make the longer journey to his home all the way from the bottom of the pillars.

‘Just put me down.’

Kavak did. He landed a hundred yards from the nearest of the villagers. They still cried out when they saw him, and shrank together, as if expecting to be killed now, at the Colonnade.

Most of my kin would devour you, if you came within reach. But we saved you, whether you believe that or not.

Jaras jumped to the ground. He ran forward, then slowed as he approached the villagers. Kavak took petty pleasure in seeing that they regarded Jaras with deep suspicion.

Jaras spread his hands and bowed his head in a show of humility. ‘I am as you are, a victim of these days,’ he said.

Are you going to believe him? Kavak wondered. Of course you are. You want to. He didn’t convince you to listen to him in Farwilde, but his heart wasn’t in it. Now he wants you to trust him, and you will. The stories of what he was saying in the Beneath, and how people were listening to him, had reached Kavak’s ears too. His brother was a skilled bard. Kavak had hoped he would turn his abilities to supporting the treaty. That was one thing among many that he no longer hoped for.

Kavak took to the air again. He flew up to the Colonnade’s platform and over the city, towards the castle. He came down at the heavy door to the south-west wing. The entire wing had been given over to the housing of Lauka Vai and the two Vengorian Lords. The tower that had been Kavak’s residence on his initial trip to the Colonnade was not large enough for the Mother of Nightmares. Even though she would not stay in the city for the long term, the prospect of even two vampires residing there tainted the entire wing. It had been emptied of mortals and, as with the tower, all ornamentation. In the eyes of the inhabitants of the castle, the building had become a gangrenous limb, fit only for amputation. They had turned it into a shell of stone. That suited the Avengorii. The trappings of mortal wealth were of no interest. The Colonnade’s architecture was shallow posturing compared to the wonders beneath the Sascathran Desert.

At the end of the wing was the large hall that Lauka Vai had claimed. Though it was empty, her presence turned it into a throne room. The statuary lining the walls, heroes of the Colonnade in full armour, seemed to shy away nervously from the Mother of Nightmares. Kavak entered the hall to find Hevat Grask in attendance to the queen.

After he had approached and bowed to her, Lauka Vai said, ‘I don’t have to ask how it went with your brother. The reactions of the villagers to our arrival told the story.’

‘He cannot be persuaded,’ said Kavak. ‘His heart is set against us more than ever.’

‘The attempt and its failure are useful in what they tell us. You had a connection to Jaras. It did not hold. If the bonds of brotherhood mean nothing to him, then we know that there will be a great many minds in the Colonnade that cannot be changed.’

‘Almost all, I would venture,’ said Hevat Grask.

‘There is Atella Reigehren,’ said Kavak.

Lauka Vai and Hevat Grask shared a glance.

‘After the ball,’ said Lauka Vai, ‘she would appear to be in a minority of one.’

Hevat Grask expanded on her point. ‘Not a single other noble altered their attitude. As with Jaras, they are set against us. Their hearts are hardened.’ He shrugged. ‘We expected no more or less.’

And so we become the means of the Colonnade’s lesson. The Avengorii delegation would stay in the Colonnade not just for the reasons Lauka Vai had set out to the council but also precisely because their presence was an affront to the mortals. They would force the zealots of purity to face the form they utterly despised. The more the citizens of the city recoiled at the thought of the vampires in the Castle of the Diamond Spire, the more they would suffer the sullying of their precious purity.

‘The Colonnade is more than the citizens of the Above, however,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘The situation in the Beneath has possibilities.’

‘That is true,’ said Hevat Grask, sounding very pleased with himself.

‘What does this mean?’ Kavak asked.

‘We have some new recruits to our dynasty,’ Hevat Grask told him. He managed to look even more pleased.

‘You preyed on the Colonnade? When?’

‘After the ball. And during the nights of your absence.’

Kavak turned to his queen. ‘This is a risk worth taking? Are we not breaking faith with the agreement as soon as it has been forged?’

‘We are testing its limits,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘We are testing the rulers of the Above. They know what has happened. They must know. Hevat Grask did not conceal himself. I have heard no word of objection from Lord Tarvynde or anyone else. They pretend nothing has happened. The inhabitants of the Beneath are as disposable to them as they would like us to be. They matter only as the means by which the wealth of the Above is produced. What Hevat Grask is doing is another part of the lesson. And agreement or no, I will not impede the spread of the truth of monstrosity.’

Kavak said nothing, struggling to find the words.

‘Speak your mind, Kavak,’ Lauka Vai said.

Kavak sighed. ‘I am concerned about the effect of hunts on the other citizens of the Beneath.’

‘They will believe what they choose, just like your brother,’ said Hevat Grask. ‘They cannot be set against us any further.’

‘Can’t they?’ Kavak asked. ‘Do not underestimate what my brother can stir up. The people have not acted against us yet. They may.’

‘Let them dare,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘Let them dare, and fall to Orgo.’

Though the climb back up the levels of the Beneath was a slow one, Jaras was glad he had made Kavak leave him on the ground. The villagers had not wanted to speak to him, or even have him near them. Not at first. He had pleaded with them to listen to him, and he had spoken with a passion he had not been able to summon in Farwilde. When he told them about the arrival of the beastherd, and of the confrontation between Orgo and Lauka Vai, they gave him their full attention.

‘I was deceived,’ he said. ‘The Colonnade has been deceived. You may have been saved from one kind of destruction, but only so you can be part of the greater deception. The Avengorii did not feast on the people of Farwilde because they plan to devour all of the Colonnade.’

They heard him. He saw nods. He heard murmurs of agreement. He could not speak to all the villagers, and not all those he spoke with seemed convinced. Enough were, though. Once again, his message had found fertile ground. When he spoke the truth, his words were strong, and they travelled.

The chain-lift platform he travelled up on with a group of villagers only went as far as the lowest levels of the Beneath. There was a contingent of Freeguild Guard on the ground, controlling the flow of refugees to the lifts. Jaras expected to see more at the head of the lift, but there were none. The villagers of Farwilde were being left to fend for themselves. It was up to them to find shelter and food. Their hundreds, which had seemed so many in the village square, would now be scattered, absorbed into the Long Chain regions. No one in the Above would ever know they had arrived.

He heard Kavak’s voice in his head. Which is exactly how the Above wants it. The village must be saved, but the responsibility ends there.

Maybe so. That absolves the Avengorii of nothing.

The people of the Long Chains hadn’t listened to him the night of the ball. But his message would get through to them now, transported by all the newcomers who knew what he said was right.

That thought comforted him as he made his way up. He was nervous in the deep levels, and wanted to be out of them as quickly as he could. He was slightly higher than the drinking shack, and crossing a suspension bridge towards a filthy rope ladder leading up, when a man started across the bridge from the other side. Jaras slowed. The bridge was narrow, the footing slippery. It would be difficult for the two of them to pass each other.

The man was holding on to both guide ropes. He moved faster.

Jaras recognised him. He had been part of Parek’s mob. He turned around. Before he could run, the man stomped on the suspension bridge, shaking it. Jaras slipped and fell. He grabbed at the ropes to keep from dropping over the edge. Below him, other bridges seemed thin as threads, the drop between them hungry for him.

He got back on his feet just as the man reached him and seized his arm. ‘You made it happen!’ the man shouted, spittle flying in anger.

Jaras tried to squirm free. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ The man wasn’t big, but he was wiry and reckless.

‘You had Parek killed by one of your monsters. What are you trying to do to us?’

‘I don’t know what happened to Parek.’

‘A vampire took him. Not long after you left with your pet horror. I saw it!’

‘That was nothing to do with me! I’ve been trying to warn you!’

The man wasn’t listening. He was frothing with fear and hate. ‘I won’t let you take me!’ he promised. He tightened his grip on Jaras’ arm and pushed him at the guide rope, trying to throw him off the bridge. Jaras’ feet went out from under him again, and he slid down under the man’s legs, surprising him. He staggered forward, dragged off balance by the sudden drop of Jaras’ weight. He let go. Frantic, Jaras kicked up, and the jolt pitched the man over the rope.

He screamed all the way down. He struck another bridge as he fell. The impact knocked his body into a spin. Jaras looked away before he struck the ground. He jerked in horror when the scream suddenly stopped.

He dragged himself up. His arms and knees shook. He had to wait a long minute before he trusted himself to start moving again. He looked left and right, peering through the deep gloom of the day to either end of the bridge. He saw some movement, but no one else came after him. If whoever was there had seen what had happened, they had decided it was none of their concern, at least for now.

Jaras hurried as quickly as he dared to the rope ladder and hauled himself up to the next level. He did his best to avoid people as he rushed back up to safer regions.

Once he was on familiar platforms once more, he promised himself he would not descend to the depths again. Not unless his presence was absolutely vital, and even then, not without an escort.

He believed what the man had said, though. He believed that Parek had been taken by a vampire. He had seen their savagery at Farwilde. He had seen monsters barely holding back from a massacre. That one would prey from the shadows on the underclass of the Colonnade seemed only natural. He made straight for the Pillar and Sickle. It was low enough down that he had no doubt the rumours of what had happened to Parek would be the talk of its patrons.

He was right. In the tavern, he sat and listened, speaking only to ask questions and to show how worried he was. He had every reason to be. What he heard confirmed his worst fears, and surpassed them. Parek was not the only victim. There had been other disappearances too. All of them Long Chains. All of them among the most miserable of the Colonnade.

‘Why them?’ a woman asked. ‘Someone said Parek was even glad to know they were starting to infest the Above. Why not hunt their enemies? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It does make sense,’ Jaras said, realisation and dread growing together. ‘That is how they grow their numbers in the city. That is how they erode our identity bit by bit. That is how they destroy us.’

CHAPTER 16

‘Have you seen this?’ Bennor asked when Jaras reached his lodgings. The landlord greeted him at the door as if he were a faithful hound, watching for Jaras’ return for days. He brandished the latest proclamation. It had been issued the morning after Jaras’ departure with Kavak.

‘I haven’t, no,’ said Jaras. He took the parchment. It was ripped at the top where Bennor had torn it from the nail that had pinned it to his door. Lord Tarvynde declared that all citizens of fighting age were to begin mustering for the march against the beastherd. The date of departure would be announced soon, but it would be within the next several days.

‘I thought the Avengorii were going to head to the beastherd while we defended the walls,’ Bennor complained. ‘I can join a wall defence. I understand how to do that. I’ve never marched before. What’s the point of this agreement? How does it help us at all? People don’t want to leave the Colonnade to be slaughtered.’

Jaras reread the announcement carefully. ‘The Avengorii will be the vanguard,’ he said. ‘We will be marching behind them.’ He was surprised to see that much detail about the campaign in a handbill. This was perhaps Tarvynde’s way of reassuring a population that was receiving unpleasant news.

‘That doesn’t make me feel any better,’ said Bennor, showing exactly how effective the reassurance was.

‘I gather the idea is to smash the beastherd before it reaches the Colonnade. That way, there won’t be any siege at all.’

‘Let there be a siege!’ Bennor complained. ‘We know how to deal with those.’ He spoke as if he were a veteran, but most of the citizens of the Beneath had been reserves during the siege. They had helped the Guard fend off the tzaangors’ attempts to strike upward to the platform. Most of the Short Chain population, like Bennor, would have been far from the front lines, their experience of the war limited to tending to the wounded and dealing with privations. ‘I thought we would stay here while the vampires went out,’ he said again, sounding very upset. ‘This isn’t right.’ He wasn’t in tears yet. He might be soon.

Jaras crumpled the proclamation. ‘This is the doing of the Avengorii,’ he said. He could see it clearly. Once you know that they want the Colonnade, all their actions start to make sense. ‘They’re already taking action against us.’

‘How?’ Bennor asked.

‘They think we’ll shut them out,’ Jaras said. ‘They think that if they leave without us, they’ll fight the beastmen, and then we’ll hold the walls against them when they try to return.’

‘We should,’ said Bennor.

‘Indeed,’ Jaras agreed. ‘This is how they prevent that from happening. We all go out with them, and leave only the barest force behind.’

‘I won’t go,’ Bennor declared.

‘You won’t have to.’ Bennor was no longer fit to hold a pike. He would be called to the wall as a last resort, but he would not be leaving the Colonnade. ‘You’ll stay as part of that barest force.’

Bennor brightened for a moment, and then his face fell as he pictured being virtually alone in the city as a swarm of monsters came for him.

‘Everyone else will have to march,’ Jaras went on. ‘It’s that or arrest.’

‘Can’t we stop this?’

‘Yes,’ said Jaras. He clapped a hand on Bennor’s shoulder. ‘We will stop it. If we all stand together. If all of us are willing to fight for the Colonnade as we know it should be.’

Bennor looked hopeful and doubtful at the same time. ‘How can that happen?’

‘You’ve heard what the Avengorii are doing to the Long Chains?’

Bennor nodded. ‘Everyone has.’

‘Everyone has heard the rumours,’ said Jaras. ‘That isn’t good enough. They’re still rumours that the Abovers can ignore, if they hear about them at all. They’re still just stories to us. No one in the Above listens to the Long Chains. The Abovers are barely aware they exist.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We need more than rumour. I have the ear of some of the people in the Above. I need to see what happens. I need to bear witness.’

He could use what he had heard. He could embellish the tales, fill in details as he needed. He could paint a convincing picture. Only that wouldn’t be enough. He was angry, but he needed to be even more angry. What he had witnessed at Farwilde roiled in his heart, demanding to be told in a song like he had never composed before. He needed more of the same inspiration. He couldn’t just invent. He needed to see the truth.

He grimaced as the full nature of the necessity faced him. He was going to have to head back down into the depths.

Jaras stole a few hours of sleep, then headed back to the Pillar and Sickle, taking Bennor with him. He ate there, and explained to those present what had to be done. It was late evening now, full dark in the Beneath, and what he proposed sounded much more frightening than it had when he had first spoken to Bennor. He almost hoped that he would find no one else to accompany him below. If he didn’t, Bennor didn’t have the nerve to be the only one, and Jaras could not go on his own. His encounter on the bridge had made that very clear.

But the tavern was full of his stalwarts that evening, people who had been listening to him from the first, and before he had finished his lamb stew, he had his volunteers. He led a group of five into the night. Three of them were from the same level as the tavern. They lived close enough to the lowest depths to be terrified of the hunts that were happening just below them. The other, a woman named Ura, was, like Bennor, a Short Chain. She did well enough as a grocer that she was rich by the standards of the Beneath, but the cost of trying to live in the Above would ruin her. She was the sort of Beneather that the Above favoured, though, when business took her to the top of the platform. She had worked hard to cultivate the image of the model citizen of the Beneath. She was quiet, pleasant, respectful and, most importantly, knew her place. She was the kind of witness that Jaras wanted, the kind whose voice might be listened to, and add weight to his own testimony.

First, though, he had to witness a hunt.

‘How do we know what to look for?’ Bennor asked as they started down the nearest rope ladder.

‘We’ll know,’ Jaras promised. ‘Stay quiet and listen. We’ll know.’

Having company gave him the courage to travel quickly. As they reached the dim alleys and treacherous bridges, and could barely see more than a few yards ahead, he watched for hostile faces from the other night. He saw none, though he wondered if he would have recognised anyone other than Parek. He remembered them as an anonymous mob, a blur of dirty faces crowding in on the man who was only trying to save them.

It was so dark, though, that he felt sure no one would recognise him either, unless they came within a few feet. The clothes he wore were grimy and nondescript. He was blending in as best he could.

And he wasn’t alone.

There were whispered complaints, at first, about the filth and the stench. ‘Quiet,’ he hissed, and the urgency of his whisper did the job.

He started the search by bringing his group to the vicinity of the drinking shack.

‘Why here?’ Ura asked quietly.

‘As good a place as any,’ said Jaras. ‘We should watch for someone very drunk.’

‘Because they’ll be easy prey?’

‘That was my thought.’ He didn’t have anything better than that as a strategy. The fact remained that he was depending ultimately on luck.

The platform swayed gently. They huddled in the shadows of stacked huts a dozen yards from the shack, and waited. The people who passed by paid them no notice. There was no lack of figures crouched and sleeping in the gutters and next to walls. Hours passed, and people went in and out of the shack. The volume of the voices inside swelled and ebbed. The occasional fight spilled out the entrance.

Jaras didn’t hear or see what he was looking for.

But, now and then, the air above him stirred with the sudden passage of wings.

‘Did you hear that?’ Bennor whispered, eyes wide and round.

‘Yes,’ said Jaras. ‘Something is hunting. And we are hunting the hunter.’

He tried to sound confident. Bennor did not seem less frightened.

In the last hours of the night, even the drinking stopped. The silence was thick in the Beneath. The creaks of chains and the constant patter of liquid from the higher levels were part of the leaden quiet. That was when Jaras finally heard what he had been waiting for.

‘Where are you?’ a woman called. Her voice was slurred and mournful, broken between despair and a dark hope.

‘There,’ Jaras said. He rose and listened.

‘Where are you?’ the cry came again. It wasn’t far away. It seemed to be coming from the right, and below.

They moved down the alley to the edge of the platform. There was only a low iron wall to guard against falls. Jaras and his escort crouched behind it and looked down. A light was moving down there, a torch the woman was carrying. She was swinging it around as she looked up into the darkness. It illuminated little except her and her immediate surroundings. She didn’t care. She held it as high as she could, as if it would reveal what hid in the darkness. ‘Where are you?’ she called again, then wept.

She was dressed in rags and standing on one end of a tiny platform, nothing more than a wide ledge that extended past some sewage pipes that ran down from the Above. She dropped to her knees and buried her head in her hands. ‘Where are you?’ she said, her voice breaking and going quiet.

A deeper, angular shadow detached itself from the pipes. It was Hevat Grask, the other Vengorian Lord. He clutched the pipes with his clawed feet and long tail. He hunched over, a vulture eyeing carrion. He hissed, wind over sand.

The woman looked up. There was just enough light for Jaras to see her face, her features etched by lines of darkness. He saw a face that poverty, hunger, despair and grief had gnawed to the bone. He saw a woman who felt that she had nothing left, and was seeking the rumour that lived in the night. She had come, in her extremity, to look for liberation.

Only now she saw what she had been looking for. She saw the monster above her. The desperate need in her face changed to fear. What lived in the night was more awful than she had thought. The reality was nightmare, and she was not ready to lose the agony of her existence. Not to the horror that had come for her.

‘No,’ the woman whispered, her last word, a plea that fell into the dark and vanished.

The vampire spread his wings and leapt down, a patchwork blur of the hideous: reptile and bat and distorted human, fangs and talons and wings, all wrong, all the pieces a whole of ravenous attack. The monster fell on the woman, and ripped into her throat with his fangs. Blood, instantly rotted, sprayed over victim and hunter. Hevat Grask fed, an animal savaging its prey. The torch dropped from the woman’s limp hand. It rolled off the edge of the platform and dropped away. Shadows fell over the scene, but did not obscure it completely. Jaras could still see silhouettes. He could still see awful, jagged, rhythmic movement.

‘No,’ Ura whispered. ‘Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.’

Bennor sobbed quietly. The others stirred as if they wanted to flee, but Jaras held up a hand, and they stayed where they were. They took in every moment of the horror.

Bennor clapped his hands over his ears, trying to blot out the liquid sounds of chewing and slurping. Jaras let the obscenity wash into him, scarring his soul, branding his memory.

Hevat Grask lifted his head from his victim. The woman moved, not dead yet, though Jaras could not believe she was really alive either. With a snarl that turned into a liquid laugh, the Vengorian Lord picked up the body and flew off into the dark.

Jaras’ companions sighed in relief that the spectacle was over.

‘Can we go?’ Bennor asked. ‘Please tell me that we don’t need to see any more.’

‘That was enough,’ Jaras said. ‘We have seen what we came to see.’

He had the inspiration he needed. It burned in his heart. Its winds were hurricane-strong in his mind. The song needed to find its way out. He felt that he would fly apart if he didn’t release it. He was barely able to concentrate on his footing during the entire climb back.

There was no need for quiet any longer. Bennor and the others kept up a frightened exchange during the entire return journey. They were seeking comfort in their shared terror. They kept asking Jaras questions, turning to him for a leadership of greater comfort.

He gave them silence instead. This was not the time for comfort, but a time for anger. They must embrace the horror they felt, and use it to fuel their resistance. He spoke just once. ‘Now you know,’ he said. ‘This is what will happen to all of us in time, unless we fight back.’

He would not tell them that things would turn out for the best. Their survival, and the survival of the Colonnade, depended on them being willing to take action. Them, and everyone else truly loyal to the city.

Jaras left his companions at the door to the Pillar and Sickle. They would tell what they had seen, and the story would begin its spread without his help. He rushed to his garret. He had to give the song form before it burned him alive.

He pounded up the stairs of the residence and flung open the door to his quarters. He didn’t bother to close it. He threw himself onto the stool in front of the battered table, took up a quill pen, opened a vial of ink and got to work on a sheet of vellum. He had worried that he would miss his lute, lost when Parek and his cronies had cornered him. His fears turned out to be groundless. If anything, the lack of an instrument helped him. It was important that this song not need an accompaniment. It had to be a tune that would leap to the lips of anyone who heard it even once.

The words spilled onto the page as fast as he could write them. The ore of anger, forged in horror, became the steel alloy of art. The song was unlike any he had composed before. There was no humour in it, no satire, no cheer. There was only rage. The truth was he was not composing this anthem to the purity of the Colonnade. He was unleashing it.

He wrote without awareness of time. He wrote without seeing the words, though he heard them, strong as war trumpets, in his heart. When he was done, he rubbed his eyes, disoriented at first to find himself in the mundane surroundings of his home.

He should have been exhausted. He wasn’t. The fire burned as brightly as ever. Writing the song down was not enough. It was still straining at its bonds. He had to sing it. He had to hear others sing it.

He almost broke his neck in the rush back down the levels to the Pillar and Sickle. Fate guided his steps and kept him safe. He burst into the tavern, and the people there looked at him as if flames were pouring from his eyes. For a moment, they were frightened of him. Then they listened to him as if the mantle of a prophet had fallen on his shoulders.

Jaras sang his song. When he did, everyone joined in as if they had always known it.

The fire of righteous anger ignited in the Beneath.

CHAPTER 17

Lord Tarvynde had forbidden anyone in the Colonnade from speaking against the alliance with the Avengorii. Forbidding speech was easy. Preventing it was more difficult, and Atella was not convinced Tarvynde had much interest in doing so. She was still not sure what game he was playing, though she was sure there was a game being played. She hoped he had thought through its consequences.

Then there was the song. Before today, she had never heard ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’. The tune had spread like a sudden plague, and she encountered it being sung and whistled everywhere during her walk from the Reigehren house to the council chamber in the castle. Its lyrics angered her, yet the tune was lodged in her head and had no intention of departing. A few of the councillors were whistling it when they took their seats, and Tarvynde said nothing to them. He did not even look displeased. The song did not mention the Avengorii at all, but in its ferocious call to arms to preserve and restore the purity of the city, its meaning was clear. It was a repudiation of the alliance, of everything Atella was struggling to bring about, and of what Tarvynde ostensibly stood behind. But it was impossible to challenge anyone who sang it. The lyrics were, Atella thought bitterly, a masterpiece of disingenuousness. Line by line, they were a celebration of pride. What was wrong with that?

Everything. It’s a work of hate.

But a deniable one.

Atella despised it, and she couldn’t shake its melody.

No one spoke of it at council, or of the rumours that were running rampant about the Avengorii preying on the destitute of the Long Chain regions. The entire city was whispering about them, just as it was singing ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’. In the council chamber, the rumours were the great unspoken, perhaps because of the attendance of Lauka Vai, a huge, coiled presence at the back of the chamber. The rumours were what could not be addressed, Atella realised. If they were, everything would collapse. Whatever Tarvynde thought he was doing, it was clear that he did not want to lose the strength of the Avengorii for the battle against Orgo’s beastherd.

The rumours troubled her. What troubled her even more was that she was not as disturbed as she thought she should be. She was interested. She was fascinated. She found her reaction hard to understand.

More than anything, she wanted to speak with Kavak. Alone. She felt that need as an imperative. So much so that it took an effort to focus on what was happening in council.

It was hard, too, to take her eyes off Lauka Vai. The other councillors were finding it as difficult as she was to concentrate with the Mother of Nightmares so close to them. They kept shooting furtive looks at the great vampire, and then turning away with pale faces and shudders. Atella wanted to hear her speak. She wanted to hear the powerful voice, and know what the queen of horror thought of the deliberations.

Plans were being drawn up for the campaign. Time was growing short, and strategies needed to be nailed down. The land outside the Colonnade was changing, exactly as Baveth Ullior had warned. To the west and the east, hills were rising, closing the Beneath in ever more profound shadow. They were higher each day. Soon, they would be level with the platform. The fields were no longer fields. The crops were unharmed, but that in itself was a dark omen, because the slopes were gentle. The beastherd would find it an easy march to the city’s walls.

Baveth summarised the changes in the land and her conclusions were gloomy. ‘The volatility is becoming more severe, as we feared,’ she said. ‘The land truly does seem to feel the tread of the beastmen.’

Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt spoke next. ‘We have been making plans in concert with Lauka Vai and General Torvassen. To smash the beastherd, we must move soon, and quickly. Our coordination will be critical. The starting point will be our massed forces leaving the Colonnade at the same time. The Avengorii, however, are a winged legion. They can reach the enemy before the mortal infantry.’

‘Which is what we shall do,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘We will form the vanguard of the assault, and strike the enemy first.’

‘The Colonnade forces will not be far behind,’ Dawnbolt continued. ‘While the beastmen are staggered, the Freeguild and the Maelstrom of Light will strike like a battering ram, and break them utterly.’

Atella wondered whether Dawnbolt had included the Freeguild in her statement as a courtesy. ‘The Maelstrom of Light is not without its wings,’ she said. ‘Will the Prosecutors not be part of the vanguard with the Avengorii?’

‘No,’ said Dawnbolt. Her jaw was clenched. She gave the impression of someone who had been faced with an impossible decision and was dissatisfied with having chosen the lesser of two evils. ‘They will be prepared to strike forward as necessary–’ she began.

‘It will not be necessary,’ said Lauka Vai. There was a hint of suppressed amusement in her tone. ‘Be at ease, Lord-Celestant. You will not have to entrust your lightning host to our company.’

‘We have faith in the abilities of your legions,’ Dawnbolt said, every syllable dragged out of an unwilling throat. ‘The coherence of the Stormhost will be maintained for maximum effectiveness.’

Atella thought she saw the calculation Dawnbolt had been compelled to make. It was against her doctrine of war to let another force reach the enemy first, but it was a force that she did not trust, and it massively outnumbered the Prosecutors. If the Avengorii broke faith, Dawnbolt would have divided her forces in a way that dangerously weakened her position and her ability to deal with two enemy armies instead of one.

Lauka Vai seemed to understand exactly the same thing, and was enjoying the Lord-Celestant’s discomfort.

‘The timing of the march will be crucial,’ Dawnbolt said, determined to move on. ‘We must advance when the land is stable and provides as smooth a passage as possible to the enemy, in order for the infantry to travel rapidly. Our hammer blows must come close together.’

‘Will we have that chance?’ Tarvynde asked Baveth.

‘Yes, my lord. I have the preliminary geomantic charts completed. I will have the hour chosen for you within two days.’

‘Very well. The beginning of our war awaits your word, Scholar of Tides.’

After the council, Atella marched swiftly across the great hall of the castle. The most public space inside the castle’s walls, it was where supplicants from all the terraces of the Above came to curry favour and influence. The vaulted ceiling was a deep, cerulean blue, scattered with diamonds that reflected the light of the chandeliers. Daylight was filtered through the violet and red of the huge, circular stained-glass windows that dominated its walls to the east and the west. Scores of narrow, fluted columns, fifty feet high, were meeting places both public and discreet.

Atella headed down the central aisle. She was two-thirds of the way to the doors when Vash Gastar popped out from behind a column, wearing his pleased smile.

‘I was hoping I’d run into you,’ he said.

You almost did. Literally.

‘What did you want?’ she asked.

Either he ignored the brusqueness of her tone, or he didn’t notice it at all. His smile didn’t waver. ‘I wanted to talk about how I can help you.’

‘Oh?’ You could help me by going away.

‘I think it’s all going well. Really well.’

‘It?’

He winked. ‘The plan. Everyone is becoming more and more upset about the Avengorii. And that song. That’s just brilliant. I’m just a little bit worried that some of this is happening too fast.’ He laughed. ‘You don’t want the open rebellion before the war, now, do you?’

‘No,’ she said carefully. ‘We really don’t.’ The possibility he raised chilled her.

‘Don’t you think it would be better if events slowed down just a little bit?’

‘Yes,’ she said. I really do. ‘The sentiment of the crowd is not something I control.’ I wish I did.

‘You also need to watch your reputation,’ said Vash. ‘I’m hearing that more than a few people think part of the song is about you.’

‘What?’

He chuckled, and it sounded patronising. ‘You know, those verses about the “betrayer within”, who is referred to as “she”.’

Hearing Vash parse song lyrics was a novelty. It almost distracted her from her rising anger. She had not made the connection to herself. She had been too focused on the overall message of ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’ and the damage it was doing.

‘I think we should let people know you’re not the betrayer,’ Vash went on.

‘We should,’ she repeated dully. She was having trouble processing all the absurdities she was hearing.

‘I know exactly how to do it.’

‘How?’ She was morbidly curious now. Whatever horror was about to come out of his mouth, it was sure to be interesting.

‘By announcing our wedding!’ His smile was so wide it shone more brightly than the diamonds in the ceiling. He looked at her as if he had just performed an acrobatic feat and awaited applause. When she just stared at him, he interpreted her horror as admiration. He held out his arm. ‘Shall we?’ he said. ‘I think a turn about the square together would set tongues wagging in precisely the way we want.’

Atella’s gorge rose at the mental image. She waited a moment, so she could speak without gagging. ‘There is nothing I want in what you have just described,’ she said.

She thought her meaning was clear. Vash managed to misunderstand. His self-love was as strong as sigmarite. ‘Too ostentatious?’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re right. What if–’

Atella raised a hand, interrupting him. ‘Will you do me a favour?’ she asked.

‘Anything,’ he said, filling the word with shuddery promise.

‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘Wait right here.’

‘Of course.’ He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

‘Thank you.’ She walked away.

‘What should I wait for?’ he called to her.

For me to leave. She said nothing and headed straight for the doors that led outside.

People milled everywhere, except for near the entrance to the south-west wing. Atella slowed as she passed that corridor, and saw Kavak in its gloom. Though he was barely visible, his presence drew the gazes of passers-by and they hurried on, frightened and revolted. Atella walked over to him.

‘You have heard the stories,’ he said. He did not have to specify which ones.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What is happening?’

The Vengorian Lord shifted his wings. ‘Much,’ he said.

‘I need to discuss this much with you,’ she said. She glanced around. ‘Privately.’

Kavak nodded slowly, his eyes knowing, as if he had expected this of her. ‘We shall speak tonight,’ he said.

Atella wondered if she was falling into some kind of trap. She wondered, too, why she did not mind.

She had duties to attend to before nightfall. As well as being on the council, she was responsible for the mustering of her terrace. That had been the duty of the Reigehrens for generations, though she found it hard to believe her parents had once done the same. They seemed to have forgotten all they had known about the defence of the city, turning their energies to the prospects of social climbing that she frustrated wilfully and that her brother, Ollam, disappointed through drunken whim.

Atella oversaw the exercises in the main square of her terrace, a few streets over from the Reigehren house. The ranks of the Freeguild Guard had swollen with the call to arms. Newly armed citizens stood shoulder to shoulder with veterans, practising lines of advance, turning their pikes into extensions of their bodies. What she saw satisfied her, but it did not make her heart swell as it would have even a short while ago. The blades and the gold trim of their armour did not glitter as brightly in her eyes. She saw too much vanity and pride, and it stained the determination of the growing army, turning it into something unworthy.

It was early evening when Atella reached home. Ollam sauntered out the door just as she was arriving. He blocked her way. ‘So, big sister,’ he said, his breath already stinking of wine, ‘have you been doing good work today? Have you been putting a shine on our family name?’ He whistled a bar from ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’.

‘I’ve been doing what needs to be done,’ she said. ‘I gather you have been too.’

‘Ooooh, is that a jibe? Are you judging me?’

Atella rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, just go, Ollam. Go and finish getting drunk. The White Tauralon needs its champion.’

Ollam leaned forward. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘The city needs all its champions.’

‘On that we agree.’

‘You think I’m shirking,’ said Ollam.

Atella said nothing.

‘You think I’m the family’s disgrace.’

‘I never said that.’

‘You think it, I said.’

Atella sighed. ‘I don’t think it. I don’t think about who is disgracing what in House Reigehren at all.’

Ollam swayed. He squinted, as if struggling to keep her in focus. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I believe you. You really don’t think about it, because you don’t care about it. Everyone can see that. The whole Colonnade can see that.’

‘You’re the honour of the Colonnade, then? You’re its glory to come? If you are, I wonder why I bother.’

‘Spoken like a traitor.’

‘Very witty. Very cutting. Now off you go.’

Ollam sauntered away, whistling ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’.

Atella stepped into the entrance hall, and found her mother and father blocking the way to the stairs and her room, where she had planned to catch a few hours’ sleep before meeting Kavak. The prospect of rest retreated into the distance. Her mother had her arms crossed, her face set in an expression of granite displeasure. Her father, Erulf, stood behind her, the broad and taciturn support to his wife’s advance.

‘I’ll assume you heard everything Ollam and I said to each other,’ Atella said before her mother could speak. ‘Would it be possible not to go over the same ground?’

‘I want to talk to you about that song,’ said her mother.

‘So it isn’t possible,’ said Atella. ‘How nice.’

‘Is this amusing to you?’

‘No. It really, really isn’t.’

‘The entire city is singing about you.’

‘I somehow missed hearing my name in the lyrics.’

‘It doesn’t have to be there,’ her mother said. ‘The betrayer is you. Everyone knows it. Are you satisfied with your infamy? You have tarnished the Reigehren name.’

Her father nodded in grim, but silent, accord.

‘It’s a good thing Ollam is doing his best to restore its lustre, then, isn’t it?’ said Atella.

‘Your disgrace gives him licence to indulge in his worst impulses. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.’

‘I shouldn’t have to regard him as my charge, and I don’t. My duty is to see that the Colonnade survives.’ She stepped forward, coldly furious, unwilling to tolerate another moment of the game of social hierarchies. Her father flinched and took a step back. Her mother’s impregnable righteousness faltered. ‘That is the duty of this family, or so you raised me to believe. Ollam won’t lift a finger to fulfil that duty, unless he’s forced to. And you, both of you, abdicated your responsibilities before the siege of the tzaangors. Preserving the Colonnade has been my burden since I fought on the battlements. To be honest, more and more what I see being tarnished with dishonour is the Colonnade itself, but I will protect it, because I am sworn to do so. You can’t see any farther than a house on the next terrace up. Very well, gaze in envy to your hearts’ content. But get out of my way. Now and always.’

She took another step forward, forcing them to step aside. She started up the stone steps, then paused and looked back down at them. ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about a marriage to Vash Gastar. I’ll burn the Gastar house down and put the family to the sword if that’s what it takes to end this ridiculous idea.’

‘You will–’ Yanna began.

Atella took half a step down in fury, and her mother fell silent. Her father retreated out of sight. They were afraid of her, actually afraid, if only briefly.

It disturbed her that she was pleased by their fear.

Atella met Kavak on the ramparts of the castle’s south-west wing. He flew with her on his back to the east, to the highlands of the forest, far from her people and his. They landed at the edge of the woods and looked back towards the Colonnade, where the Diamond Spire shone in the light of its lanterns.

‘Are the stories true?’ Atella asked. ‘Have the Avengorii been preying on the Beneath?’

‘Yes,’ said Kavak. ‘That is the work of Hevat Grask.’

‘Why?’ Atella cried in frustration. ‘Doesn’t Lauka Vai realise the consequences? Can’t she see them unfolding? Why risk tearing the treaty apart when we most need it?’

‘The risk is a calculated one,’ Kavak said, watching her closely. ‘Do you think the council will turn from the treaty? I think not. The Colonnade needs the Avengorii more than we need it.’

‘But why?’ Atella insisted.

‘What do you think of the council’s lack of response?’ Kavak asked, seeming to change the subject. He was still watching her closely, studying her, she thought.

‘It…’ she began, then stopped. It’s a betrayal of our people, she had been about to say. The hypocrisy is monstrous, she thought too. Neither response was adequate, though they were both true. What they did not capture was what she truly felt. She was frustrated. She was more and more disgusted by her fellow citizens. Beneath all of that was a thing that she could barely acknowledge. There was something she wanted. She did not know its full contours yet, and it frightened her.

She shied away from the growing thing within. ‘The council is contemptible,’ she said. ‘But what of Hevat Grask’s victims? What did they do to deserve slaughter?’

‘That is not what they received,’ said Kavak. ‘They are not among the dead and gone. They are with us still. They have joined the dynasty of the Avengorii.’

Atella was silent again. Then she asked, ‘Did they choose that fate?’

‘No. But they do not regret it. And there have been some mortals, in the past, who have come to us willingly.’

‘Like you.’

‘Like me.’

She stared at him. She couldn’t find the words that would convey the right question.

‘You want to know why a mortal would want to become one of us,’ Kavak said gently. ‘Why anyone would want to be a monster.’

‘No, that isn’t…’ She trailed off before she lied. ‘I know why you made your decision,’ Atella said. ‘It isn’t the same for these people, though, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t. Though do you think about the lives of the people of the Long Chains?’

‘No,’ she admitted.

‘Have you ever been to those regions of the Beneath?’

‘My duties have never taken me there.’ Her cheeks were hot with shame.

‘The poverty and misery there is as extreme as the wealth of the high terraces. If you had the choice to escape that misery, and the bonds of a servitude that ground the life from you, would you not welcome it, even if you did not choose the moment of your liberation? Would you not see the appeal of freedom and power this existence offers?’

‘I would,’ she said easily.

‘The Colonnade’s doctrine of purity has its echo in the Avengorii. We have a commitment to purity too. We believe in the purity of monstrosity. The new form of the body taken to its fullest extreme.’ He paused. ‘You’re frowning.’

‘Is that really true?’ Atella asked. ‘Do you really embrace the monstrous? Then why forbid mirrors at the ball?’

‘We believe in the glory of the monstrous,’ said Kavak. ‘We believe we must embrace it. That does not mean we succeed. We are proud of the extremities we have become, but we know what horrors we are, and we hate that too, and we resent your disgust.’

‘Not mine.’

‘No, not yours.’ Kavak smiled as if she had said more than she knew. ‘The disgust of other mortals, then. We strive to embrace our condition. We fail. We have our contradictions. But the pride of nightmares can be transcendent. I think it is a worthy goal.’

‘It is,’ said Atella, with feeling. She looked at the powerful being before her, at the pure, monstrous abandon of his form. The memory of her battle on the walls of the Colonnade came rushing back, and her mouth flooded with the taste of blood.

CHAPTER 18

Sitting in the White Tauralon, Jaras mused on how satisfying the work of a single day could be. ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’ had landed in a tinderbox, and the flames of the song had washed over the Above and the Beneath before Hysh had risen to its zenith. The spread of the song had happened at the same moment as the conscriptions for the defence of the city had entered their full force. No one dared disobey that decree, and all feared what the beastherd would do if it was not stopped. The song became the expression of the people’s anger even as they obeyed. Especially in the Beneath, the mustering of the army came very close to becoming a series of protest marches in the slowly swaying streets. The message to Lord Tarvynde was clear. The people would fight against the beastherd, but they would not accept the Avengorii among them.

A curfew had been declared for the second hour after dark, running until dawn. The White Tauralon was having to start its entertainment early, and abbreviate it. The purpose of the curfew was to impose order on a city where feeling against the alliance with the Avengorii was so strong, it was one spark away from setting fire to the streets. As long as discipline held, the growing army would be a force for that order. Too many drunken soldiers, though, and too many frightened ones in the Beneath, could transform the newly armed into something savage. Tarvynde did not want that.

Nor did Jaras. He had shown up at his mustering point, received his armour and sword – less fine than those of the Freeguild Guard, but adequate to their purpose – and taken part in the exercises through the Short Chain regions of the Beneath. The war was one that had to be fought. What he was concerned with, though, was its outcome and its aftermath. He had spent the day thinking about these things. It was not enough for the people to have a means to express their anger. They needed a solution too.

The idea must have been building throughout the day, but when it became something he could articulate, it hit him like a blast of lightning from Azyr itself.

Now, in the White Tauralon, he was waiting to act on his revelation.

He was enjoying himself much more than he had on his last visit. He was proud of his work, elated by the experience of hearing his song sung everywhere he went. He was known, too. People knew who had composed ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’. In the Beneath, they wanted to speak to him, to thank him, to confide in him, to ask him what must be done. Even in the Above, he was celebrated. He did not have to perform in the White Tauralon this evening. More drinks than he wanted were bought for him, and when his table was full of brimming flagons, then more realmstone shards went into his pocket instead. Already, the takings of this day had him thinking about his permanent move to the Above. It would happen as soon as the war was over. Perhaps a small apartment in the lowest terrace. But maybe he should be setting his sights a bit higher.

There would be time for that when all was over. For tonight, his sights were set on a more specific target. He came in an hour before the curfew. Ollam Reigehren was alone this time, but so loud in his greetings it was as if he had been awaited by every patron in the White Tauralon. Some of them laughed. More than a few turned away. Ollam didn’t care. He spotted Jaras right away and rushed over to his table. Jaras had taken a seat in the centre of the ground floor so he would be seen. The entire tavern’s theatre had resounded with multiple renditions of ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’, and the former intermission bard was the toast of the night. When Ollam came to the table, he was not doing Jaras a favour. This time, he was the one who wanted to be seen in Jaras’ company.

Ollam gave him a massive smile and seized Jaras’ hand with both of his. ‘The man himself,’ he said. ‘The man himself. I owe you such a debt, Jaras. If you had seen my sister’s face a short while ago…’

‘I’m honoured by your words,’ Jaras said, and Ollam beamed. Jaras stood up and leaned forward confidentially. ‘I was hoping to see you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘There is something I would like to discuss.’

‘Yes yes yes!’ Ollam’s eyes, a little glassy, shone with excitement. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘It might be better in private.’

‘Even better!’ Ollam exclaimed. He threw his arm over Jaras’ shoulders and the two of them went up to the upper balcony.

Once they were in Ollam’s favourite booth again, Jaras said, ‘You like the song, then? You’re not offended?’

Ollam opened his purse, took out a handful of shards and slammed them down in front of Jaras with a laugh. ‘There!’ he said. ‘For you! That’s how offended I am.’ He leaned back and bellowed the first verse of the song. Then he pulled Jaras forward over the table and kissed his forehead. ‘Brilliant work,’ he said. ‘You may not know it yet, but you are the hero of the Colonnade. The next songs will be about you.’ He was sounding less drunk than Jaras had thought at first. ‘The citizens of the Colonnade have one voice now, thanks to you, and it will be heard. Once the battle is over, the Avengorii will never be allowed back inside these walls. The council wouldn’t dare permit it.’

Jaras put on the sober, worried face he had been practising. ‘The will of the city might not be good enough,’ he said. ‘The command of Lord Tarvynde might not be good enough.’

Ollam stared at him, his exuberance draining away. ‘Why not?’

‘If the Avengorii decide to force their way back in, do you think we could stop them? After we’ve been weakened by the campaign?’

Ollam thought about this. ‘The Maelstrom of Light…’ he began.

‘They’re party to the treaty,’ said Jaras. ‘I doubt they like the Avengorii any more than we do, but they will abide by the agreement.’

‘But if the Avengorii force their way in…’

‘That’s my point,’ Jaras said, shifting ground. ‘They won’t have to.’ Then he shifted again. ‘But let’s say the alliance collapses after the battle. Let’s say the Avengorii attack us. Yes, the Maelstrom of Light will fight them. The Stormcast Eternals are mighty. They are also few in number compared to the Avengorii. The monsters are legion.’ He had worked through the same arguments with himself, imagining both possibilities. The more he thought about it, the more he saw the doom of the Colonnade approach. ‘Unless something is done,’ he said, ‘our end draws near. The Avengorii say they don’t want to be used by us. That isn’t what’s happening. We are being used by them. We weaken ourselves in the war against the beastmen, and then the vampires will turn and make us their feast.’

Ollam was nodding solemnly, and looking worried. ‘What can we do?’ he asked.

‘Do you know what would be perfect?’ said Jaras. ‘Imagine if the Avengorii and the beastmen were both destroyed.’

Ollam was suddenly sober. ‘Yes,’ he said, very quietly. He looked around, as if the shadows in the booth might be listening. ‘Is there any way that could happen?’

‘I think so.’

‘How?’

‘I have an idea, but I need your help.’

‘Anything,’ said Ollam, clearly seized by the idea that he, and not his sister, would save the Colonnade.

‘Your family has connections,’ Jaras said.

‘We do.’ Ollam grinned.

‘There’s someone I need to see.’

‘Tell me their name, and I’ll have you in their home within the hour,’ Ollam boasted.

When Jaras told him, Ollam’s smile faltered. ‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. ‘You need to speak with my parents.’

The welcome at the residence of House Reigehren was not warm at first. Jaras asked Ollam not to introduce him as the bard behind ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’. Ollam agreed, but as soon as he spoke Jaras’ name, Yanna Reigehren’s eyes turned to flints. It took some pleading from Ollam before she agreed not to have the servants throw Jaras out of the house. It took even more pleading to have him admitted beyond the entrance hall.

They retired to a sitting chamber at the back of the house. The fire in the hearth warmed the room. Worn heraldic tapestries covered the walls, barely visible in the candlelight. Jaras and the Reigehrens sat in oak chairs before the fire. Yanna and Erulf looked at him with simmering resentment.

‘Tell me, and tell me quickly,’ Yanna said, ‘why I should have the man who has besmirched my family’s name under my roof.’

‘Because I think I can restore your honour to the level it really should be,’ said Jaras. ‘Or at least, I can help make that happen.’

‘How?’ Yanna asked sharply.

‘By seeing to the destruction of both the beastherd and the Avengorii.’

Yanna and Erulf looked at him for a long time.

‘If you can bring that about,’ said Erulf, ‘you are not a bard. You are a sorcerer.’

‘Not at all,’ said Jaras. ‘It’s simply a question of seeing the one who actually does have the power to make that happen, and speaking to them so that they, too, can see their duty to the Colonnade more clearly.’ He paused. ‘Helping my fellow citizens to see clearly is all I ever wanted to achieve with “The Fires of the Colonnade”. There was never any intent to harm your family.’

‘The one who really needs to listen to you is the one who refuses to do so,’ Ollam muttered.

‘The one who actually has the power,’ said Yanna. ‘You want an audience with Lord Tarvynde?’

‘No,’ Jaras said. ‘I believe he has less power in this matter than you might think. I also believe he is in sympathy with us. If he can see how both our enemies might be destroyed, he cannot act on it, not after agreeing to the treaty. It is up to us to act for him.’

‘Then who is it you wish to see?’ Yanna asked.

‘The Scholar of Tides.’

Yanna and Erulf looked at each other.

‘Baveth Ullior is an old friend,’ said Yanna.

‘That is well known. That is why your help is so important. She does not know me. She has no reason to listen to me, or even admit me to her residence.’

‘Why her?’ Erulf asked. ‘What do you want her to do?’

Jaras grimaced. He said nothing.

‘It’s better that we don’t know,’ Yanna said.

‘There is nothing you need to do that would in any way be considered a crime, or a breach of honour,’ said Jaras. ‘What harm can there be in making an introduction between two people, neither of whom is under any shadow? None. That is the only thing I ask of you. What I will say to the Scholar of Tides must remain between the two of us.’

‘Your visit should not be known of either, then,’ said Yanna.

‘That would be better.’

She nodded, and she smiled at him. It was not a warm smile. Jaras wasn’t sure she had any warmth to give. It was, though, a smile of pleasure.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

Jaras and Yanna left House Reigehren’s residence on the edge of curfew. There were still a few minutes left, so for the first part of their journey, there would not be any trouble with guards if they happened to run into any, especially not given Yanna’s standing. Jaras wore a hooded cloak borrowed from one of the servants. In the dark, he would be unrecognisable at a distance.

They headed for the lowest terrace, where Baveth lived in her tower. By the most direct route on the streets, it would have taken less than half an hour to walk. Even with the cobbled roads deserted, it would also have been difficult to avoid being spotted. Yanna took Jaras a different way. When they left House Reigehren, they just crossed the street, and Yanna knocked on the door of House Pevellen. When they were admitted into the entrance hall and were greeted by Issaya Pevellen, Yanna simply said, ‘May we pass? For the Colonnade.’

‘Of course.’ Issaya led them to a rear door, without any questions. She touched Yanna’s arm in understanding as they left. Jaras recognised the firm complicity in that touch. If anyone asked, Yanna and Jaras had come for a visit, and Issaya did not know where they had gone next. This was the bond between the elite, the pact between those with the privilege never to be questioned harshly.

And so the journey continued, through courtyards and across alleys, Yanna and Jaras passed from house to house. They were never in the open for more than a few moments, and anyone who saw them would witness them simply making a short trip from one residence to another. Yanna’s influence over the lower terraces was wide, her friends many. Jaras marvelled at the birth of a silent conspiracy. The only knowledge communicated by Yanna to the families who passed them through their houses was that something important was happening. The Reigehrens stood for the defence of the Colonnade. Atella had tarnished that image with her actions. If her mother now sought help, that meant she was doing something to counter the damage caused by Atella. Nothing else needed to be known. Jaras and Yanna were seen but not seen, their purpose unknown but supported. The most any family could know was which house they had just left and to which home they went next.

This was better than Jaras had hoped. The Colonnade was ready for something to be done. The treaty was an abomination. The Avengorii tainted the soul of the city more with every moment they were within its walls. The deepest instincts of every citizen had to be to see the vampires gone. Those same instincts directed Yanna and her allies. They were acting for the salvation of the city as naturally as they drew breath.

What Jaras saw told him that when the critical moment came, the city would act as one. By the time he and Yanna arrived at Baveth’s door, his confidence was soaring. His mission this night would be successful. He wasn’t going to have to work hard to convince Baveth to do what was right. He was simply going to have to show her what that was.

The Scholar of Tides lived in a tower that rose higher than any of the other buildings of the lowest terrace. It stood at the eastern edge of the great square, midway across its width. The windows in its peak looked out across the land, with commanding views to the north, south and west. Only the guards standing watch at the top of the Diamond Spire could see farther.

Jaras and Yanna emerged from a house on the north side of the tower, separated from it by a narrow lane. Yanna had Jaras wait in the house’s doorway while she went around to the servant’s entrance at the tower’s rear. When she came back a short while later, she said, ‘The tower door is open. Close it behind you. You will see no one. Take the stairs to the top. Baveth has agreed to meet you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jaras.

Yanna looked at him seriously. ‘Do what you have promised, and we will all be in your debt.’

He lowered his head humbly, though he felt a burst of ecstasy as he thought of the horizons that would open to him when it came time to collect that debt. He would have earned the prize too, because he would have saved his city.

You would have condemned us to monstrosity, Kavak. You betrayed everything, but you will not win.

‘I will wait for you here,’ said Yanna. ‘Come back to this door.’

Jaras nodded again, and he stepped out into the lane. He hurried around to the tower’s rear entrance. It opened out into a cramped courtyard where the darkness was so thick he could almost touch it. The door was ajar, letting out just enough illumination for him to make his way inside.

He closed the door and found himself at the foot of a narrow staircase. It spiralled up into the tower’s heights. The wedge-shaped steps were barely wide enough for one person to climb, and he was careful to keep next to the outer wall, where he could place most of a foot on each stone step. Torches in iron sconces lit his way, and he headed up as quickly as he dared. At length, he arrived at a wooden door, banded in iron. He tried it, and it opened, letting him into the study of the Scholar of Tides.

The ceiling was low, and the night breeze blowing through the open windows leached warmth from him. An ornate wood stove glowed in the centre of the chamber, and Jaras hurried over to it. Two high-backed chairs sat before it, Baveth in one of them. Behind her, dominating the wall between the south and west windows, was a long, oaken table. A lantern hung above its centre, casting a glow over the vellum charts spread over its surface.

Baveth had a woollen shawl draped over her shoulders. She looked tired, drained from the efforts of reading and predicting the storms of change that shook and shaped the ground. She gestured to the other chair. ‘Please sit. Yanna Reigehren is a friend whose judgement I greatly respect. If she says you have something to say that I must hear, then it is clear that I must.’

Jaras sat. ‘I am here,’ he said, ‘to show you how you will save the Colonnade.’

Baveth raised her eyebrows and laughed. ‘I will save it?’

‘Yes. By ensuring the destruction of all its enemies.’

She stopped laughing. ‘Do you count the Avengorii among its enemies?’

‘I do. Don’t you?’

She contemplated him silently. Then, apparently satisfied by what she saw, she said, ‘I had a most disagreeable encounter with one of them at the ball Lord Tarvynde hosted.’ Her words were chosen carefully, her implication clear.

‘You should be spared further encounters of that sort,’ Jaras said, playing along.

‘That is not up to me.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Jaras. ‘You, more than anyone else in the city, are in a position to play a pivotal role.’

‘Intriguing. Go on, then. Convince me.’

‘Your charge is to prepare the charts that will allow the army of the Colonnade to march to battle against the beastherd.’

‘That’s right. A task I completed a short time ago. The charts are ready.’

‘Have you presented them to Lord Tarvynde and Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt yet?’

Baveth’s eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ she said cautiously.

‘How accurate are they?’

‘Very,’ Baveth said, her pride in her skills piqued. ‘The rising intensity and frequency of the convulsions makes predictions beyond the short range impossible, but I know exactly what deformations of terrain will occur, and when, between the Colonnade and the last known position of the beastherd.’

‘You have found a route for our infantry, then?’

‘A route and a time,’ Baveth emphasised. ‘The hour that the march begins is crucial.’

‘What I am thinking about,’ said Jaras, ‘is what might happen if the hour is badly chosen. Or to put it another way, if the truly correct hour is the one that will ensure not just the survival of the Colonnade, but the victory of its purity.’

Baveth stood up. She walked over to the table. She clasped her hands behind her back, contemplated her charts and said, ‘Go on.’

‘There are three things that must happen,’ said Jaras. ‘The beastherd must be destroyed, the Avengorii must be destroyed and the Colonnade must not break faith with the treaty. Or at least, it must not be seen to do so, until the time is right.’

‘And you think there is a way for all three things to occur.’

‘I do, depending on the answer you give me to my next question.’

‘Which is?’

‘Imagine what would happen if the march began and the forces of the Colonnade were delayed through no fault of their own.’

Baveth grew very still.

‘Is there an hour that would lead to such an event?’ Jaras asked.

Baveth took her time in answering. She unclasped her hands and leaned on the table. She ran a finger over a chart, then stopped at a single point. She seemed to stare at it, as if it were a message that she had received but not understood until this moment. She turned back to Jaras, her face flushed with excitement. ‘I will answer you in this way,’ she said. ‘I was arrogant when, a few moments ago, I said that I knew exactly what would happen to the land and when. The volatility is too pronounced for so categorical a statement.’ She picked up the chart, rolled it up, brought it over to the wood stove and shoved the scroll into the fire. ‘Indeed, I have already found an error in my work.’ She smiled. ‘I will have to rework the chart I was to present to Lord Tarvynde. And even then, there might be errors. Who is to say?’

Jaras smiled back. ‘We are at the mercy of chance and fate. Who among us can say what havoc they will wreak on the plans of the mighty and the powerful?’

‘I think you could say,’ said Baveth. ‘I think you, Jaras Anvarheim, would be able to say exactly what would happen to those plans.’

CHAPTER 19

Hevat Grask wheeled slowly in the night of the Beneath. His nostrils flared. He extended his long tongue and tasted the air. He was learning the flavours of the Colonnade. The flavours, and its layers. There were the architectural layers, and even in the Beneath they could be learned. They were broken and staggered. They intersected with each other. Yet there was an order, because the social hierarchies of wealth and power were as strong here as they were in the Above, just taking on the form of levels of poverty and weakness. These layers were useful to Hevat Grask, because they traced the contours of the layers that were of real interest. He followed the layers of misery, the layers of pain.

He tasted pain on the wind, and followed its call. He knew the vintages of pain deeply, because his own ran so deep. His pain had come upon him as a sudden, irrevocable blow, and it had struck with even greater force because it had been his fault. He had been arrogant. He had convinced himself that he could bathe in the powers unleashed by Nagash’s Necroquake. He had believed he could master the energies that would course through him. Instead, they had mastered him. They had changed him into a monster.

He had not been alone in his arrogance. That turned out to be no comfort. It was Lauka Vai who had rescued him from despair and madness. She had rescued all the Avengorii, no matter what journey of foolishness or pride or cursed luck had led to their transformations. She had saved them from becoming utterly mindless animals. Through her will, Hevat Grask and his kin always found their way back to rational thought. She had pulled him from the abyss of unreason. She had given him purpose, and she had given him back a kind of pride. What she could not do was take away his pain.

It was his pain, at least as much as his pride, that had driven him to hunt again each night at the Colonnade. He refused to be alone in his pain. He had to spread monstrosity. Gift or gospel, truth or curse, he had to spread it.

It did not salve his pain to increase the dynasty of the Avengorii. Nothing could do that. There was satisfaction in the act, though. There was the fire of pride in knowing the power of the Avengorii grew with every broken, miserable cog he removed from the mechanism of the Colonnade. He also enjoyed the challenge of feasting at the edges of the treaty.

The sense among the other Vengorian Lords was that the entire population of the city was against the Avengorii and the alliance. With the exception of the councillor that had come searching for them in the Sascathran Desert, that was true of the Above. It was also true in much of the Beneath, and the suspended platforms seethed with unrest. There were nuances in the Beneath, though. Already, in the space of a few nights since the arrival of the Avengorii, the flavours that Hevat Grask tasted in the lower depths had changed. On his first night of exploration, it was fear, and fear alone, that he had tasted when he winged over the cramped streets. He had found a crack in the fear in Parek, and the crack had widened since. There was curiosity now as well as fear. And sombre, fragile hope. More and more people were daring to think of a future, rather than trying to blot out thought of their present. The Avengorii were still feared in the regions of the Long Chains, but they were not hated by all there.

Every night, there were more souls who wondered if they might be willing to embrace monstrosity.

Hevat Grask found it interesting to think about the future of the Colonnade after Orgo had been defeated. He amused himself by speculating what the Avengorii might offer to the city, and how they might change it.

How they might continue the task that he had begun.

Already, the lesson Lauka Vai had come to teach the Colonnade was taking hold.

There were calls in the night again. There were the voices of the lost, seeking the gifts of the Avengorii. They ignored the curfew, now hours past. They had no fear of punishment. There was nothing the powers of the Colonnade could do to make their lot worse than it already was.

There was easy prey for Hevat Grask if he answered those calls. He did not. Tonight, they were not interesting. Tonight, he wanted a challenge.

He flew higher, leaving the worst of the misery below him. He smelled pain above, and he followed the scent.

Suvan’s friends gathered around her in the common room of the boarding house. They had lit every candle they could find, trying to push back the darkness as if that could push back her grief. The effort failed. The candles showed up the grime and smoke on the timbers of the house. They illuminated every corner of the room and made the absences all the clearer. They could not soften her agony. They could only make its outlines sharper.

The room was crowded. Suvan had many friends. What she did not have was a family. Not any more. Not after today, when her daughter and her son had been taken away from her.

They had been working, as she had been, in the open pit of the diamond mine to the south of the Colonnade. In the shifting lands, mining tunnels were impossible, an act of madness even to contemplate. The tunnels could vanish without warning, annihilating anyone inside. The open mines were safer, at least as far as the conscience of the distant rich of the Above was concerned. The reality was more brutal. Even a small change in elevation, a mere ripple in the ground, could trigger slides. Like the one today.

Suvan had just carried another load of precious rock to the wagons at the top of the pit when the tremor hit. The ground bucked beneath her. A hillock rose and knocked her off balance, upending the wagon. And then the edge of the pit collapsed. She scrambled back, out of the way. She was above the fall, and she was safe. Below her, the thunder of shattered, falling earth swept down into the pit. The cracking that announced disaster gave almost everyone enough time to run, and only a narrow wedge of the bowl of the pit disappeared beneath tons of rubble.

Only her children, already fifteen-year veterans of the mine, did not have time to escape.

On her feet again, Suvan looked down in horror and saw the ground slump towards Vel and Aran. She saw what was going to happen. And then she saw what happened.

The bodies had not been recovered. They had been buried forever.

And now, though she was surrounded by friends, she was alone. They mourned with her, but she was alone, because how could they know the full, raw, scraping howl of her pain? They tried to comfort her, but she was alone, because the only thing that could comfort this pain was the miraculous reversal of its cause. They shared her fury, and they were angry that there had been still more death just so the castle could add diamonds to its store, but she was alone, because they could not match her anger. No one could, who was not experiencing the same loss.

She was seated at the long, unvarnished table of the common room. She was doubled over, exhausted from another wave of wrenching cries. Her stomach and her ribs ached.

There were so many people, crowding around her, touching her, patting her shoulders, trying to hug her.

She couldn’t breathe.

She forced herself to her feet. ‘I need air,’ she said.

Laveya, her best friend, took her arm. ‘Don’t go out,’ she pleaded.

‘I don’t care about the curfew.’

‘I’m not thinking about that. I mean them. They hunt at night.’

‘Not this far up.’

‘Just because they haven’t hunted here yet doesn’t mean they won’t start.’

Suvan shook herself free. ‘I don’t care.’

Laveya tried to take her arm again. ‘Then let me come with you.’

Suvan gave her a hard look. ‘Do you really want to?’ she asked coldly.

‘I don’t want you to be by yourself,’ Laveya said, too frightened to lie convincingly.

‘I want to be,’ Suvan said, and pushed through the crowd and out of the boarding house.

The air was better in the street. It was less close, and there was a breeze. She took a shuddering lungful and started to walk.

She paid no attention to where she was going. She was in the throbbing numbness between grief’s spasms. Her head was stuffed with lead, and her eyes were scratchy, heavy as stones. She stumped along, following the melancholy relief of the breeze.

Her boarding house was on one of the larger platforms at this level of the Beneath, one layer down from the Pillar and Sickle. She could walk a fair distance along the twisting lanes before she would have to navigate a suspension bridge. She was conscious enough of her surroundings and what she was doing to know better than to try a crossing in her state. And she was so tired. Any effort beyond the thudding momentum of walking was too much.

Once, as she crossed an intersection, she saw a pair of guards down the other street on her right. They were walking the other way. She moved a bit faster until she felt they were far enough away to be safe.

The numbness began to break up, and she paid more attention to the city around her. She did care after all about being arrested. A little bit, at least.

Something flew overhead. She looked up quickly. She saw nothing, had only an impression of a sudden current in the darkness. She heard the beat of wings once, and then the thing was gone. The breeze eddied around her, disturbed by the passage of the predator.

Suvan stayed where she was, motionless, suddenly aware that now, now, she really was alone. She held her breath, waiting for the thing that flew in the night to return.

It did not. The night remained calm and silent.

She started walking again. She carried on in as straight a line as the patchwork streets permitted. The road she was on ended at the edge of the platform, next to the massive iron framework that held one of the chains. She sat down beside it, leaning against the low wall running along the platform edge. She couldn’t walk any longer. She started to weep again.

Stone cracked under heavy claws.

She screamed.

‘We should go after her,’ Laveya said. She had hoped Suvan would only step outside, and not actually wander off. She had been gone a while now. Laveya had opened the door to look several times, and there was no sign of her. Laveya’s guilt was growing with her anxiety. ‘I shouldn’t have let her go.’

The others were milling around, as unsure what to do as she was.

‘You didn’t have a choice,’ said Kav, looking worried and guilty himself. ‘She wanted to be alone.’

‘I should have gone anyway.’ Laveya went to the window of the common room again, and looked up and down the dark street. ‘She’s been too long.’

‘I’m sure she’s all right,’ Kav said, sounding very uncertain.

Laveya shook her head. ‘We should go after her,’ she said again.

‘It’s after curfew,’ said Kav.

‘So?’

‘If we’re arrested, we aren’t doing her any good. She might have been arrested too.’

‘And if she hasn’t?’ Laveya said.

No one said anything. The unspoken question was whether something worse had happened to Suvan, and whether they had the courage to do something about it.

Laveya took a deep breath. ‘This is our city,’ she said to herself. ‘This is our city,’ she said, louder, more forcefully. ‘Even here. This isn’t their hunting ground. If we’re too scared to move at night, we’ve surrendered.’

The speech sounded good in her ears. It did little to ease the rapid beating of her heart. She didn’t want to leave the boarding house. No one here did. But they had to. They couldn’t abandon Suvan. Not tonight.

Kav was nodding, and beginning to look angry as well as scared. ‘She’s right,’ he declared. ‘This is our city.’

Everyone agreed. With the bravado of numbers, they became resolute. They moved towards the door as one, with Laveya leading the way. They hit the street as a determined mass, and then they stopped, directionless.

‘Where would she go?’ Kav asked.

‘We could split up into smaller groups and search,’ Laveya said doubtfully. The platform was suddenly a dark maze, one where hunters could be concealed in every shadow.

Then they heard the scream.

A monster landed beside her. It walked on a reptile’s legs, and its wings were ugly shreds. It was a thing sewn together from fears of the dark. Suvan jumped to her feet and, with nowhere to run, threw herself back against the wall. She began to lose her balance. The monster from the waist up was a man, and he reached out and caught her. ‘Careful,’ he said, solicitous, his voice low and strangely soothing despite his appearance. The human face transformed, its jaw distending to reveal rows of savage teeth, and Suvan screamed again.

The pain of the fangs sinking into her throat was a shock. The stabbing flare went deeper than her flesh. It went to the core of her being. A hunger that was not hers reached into her. It invaded her blood and her soul, and it pulled them out of her body. Far, far away, she heard the sound of an animal drinking. She was being devoured, and she was being changed. No, she thought. She couldn’t speak. No. I don’t want to lose…

… to lose…

To lose what?

Her old self swirled away, sand through her fingers, frail and broken and not worth keeping. Her new self came in through the pain. It settled into her flesh. It sank into her bones. It was dark, and it was strong, and it was not really new. It had always been there, held down by the weakness of the body. A change in power was coming, and the strong self, the true self, would be dominant. She would not be broken again.

Yes, she thought, and she plunged into darkness.

As she fell, she heard the shouting of a crowd. She heard her name. People had come for her. They had come to rescue her. They had come too late.

They were not wanted.

She would never be alone again.

New pain exploded through her body. It began to change too.

She dropped into darkness, and it enveloped her in its welcome.

CHAPTER 20

The mob spilled out of the lanes and surrounded Hevat Grask in moments. He was surprised, and impressed. He had never thought the people of the Colonnade would dare confront any of the Avengorii so openly, or in such numbers.

The people carried torches. And they had come so fast.

The rage against us is stronger than I thought.

‘Back!’ he commanded. He spread his wings wide and held up a hand. His voice roared against the walls of the grimy, steeply gabled houses.

‘He has her!’ a woman cried. ‘He’s killed Suvan!’

‘I have given her power,’ he said. As he spoke, he realised he would not be believed. He had only just finished draining Suvan. Her change was beginning. For now, she was motionless, limp, with black, clotted blood caking the wound on her throat. Her appearance made him into a liar.

Hevat Grask did not fear what these people could do to him. He worried about what he would do to them. Though he had fed, the taste of blood was so fresh, the unreasoning fury of slaughter the tiniest slip away. Lauka Vai had chosen him and Kavak as delegates because they could restrain their impulses to kill around mortals. If he fought to defend himself, that restraint would crumble, and the massacre would be something the council could not ignore. Better to leave with Suvan and deal with the consequences of his apparent murder later.

‘Take him!’ someone shouted, and he saw that it was a Freeguild guard. There were several in the crowd. They had not come to restore order. They had been swept up in the frenzy, and Hevat Grask began to see the breadth of his folly, but also that Lauka Vai might have miscalculated the size of the reaction to the Avengorii in the Beneath, and the direction it might take. He still did not think he had risked his continued existence. He did see how he had pushed the treaty to the edge of a precipice. The surprise, though, was not the guard or his shout, but what happened next.

The citizens of the Beneath were good with ropes. They had to be. The suspension bridges and ladders needed constant care, repair and replacing. The people built new connections all the time, recreating and reimagining the web of their undercity. Ropework in the Beneath had the same value as masonry in the Above. Hevat Grask had seen the people and their industry with ropes during his flights of exploration. He had not expected to see the ropes come for him. They did now.

Nooses landed around his wings and arms. They tightened suddenly, pulling his limbs in opposite directions, forcing him to drop Suvan. Her body landed with a dull thud at the base of the platform wall. Hevat Grask reared back, and more nooses caught his forelegs.

They wouldn’t dare.

The shock of the attack stunned him, slowing his reflexes. He was caught in a swamp of disbelief. What was happening was impossible.

Torchbearers set fire to one of the houses at the end of the alley. The timbers caught quickly, and then Hevat Grask felt himself being pulled towards the blaze.

Enough!

He jerked his right arm, yanking hard on the rope. A man holding on to it stumbled, and with a scream, he fell over the wall. But the others held firm and hauled back, pulling Hevat Grask’s arm out again with such force that pain burst from his shoulder and swarmed down his flank.

Hevat Grask roared, and a sudden squall of black, rotten blood swept over the platform. It drenched the mob. It ran in a flash flood down the street. People screamed and fled, but others fought with a bravery born of terror. The fire burned on, growing in power as it consumed the house. The ropes, sodden, held him even more tightly. Still more of them caught him. One landed around his neck and would have throttled him if he had still needed to breathe.

The mob was getting bigger, louder. There were triumphant shouts, and still more guards joining the mass. The ropes pulled him closer and closer to the fire.

This cannot be.

He shouted, his voice a ragged, raptor cry in the night. It was a shout of warning. He was about to lose control. If he attacked now, he would rip the mob apart in moments and feast on a deluge of blood.

If he massacred the people, the Avengorii and the Colonnade would be at war.

The fire spread to another house. Curtains of flame reached for Hevat Grask.

The people of the Beneath were willing to burn their homes down to strike back at the Avengorii. They would not stop.

He would have to kill them.

Spears of energy, more powerful and more searing than lightning, shot into the burning houses. Their frames blew apart, and the explosion consumed the fire. The crowd shrank back, shouting in fear. They stopped pulling Hevat Grask. The Beneathers looked up in awe.

The Prosecutors of the Maelstrom of Light had arrived. On shining, aethereal wings, they circled the scene, blinding white javelins and hammers of energy in their fists. The Prosecutor-Prime landed on the top of the wall. The lowered tilt of his helm conveyed the fury behind its impassive silver face. ‘Well?’ he thundered into the silence that had fallen. ‘Will you save the beastmen the trouble of putting the Colonnade to ruin?’

‘My lord!’ the woman who had accused Hevat Grask earlier called. ‘We seek justice! The monster has killed Suvan.’

Hevat Grask turned to the Prosecutor. ‘I have not,’ he said, using his calmest and most reasonable tones. It was difficult to speak through the haze of madness that licked at the edges of his mind. ‘As I tried to tell–’

The Prosecutor cut him off. ‘I have little interest in knowing what act you committed that required an explanation. Though I am now forced to learn what it was.’

Suvan’s body convulsed, triggering more screams from the people nearby. She flipped violently onto her stomach, then arched her back in pain. Her arms grew longer, and a web of flesh detached itself from the bones of each. It spread like dough, and she shrieked in ecstasy and pain at the birth of her wings. Her skull began to deform, her jaws extending, the dome of her skull pushing up into a point.

The crowd backed away from the nascent vampire.

The Prosecutor-Prime stepped down from the wall. He seized Suvan by her trembling shoulders. She thrashed in his grip. He held her fast. ‘Do you hear me?’ he said. ‘Do you understand me?’

His strength of command was such that stone would have answered. Suvan choked back a shriek and nodded. Her arms continued to grow.

‘Do you choose this?’ He did not hide his disgust.

‘I do.’ Suvan howled in agony and triumph.

The Stormcast Eternal released her and stepped away.

‘She needs the care of her new kin,’ Hevat Grask said. ‘With your permission, I will take her home.’

After a moment, the Prosecutor gave a curt nod. Hevat Grask bent down and gathered the writhing vampire in his arms.

The Prosecutor summoned a blade of light and with short, angry gestures severed the ropes. ‘Disperse,’ he ordered the crowd. ‘And by Sigmar, do not make me come to such a riot again.’ He pointed at one of the guards. ‘You disgrace the colours you wear by fomenting disorder. You are fortunate that I am not your commanding officer.’ Then he turned to Hevat Grask. ‘Get out of my sight,’ he snarled.

‘You have my thanks–’ Hevat Grask began.

‘Leave.’

Hevat Grask bowed in his turn, then leapt over the wall and into the dark air. He beat his torn wings, shaking off the pain of the ropes. He stretched his limbs and flew faster.

A huge shape cut across his path and stopped him in his flight. He recovered awkwardly, hovering with an effort. ‘My queen,’ he said, and his voice quavered.

‘You,’ said Lauka Vai, ‘are coming with me.’

‘It is not the duty of the Maelstrom of Light to police the Colonnade,’ Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt said, her anger punctuating every syllable.

There were four of them in the otherwise empty council chamber. Dawnbolt, Tarvynde and Lauka Vai stood in the centre of the hall. Hevat Grask was at the side of the Mother of Nightmares. He was careful to stay silent. Though his fate was uncertain, he was able to appreciate the irony that so enraged the Lord-Celestant. Her forces had been obliged to intervene on behalf of vampires. That had to be a bitter draught to swallow.

‘Are your guards so lacking in discipline?’ she asked Tarvynde. ‘If this is a sign of how the Freeguild will comport itself in war, then our prospects are far more grim than any of us had feared.’

‘The Freeguild will fight with honour,’ Tarvynde said stiffly. ‘They always have. They have always been the glory of the Colonnade. You have no cause to doubt them, Lord-Celestant.’

‘Don’t I?’

‘I will not rehearse their history. You know it as well as I do.’

‘They should see to it that they do not dishonour their history, then.’ She whirled and pointed at Lauka Vai. ‘As for you, this is a strange way of respecting a treaty.’

‘We turned a blind eye to the rumours that reached our ears from the Beneath,’ Tarvynde joined in. ‘But this, we cannot ignore.’

The Mother of Nightmares looked down on them calmly. The end of her tail coiled and uncoiled lazily. ‘I take it that I am to ignore a Vengorian Lord trussed like a fowl before the feast, because what is honour to the Avengorii?’ She snorted. ‘If we treated your nobility in a like manner, the consequences would be severe, I think.’

‘The consequences of preying on your allies will be as well,’ said Tarvynde.

‘If your people turn to us for succour…’

‘Lies!’

Lauka Vai’s smile was slow and cold and dangerous. ‘Have you been to the Beneath?’ she asked him. ‘I suspect the Avengorii know it and the misery there better than you do, and this after only a few days. If you knew what we know, you would not be surprised that there are regions of your city where our gifts might be received.’

Dawnbolt intervened before Tarvynde could answer. ‘None of this matters. It does nothing to resolve the issue. What matters is that last night’s incident in the Beneath will not be repeated.’

‘It will not,’ said Lauka Vai. She looked down on Hevat Grask. He gasped as her will seized his. An iron band circled his mind, threatening to squeeze it to nothing. He had presumed too far, and risked too much. But Lauka Vai’s anger was greater than that. She was furious that events in the Beneath were escaping her control. His four legs trembled then buckled under him, and he slumped to the floor.

Her point made, Lauka Vai released him. ‘This Lord is banished from the Colonnade,’ she said. ‘You will never see him within these walls again. Be certain of that.’

‘I am,’ said Tarvynde, ‘because we march tomorrow.’

‘You have received the charts from the Scholar of Tides?’ Lauka Vai asked.

Dismissed from consideration, Hevat Grask struggled upright and backed a few discreet paces away.

Tarvynde nodded. ‘We leave at dusk.’

‘A propitious moment,’ said Lauka Vai.

‘Very well,’ said Dawnbolt. ‘Then there are questions about last night that we will put aside. They shall await our return.’

‘Agreed,’ said Tarvynde. He sounded almost cheerful, as if the prospect were so far distant it was something he would never have to consider.

CHAPTER 21

By mid-morning of the day the Colonnade would march to war, the ground had risen to the level of the city gates. Kavak circled the western wall, watching the gatherings that formed in the morning hours before the march began. The people of the Above looked at the wonder with awe and fear. In the history of the city, this had never happened. The gates had never been opened, except as part of the annual Festival of the Elevation. On that day, the huge bronze barriers slid aside to reveal the empty air that was the Colonnade’s shield, its certainty that it would never be invaded.

Kavak remembered the Rites of Elevation. He remembered the pride of standing in the great square and looking out through the gates. He remembered taking part in the processions, thousands long, past the opening to look down at the ground below and know that this shining city was untouchable, elevated far above the savage grasp of Ghur. Year after year, throughout his childhood and on until the siege of the tzaangors wrenched him from the Colonnade, that ritual and that sight had inculcated in him a belief in the superiority and the permanence of the city. The pillars were invisible from the perspective of the Above. What the view taught was that the Colonnade floated serenely above the land it had conquered.

He had shed that delusion long ago. He was glad of that. He was saddened by how much of the poisonous doctrine had filtered down through the Beneath, where the people lived in the darkness beside the pillars, where the ground was the threat of a fall, or something that would rise and seek to crush, and where the sky was an eternal darkness supporting the lives of the privileged. But the myths of the superior and the pure were easy to nurture and hard to eradicate. The social hierarchies reinforced by the physical structure of the city reached down along the chains and bound the people. They clung to their shackles as if they were gold.

Today, though, the belief in the floating city was shattered. The gates opened onto a gently sloping hill. Tall grasses waved in the wind. The land brushed against the platform, and there was no gap to cross. For the first time, one could walk out of the gate and onto the ground. It was a circumstance that served the Colonnade’s army well. There would be no need to send regiments out one by one, lowering them by means of the lift of the great square. Even the people of the Beneath would have the chance to experience this wonder. They would be coming up shortly, through the numerous service lifts, to form up and take part in the great march out from the Colonnade. Until then, though, their privilege was to live in the most profound darkness they had yet experienced, almost all sign of day cut off by the cliffs that had risen to the east and west.

Kavak kept circling. As the day drew on, the armies of the Colonnade lined up. Their banners flew in pride along the ramparts, snapping in the wind. The colours, though, were drab under the Avengorii sky of iron cloud. Their armour would have been resplendent in the direct light of Hysh. Only the sigmarite of the Maelstrom of Light seemed to shine with a radiance of its own. The breastplates of the Freeguild Guard, though polished as mirrors, were simply steel.

If we were marching together, that metal would already have rusted. As well, then, that the Avengorii would be going on ahead.

They would wait until the Colonnade was ready to march. The Stormcast Eternals were the first to pass through the gates. Rows of trumpet bearers saluted them with fanfares as Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt led the march on her dracoth, Havazzor. The Prosecutors flew above her on wings of light, and Kavak gave them a wide berth, pulling back east to watch from a distance. As the ranks of the Paladins, Judicators and Liberators headed out, their booted feet striking the pavement stones of the square in such perfect unison that it was as if thunder itself had been shaped into a disciplined force, Kavak was joined by Hevat Grask.

‘Is it curiosity that brings you here?’ Hevat Grask asked. ‘Or is it something rather more unusual?’ He grinned. ‘Or should I say someone more unusual?’

‘I’m sure you find yourself highly amusing.’

‘I do, at that,’ Hevat Grask admitted. He changed subject. ‘We are ready,’ he said. ‘Our queen is at the encampment. At her word, we fly.’

‘Am I summoned to return?’

‘On the contrary. You are bid to do your leave takings as best you can.’

‘Does Lauka Vai approve of my dialogues with Atella Reigehren?’

‘She does,’ Hevat Grask said with a twinge of envy in his tone. ‘She sees that this councillor is learning the lesson we seek to teach more readily and more fully than could have been foreseen.’

The last of the Stormcast Eternals passed through the gates, and the Freeguild Guard began to form up in the square. The two vampires flew in closer. ‘Their pageantry is as expected,’ said Hevat Grask. ‘I hope they will appreciate the spectacle we will offer them.’

‘I fear you will be disappointed,’ said Kavak.

‘I fear you will be correct.’ Hevat Grask cocked his head. ‘Has that cursed song become part of the fanfare?’

Kavak listened. He ground his teeth in anger. ‘It has,’ he said. The trumpeters played a few bars of ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’, and then returned to more traditional anthems he remembered from his service in the Guard.

And now the crowds lining the square began to sing the full song.

‘I think I see your brother leading the choir,’ said Hevat Grask.

‘And I see why,’ said Kavak. Atella had entered the square, leading the regiment from her terrace.

The crowd burst into a loud rendition of the verses about the betrayer within.

‘Enjoy your leave takings,’ Hevat Grask said grimly.

‘I’m sure I’ll find my conversation with my brother fascinating,’ Kavak growled. He folded his wings, arrowed down towards the square and spread them out at the last moment to come to a sudden stop in front of Jaras. He was in front of the crowd before the tower of the Scholar of Tides, conducting the singing. He was already wearing his Guard livery. For the conscripts, it was simply a red-and-white cloak worn over their own clothes. He was using the sword he had been issued to mark the beats of the song.

Kavak landed hard enough to shake the pavement. Thrown off his stride, Jaras turned to face him. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

The crowd stopped singing. They drew back against the wall of the tower, leaving space around the two brothers.

‘I won’t ask if you’re proud of yourself,’ said Kavak, ‘because I know you are.’

‘It isn’t a question of pride.’

‘Your face says otherwise.’

Jaras shook his head. ‘Everything I do is about saving the city.’

‘You plan to do that by slandering the name of one of its commanders, and by undermining the alliance that was formed to save it?’ Kavak hissed in disgust.

Jaras’ face twisted. ‘That alliance is a betrayal. It was never more than a war of subterfuge by the Avengorii. The alliance is your means to destroy the Colonnade. I saw what your kind have been doing in the Beneath.’

‘What you saw and what you understood are different things,’ said Kavak.

Jaras was contemptuous. ‘A fine lie,’ he said.

‘Believe what you will. Indulge in your petty hatreds. I will save the Colonnade in spite of you. I have no idea what you think you’re doing. I do know that your actions are pointless at best, and destructive at worst.’

Jaras came closer to Kavak and looked up into his face. He raised the sword. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve saved the Colonnade from the beastmen and from you.’

‘Quite the boast.’

‘You’ll see that it is true. In time. You will never have the Colonnade.’

‘You’re welcome to it. I don’t want it.’

‘Oh really?’ Jaras looked past Kavak into the square.

Kavak turned around. Atella and her troops were waiting for their signal to march from the gate. She was looking at him, and in her face it was plain that the call of the monstrous had taken a firm hold. There was no glory in the parading Colonnade for her. She had seen the truth, and it would not release her. Kavak wondered how far she would be able to go in its pursuit. He had willingly become a monster, but he had done so for a mortal’s purpose. If Atella ever made the same choice, he thought it would come from a place more profound than that.

Kavak turned back to Jaras. ‘I’m not sure what you think you know about Atella Reigehren. What I am sure of is that you do not know the truth. All truths are alien to you, brother. They will come for you, though, I promise you that.’

Jaras shook with hate. ‘And I promise you this,’ he said. ‘I will see you both burn.’

Kavak snarled at him, his jaws wide, lips pulled back to display his teeth in all their horror. Jaras reeled back, and Kavak advanced on him, his claws gouging the pavement. ‘You zealous little maggot!’ Kavak roared. ‘I was such a fool even to try to speak with you. I had hoped there might be a bond between us. I had hoped I might see my brother again. I was wrong. He’s gone. In his place is a corrupt, self-serving homunculus. I thought I was the monster. I was wrong about that, too. You talk about disgust? You have no comprehension of the depth of the disgust I feel for you. I have never been more grateful to have shed my mortal form, because I can boast that there is nothing that links us but a dead past and a name that has lost all meaning. I despise mirrors, Jaras, but you should fear them.’ He spat at Jaras’ feet. The stone hissed and bubbled.

The crowd was frightened. Jaras was pale, his hands in fists so tight his knuckles were white. Guards made their way cautiously towards the brothers.

Kavak spread his wings. ‘There is nothing to fear,’ he called to the guards. ‘I am going. I leave it to you to ensure this worm that was once my brother does not disgrace himself in battle. Much luck may you have in it.’

He flew off. He wheeled over the square once more, taking in the city he had come to despise. He hated the thought that if Orgo was defeated, he would have to return to the Colonnade. There was no home for him here. He didn’t think there ever had been.

Jaras tried to rekindle a chorus of ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’, but the fear of Kavak’s rage would not be dispelled that easily, and no one sang with him. Then it was time for him to join his regiment. He was in a foul mood as he lined up. In the ranks, he was just another anonymous Short Chain. The name he had made for himself meant nothing all of a sudden. He had tried to keep some of the attention focused on himself at Atella Reigehren’s expense, but Kavak had ruined that, turning the attention into something negative. It wasn’t Kavak’s anger that had the worst effect. It was his contempt, his visceral disgust. The people of the city had just seen a vampire express revulsion for a mortal, and that made an impression. Not the one Jaras wanted.

People had looked at him with guarded curiosity. Even pity, which was even worse. And now no one looked at him at all. That was bad too.

The captain of his regiment, Velazun, raised his sword, preparing to order the conscripts forward. There were fewer people watching now that all the regiments composed of citizens from the Above had left. The fanfares were smaller too. This was the time for the poor and the expendable to pass through the square and get on with their duties. It was not necessary to see or celebrate them.

The remaining trumpeters raised their instruments, and Jaras could feel the perfunctory nature of the tribute before it even sounded.

It did not sound. Velazun’s sword dropped, but not with a gesture of command.

The people still watching from the sides of the square screamed, and many of Jaras’ conscripted brothers and sisters cowered. He hunched down in spite of himself, and the fear broke through his shield of hate.

The Avengorii were flying over the Colonnade.

The full strength of the dynasty of monsters appeared to the city for the first time. All the legions that had been waiting and hunting in the forests at the edge of the Colonnade’s territory now filled the air over the towers of marble and diamond. The sky went from grey to black at their coming, and a mist of blood fell, slicking the roofs and the pavements. It would linger, a blackened stain on the purity of the white stone. It would linger, like the memory of horror that would haunt the sleep of the witnesses of the flight.

The monsters went by like a river of darkness. They filled the sky with their wings and their terrifying shapes. They cried out to each other, and their voices sounded like the laughter of ravens. The shrieks and the calls were their own fanfare, a hideous triumph that mocked the glory below.

The blood fell harder. It spattered into Jaras’ face. He coughed, retched and rubbed desperately to get the foulness from his eyes.

The trumpeters tried to sound their instruments, to counter the nightmares above. They failed. Captain Velazun stood motionless, his sword useless at his side, gaping in terror at the writhing sky. Moans of horror rose across the Colonnade, and perhaps that was the tribute the Avengorii sought.

Jaras forced himself to watch. He held tight to his hatred, and it gave him the strength not to turn away. He gave thanks for his destiny, and for every fated action he had taken to see the Avengorii destroyed. There, in the sky, that vision that ate at the soul and slashed reason to bloody tatters, that was the truth of the Avengorii. That was the future of the Colonnade if measures were not taken.

He had taken them. He had placed the city on the road to salvation.

I’m glad that we’re marching to war, Kavak. I’m glad that we’re going to follow you. I’m glad because I’m going to see you die. And then we’ll see to our traitors, too.

Finally, after an age of shrieking night, the last of the Avengorii passed over the Colonnade. The swarm of monsters disappeared into the west. The rain of blood ceased. The darkness of the sky lessened. The clouds lost their anger, faded to a lighter grey, and then, for the first time since the coming of Lauka Vai, they began to break up. By the time Velazun had recovered himself and given the order to march, the sky was clear. The fanfare sounded with far greater energy than Jaras had expected, but he was not surprised. The trumpets were no longer a farewell to the regiments from the Beneath. They were a greeting to the return of beauty to the heavens.

It was dusk, the hour that Baveth Ullior had said the march should begin. It was the hour, Jaras knew, that marked the beginning of the Colonnade’s victory. Hysh was disappearing below the horizon. The sky was a deepening blue, almost violet, and the purity of the colour made Jaras’ heart soar as he strode down the slope outside the gates, at one with his comrades. The lifting of spirits was universal. Someone started to sing ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’, and soon thousands of voices joined in.

As Hysh vanished, the sky to the west turned crimson. Jaras sang with greater fervour at the sight. It was an omen, perhaps sent by the hand of Sigmar. The future was drenched with the blood of beastmen and Avengorii. And the fires of the Colonnade blazed to the skies in triumph.

CHAPTER 22

Atella was conscious of the whispers of her troops. She had seen the suspicion on the faces of many when she had gathered her regiment for the night’s march. Hours into the journey, she knew that if any of her guards had not heard all that was being said about her before they left the Colonnade, they would have by now. So be it. She had not expected things would be any different. She had set herself on the path she now walked when she first suggested turning to the Avengorii for help.

She would have preferred that her soldiers trusted her command. What mattered, in the end, was that they fought the beastmen. On that count, she was confident.

Though it was night, and the army marched by torchlight, progress was swift. The route west was clear. To the north and south, the land became uneven, a jumble of rocky outcroppings and gullies. But Atella walked on a long slope, covered in scrub, leading to a flat plain. At the end of the plain the ground rose again, but gently. That rise had been the horizon, the last thing Atella had seen in the distance before night came down. The Avengorii were on the other side of it. She would see them again, she hoped, before the attack began. The beastmen were on the other side of the rise too. So close, but still frustratingly out of reach.

Far ahead, shining in the darkness, the Maelstrom of Light led the way forward. The light of the Prosecutors’ wings cut through the night, a beacon of strength and a brilliant spear aimed at the heart of the beastherd. The armour of the Stormcast Eternals on the ground picked up the light. A silver glow, outlining the shapes of massive, unstoppable warriors moving relentlessly on.

Behind the Maelstrom of Light was the elite regiment of the Freeguild Guard. Lord Tarvynde rode at their head along with General Torvassen. Their armour and the mail of their horses was gold, and studded with diamonds. It reflected the torchlight, and though they were dimmer figures than the warriors of the Maelstrom of Light, they were another bright ember. They were the glory of the Colonnade, pushing back the darkness, heading to war to destroy a greater one.

Atella could not look at them with the pride she once had. Is this how my troops are looking at me? If so, then she was all the more confident of their comportment in battle. She would follow the commands of Tarvynde and Torvassen, and her regiment would follow hers.

The regiments marched through half the night, then made camp a few hours before dawn. They had to rest, because the next march would lead them directly to war. They were expected to reach the beastmen by late afternoon.

A few fires were lit, but no tents were set up. The night was not cold, and there would be little time to strike the camp. The charts that Baveth had presented to the council had no room for error. The advance had to be made at precise hours, or it would fail.

Atella had just unshouldered her pack when Ollam came up to her.

‘This had better be important,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any time for family politics.’

‘You should let me lead,’ Ollam said simply.

‘What, the regiment?’ The idea was so absurd that she had to have misunderstood.

‘Yes, the regiment,’ Ollam snapped, offended by her bafflement.

‘You have no experience.’ Atella felt like she was informing him that night was dark.

‘I’m a Reigehren,’ he said, as if the family name conferred ability.

‘You are not a captain,’ she said, slowly, clearly, wondering why she was caught in this pointless conversation.

‘You don’t have the trust of the troops,’ Ollam said. ‘You have to step aside.’

She held her temper. ‘I have trained them, and I have trained them well. They may not like me, but they know how to follow orders in battle.’

‘Like? I said trust. Will they obey you? I wonder.’

‘You wonder if they will attack the beastmen? I wonder that about you, but not about them.’

‘The beastmen,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, of course.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sure we will all fight them.’ His tone was hard to read. He sounded sly, as if there were another meaning to his words, but she could not guess what it was.

‘Go away and get some sleep, Ollam,’ she said. ‘I will not step aside, and I will not listen to your demands. You will follow my commands in the battle, or I will execute you for mutiny.’ She kept her voice calm, her tone level, so he would know the threat was real. ‘And if you try to undermine my command, I will execute you for that, too.’

Ollam stared at her, his face turning bloodless as he realised she was serious. ‘You wouldn’t,’ he said.

‘Try me and find out.’

He left her, and Atella turned her face towards the west again. Far off in the night, there was a faint red glow, barely leaching above the horizon. The fires of the beastherd, she guessed. The Avengorii would have the foe in sight, and be preparing for the assault. They were going to attack come day, an unusual strategy for vampires, but necessary to coordinate with the timing of the Colonnade’s attack.

I wish I were there.

There were many things she wished. She wished she could think about the future. She wished she could think there was a chance, after the war, for a real alliance and peace between the Colonnade and the Avengorii. Stop it. Do not indulge in these wishes. The alliance will not survive beyond this battle, and you know that.

Yes. Yes, I do.

Acknowledging the truth was freeing. She realised she didn’t care about the political outcome of the war. She cared about something more important. She’d had, through Kavak’s teaching, a glimpse of something sublime, and the glimpse would not be enough. She held on to that goal. It was stronger than wishes. It let her sleep.

The Avengorii flew distant rings around the beastherd at night, staying out of sight, gauging the full strength of the enemy. Kavak and Hevat Grask flew in close formation with Lauka Vai. The ground below, a vast, shallow bowl on the other side of the hills that separated them from the advancing Colonnade forces, swarmed and bellowed with horned, stamping creatures of Tzeentch.

‘It’s vast,’ Hevat Grask said of the beastherd.

It was. It had grown since Kavak had last seen it. The Avengorii did not draw close enough to see the precise composition of the herd, nor did they need to. It was enough to know the scale of the enemy, and to know that every kind of beast was there, following in the heavy footsteps of Orgo. There were monsters in the air, too, flights of chimeras. They were not yet hunting for their enemies, though Kavak thought the beastmen had to have caught the scent of the vampires. Lauka Vai was not keeping the coming attack a secret, and the storm clouds of the Avengorii had blotted out the stars. But Orgo would have to wait and snarl and wonder a bit longer before he was given the satisfaction of battle.

‘We are going to war against a sea,’ said Kavak.

‘We are,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘We will sink our claws into the sea, and it will learn that it can bleed, that it can be stabbed, and that seas can die. When we are done, there will be only barren earth where the sea of Chaos once lapped.’

When they had circled around again to the hills on the eastern side of the herd, Lauka Vai gathered the Vengorian Lords around her and pointed. ‘We will cut through the centre of the enemy. If we destroy Orgo and his shamans in the first moments, so much the better, though I will not underestimate our foe by expecting such an outcome. Our goal will be to drive forward and through, to the other side of the herd. Cut it in half.’

‘That will sow confusion in their ranks,’ said Hevat Grask.

‘Not for long,’ Lauka Vai said, echoing Kavak’s thoughts. ‘We will use what there is to our ends, and to greater slaughter. Do not lose the advantage of flight. There are beasts of the air.’

‘And once we have reached the other side?’ Kavak asked.

‘We butcher them there, and draw the herd to the west. That will be the moment for the Colonnade to strike the herd while its attention is on us.’

Kavak noticed that she did not say when the Colonnade strikes the herd.

‘Will the Colonnade keep faith?’ Hevat Grask asked.

‘A question to ask Lord Tarvynde,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘It is in their interest to do so.’ She bared her fangs.

‘If they fail us?’ said Hevat Grask, insistent.

‘They will not dare. They have seen our full strength. They know that they need us to fight against Orgo. We do not need them, and I will force them to confront the monstrous within themselves. For every vampire that they have hunted in the past, there will be the slow retribution of the erosion of their self-belief.’ Her eyes narrowed, their blankness hinting at terrible vengeance. ‘But that is not our task of the moment. The beastherd of Orgo must be destroyed,’ she said. ‘It shall be. I will not permit this taint of Tzeentch to remain upon the land.’

The Avengorii gathered behind her, preparing, forming themselves into the great, shattering wedge that would strike through the heart of the beastherd.

Dawn came, though it arrived without light. The darkness of the clouds was too profound. The sky pressed down, heavy with blood.

The storm of the Avengorii was poised to fall upon the beastmen.

From the east, where daylight tried to find a hold on the land, came the sound of the Colonnade’s call to arms.

‘Tear the beasts apart!’ Lauka Vai cried. Her voice rolled over the land, drowning out the bellows. Wings outspread, claws extended, she swept her arm down, wielding a sword whose immense blade could cut a mortal in half at a stroke. With the gesture, she condemned the horde below to the slaughter. ‘Be the glory of monstrosity, my children!’ Her voice was lightning, and it ripped the clouds open, unleashing a deluge of black blood. ‘To our feast!’ And her voice filled the souls of her dynasty with hunger, with frenzy and with the ecstasy of death.

Lauka Vai streaked downward, her wings creating a gale in her wake. The Avengorii dived with her, a legion of ravening monsters turned into a single, murderous spearhead, the maddened vargheists guided by the lucid Vengorian Lords. Kavak roared, exulting in the charge. He saw the ground below in a haze of red. The need for blood, oceans of blood, consumed him. As the spearhead closed in from the west on the front lines of the beastherd, the thought skittered through his fevered mind that a hundred thousand gors would not satisfy him. He would feast until not a single beast of Chaos lived in the realm of Ghur.

The beastmen answered frenzy with fury. They stampeded forward, an unbroken mass of horns that filled the entire bowl. They welcomed the attack of the Avengorii with hurled spears and lowered horns. Leading the charge, Orgo looked up and roared, his two massive axes upraised. On either side of him, his shamans howled their praise of Tzeentch and conjured foul sorcerous energy. An aura of blue and red rippled over the forward part of the herd.

Lauka Vai descended on the leading edge of the beastmen with the force of a meteor. Mother of Nightmares and beast of annihilation raced towards each other. At the last moment, she shouted an incantation of her own and blasted mystical bolts into the beastmen. The bolts struck Orgo full in the chest. He staggered, roared in defiance of their power and kept coming. But when the full force of the Mother of Nightmares arrived, a hurricane of wind and torrents of blinding blood with her, he threw himself to the side. He turned to bring his axes down against her flanks, but her tail lashed out and knocked him aside.

Kavak saw the near encounter between Orgo and Lauka Vai. She snarled in frustration that she could not turn back and confront the beastlord. But the command was forward, always forward. The momentum could not be slowed, or it would be stopped. The spear blow had to cut all the way through the herd. So Lauka Vai kept going, leaving Orgo behind to turn after her and pursue, forcing his way through his own warriors.

The wedge cut into the beastmen. The Avengorii slashed through brutal flesh, and the battle began with the slaughter Lauka Vai had commanded. The vampires parted a sea of monsters, and Kavak revelled in the fact that his queen was right. The sea could bleed.

Kavak’s flight turned him into a scythe. The huge claws of his wings and his blackened iron blade slashed throats and gutted bellies. His clawed feet tore heads off as he passed. Mouth open, he glutted himself on the fountains of blood that exploded at his passage. The torrents hammering down from the sky mixed with the blood of the beasts, blackening it the moment it burst into the air. The taste of warm death drove him mad with the need for more and more killing. He was on the precipice’s edge, so close to falling into the abyss of his own bestial urges, the abyss that was the fate of any of the Avengorii not held in the realm of reason by the will of Lauka Vai. He flew faster and faster. He was the hand of butchery. He did not see individual enemies. There was only the mass that he was cutting down. He could not be stopped.

But though the sea parted, the waves crashed back. Gors and bestigors pushed in, crushing the smaller ungors in their fury to trample and rend the vampires. A huge body hurled itself at Kavak. He saw it coming, saw that he could not stop its charge. He tried to pull up.

Do not stop. Do not stop. Do not let them slow you.

The gor leapt and seized him. The weight was immense. Kavak strained upward. The gor kicked as its hooves left the ground, found no purchase and rammed its horns into his chest. Kavak shrieked in anger. He beat his wings harder, flew higher. He lunged his head down, ripped open the back of the gor’s neck and stabbed his sword into the brute’s ribs. He feasted on his foe’s life, replenishing his strength as fast as it could wound him. The gor weakened, and Kavak hurled it away. It fell and disappeared into the cauldron of violence below.

Kavak paused, the flames of his frenzy dampening, and saw that he was at the western edge of the beastherd. He shot forward again, becoming part of the mass of the Avengorii. The legions came out of the mass of the herd and rose upward, then turned back to face their foes.

They had killed hundreds in that great sweep. It seemed to Kavak that they had not even touched the herd.

‘An axe blow to water,’ he muttered.

The beastmen did as Lauka Vai had foreseen. The entire herd was rushing west, intent on revenge. Orgo, left far back by the spear thrust of the Avengorii, had now made his way to the middle of his forces and was thundering towards the new front lines. He was not roaring in animal rage. He was barking orders, and the herd responded. The aura surrounding the beastmen intensified.

Sparks ran down Kavak’s armour as the energy built.

Lauka Vai led the Avengorii into a second charge, coming in higher this time, aiming for the shamans, racing to stop the counter-attack before it was unleashed.

Kavak looked to the east as he followed his queen.

At his side was the Vengorian Lord Thalvess, his companion from his first encounter with the beasts of Orgo. ‘Where is the Colonnade?’ he said. ‘Now is their time.’

Kavak listened for the sound of trumpets over the snarls and roars of beasts.

Instead, he heard the rumbling of the earth.

Atella wanted to sprint up the hill. On this side of the slopes, she could not see the Avengorii. She could not see what was happening. She could only hear the storm of howls, roars and screams.

She kept her discipline. She was responsible for her regiment. They led the way up at a steady pace, behind the elites. The Maelstrom of Light were near the top of the rise. The Prosecutors were above it. They would see the progress of the war. Atella willed them to launch their assault.

The vibrations began under her feet. In the first moment, she refused to believe what they meant. There was a mistake. This was a harmless tremor. The Colonnade’s regiments had followed the hours of Baveth’s charts. The land would not change. Not now. Not now.

The ground erupted. At the top of the rise, immense granite slabs shot straight up with such speed that they forced even the Prosecutors to fly back or be crushed by the millions of tons of stone suddenly clawing for the sky. The deafening, piercing cracks were the birth cries of mountains. The ground shook itself back and forth like a trapped animal. Atella fell, along with her regiment and all the soldiers of the Colonnade. They slid and rolled down the slope. Its gradient steepened so quickly, it felt as if the realm were folding itself back over her.

She sank her fingers into the ground and arrested her slide. She looked up, and up, and up, and saw the gigantic vertical cliffs that blocked the advance. Somewhere nearby, Ollam was laughing.

Atella howled.

CHAPTER 23

The sounds of war came to Jaras from the other side of the new cliffs. He picked himself up and laughed. He cut a short caper in front of a rock wall a thousand feet high, then obediently got back into place as his regiment reassembled itself. He couldn’t stop grinning and looking at the barrier. There would be no crossing it. The Prosecutors could fly over the jagged top of the cliff, but no one could climb it.

A few hundred yards away, at the base of the wall, Dawnbolt and Tarvynde conferred. Jaras couldn’t hear what they were saying. Dawnbolt’s gestures were brusque, frustrated. She had been marching to war and now was stymied. Tarvynde seemed considerably more relaxed. He nodded and shrugged. Jaras thought he even smiled once, very briefly. His expression was otherwise serious, but he radiated a calm equanimity in the face of the barrier. The events of the land were beyond his control.

He is one of us, Jaras thought, more sure of that than ever. He must see the chance to save the Colonnade that now lies before us. The question was whether Tarvynde had the courage to seize the opportunity.

Dawnbolt pointed to the south several times, and once her discussion with Tarvynde ended, the Colonnade’s forces took that direction. The cliffs stretched for miles, but to the south, they dropped back down into the earth just at the edge of Jaras’ sight. The armies would go around the wall there, and head back north towards the battlefield. It would take most of the day to complete the journey. Plenty of time, he thought, for the two races of monsters to have completed their massacre of each other.

As the march began, Jaras saw the unease in the faces around him. His comrades did not yet see the truth of their situation. They were worried the rise of the cliffs would endanger the Colonnade. He had to correct them.

He gestured at the cliffs and laughed again. ‘Rejoice!’ he called out. ‘This is the work of the hand of Sigmar!’

‘How can that be?’ the woman next to him asked. ‘Why does he stop us?’

‘He doesn’t.’ Jaras spoke to her but projected his voice so everyone nearby would hear. ‘He aids us. He shows us what must be done.’

‘Which is what?’ a man asked.

‘We must destroy all the enemies of the Colonnade.’

Jaras let them think about that for a moment, then asked, ‘Will you welcome the Avengorii back into the city?’ The hate he saw gave him the answer he wanted. To prick it to greater intensity, he said, ‘Will you offer your children to their feasts, and say this is for the good of a fine alliance?’

He left the angry responses to grow and spread, and made his way to the front of the regiment, falling into place beside Velazun. He knew the captain slightly. He had been a member of the Guard for many years, but he was also a resident of the Beneath, and his roots were deep.

‘You seem grim, captain,’ Jaras said. ‘You shouldn’t be. Can’t you see the gift that has been granted us?’

‘What gift?’ said Velazun. ‘We will be too late.’

‘Too late for what?’

Velazun blinked. ‘To affect the outcome of the war.’

‘No,’ said Jaras. ‘We’ll be just in time. Or do you harbour sympathies for the Avengorii?’

Velazun spat. ‘I wish I never had to see them again.’

‘Like I said,’ said Jaras. ‘The cliffs are a gift.’

‘Go on,’ Velazun said after a moment.

‘This war is to save our city. Now it can be. We know that all these monsters are our enemies. Why do we pretend that one of the races is not?’

‘You won’t catch me pretending they aren’t,’ Velazun growled. ‘I won’t kneel to them, no matter what the council says.’

‘Nor will I,’ said Jaras. ‘Nor will any of us. We won’t have to. Our duty is clear, captain. Whatever survives when we reach the other side of this wall must be destroyed. It must.’

Velazun looked like he wanted to agree. His lips were a tight line of strain. He looked straight ahead, torn between his heart and his orders.

‘We are all with you,’ Jaras said softly. ‘There isn’t a soul behind us that wouldn’t see the Avengorii burned to ash. We know where the city’s salvation lies. All of us.’

Velazun eyed him gratefully. ‘If this is true…’

‘You know it is.’

Velazun thought for a moment. ‘I think you should speak to the captains of the other regiments,’ he said.

‘I agree.’

‘Be discreet.’

‘I know. There are those who cannot admit the truth yet. They will.’

‘I wasn’t just thinking of them.’

‘Yes. There are traitors too. Not many, though.’

Velazun nodded. ‘They’ll get their justice.’

‘We’ll see to that.’

Velazun smiled at last. He clapped Jaras on the shoulder. ‘You’re right, bard. This is a gift.’

Jaras saluted, then ran forward to the next regimental formation to spread the word.

Within the hour, troops along the entire length of the advance were whistling ‘The Fires of the Colonnade’.

The wall of stone rose to the east, blotting out the weak daylight, sealing the battlefield in night and cutting it off from the Colonnade. Kavak angled his flight to begin the new attack, and anger flashed through his mind like lightning. This was treachery. He could not believe the event was accidental, that the Scholar of Tides had miscalculated to this unfortunate degree. But now he had no room to think about the Colonnade, its perfidy and what the cliffs portended. There was room only for blood and war.

The Avengorii flew into the beastherd as a wedge a second time. The beastmen were ready, and their counter-attack hit the moment after Lauka Vai slammed through the front of their lines again. The build-up of sorcerous energy exploded into a coherent assault. Two monsters of fire and murder came into being. They had the shape of bulls, almost twenty feet high at the shoulder. Their bodies were massive, heavy battering rams that smashed iron to shreds and stone to splinters. Their hindquarters were streams of flame, and their charge was destruction made manifest. Other beastmen went down beneath the pounding of their hooves as they hurtled across the bowl to charge at the vampires.

The diving attack had started. The momentum could not be arrested. The Avengorii saw what was coming at them as they sliced through more gors and ungors. They and the wildfire taurus spells converged at such speed that there was no time to evade. The bulls collided with both sides of the Avengorii wedge. They crushed the vampires with horns and hooves and sheer mass, rending flesh and smashing bones to powder. The flames swept over the vampires, becoming an incendiary storm undimmed by the deluge of blood from the sky. The unnatural fires consumed body and soul, bringing pain to the Avengorii they had not felt since their times of transformation. Vampires screamed, and then even their screams burned, and then there was only ash, driven on the winds and vanishing into the tumult of violence.

The sorcerous bulls ploughed through Avengorii until they battered into each other. For a moment, they locked horns. Then they bellowed, breathing fire, and turned away from each other. Side by side, they rampaged up the vampire formation, breaking it into pieces, ending its charge.

The Avengorii took to the skies, evading the bulls, but the beastmen shamans were ready for them. Arcane bolts lanced up from the ground, piercing vargheists through the neck, incinerating their skulls with magic. Their bodies plummeted back to the ground to be trampled to pulp beneath the hooves of the beastmen. Chimeras streaked after others, burning and slashing their victims.

Roaring their vengeance, the beastmen forced the Avengorii out of the skies and down into the cauldron of the battle.

Kavak and Thalvess climbed together, away from the wildfire taurus stampede. A chimera pounced on Thalvess, knocking Kavak back with the speed and brutality of its dive. It clawed at his wings. Its avian and leonine heads tore at them with beak and fangs. The draconic head inhaled deeply and reared back, preparatory to bathing Thalvess in the annihilation of flame.

Kavak circled up and around and hurled an arcane bolt at the monster’s back. The draconic head shrieked and whipped towards him. Kavak came in at full speed and swung his blade into its neck. The blow half severed the draconic head. It choked and gurgled. Flames leaked from its mouth and from its wound, burning blood flowing in searing streams down its neck and body. The other heads screamed. Kavak came back again and cut the draconic head free. Ignited blood covered the chimera, consuming it with its own flame. The monster released Thalvess and dropped like a stone, its screams ending when it hit the ground and burst over the beastkin nearby. They writhed and beat at the flames, spreading them farther as they collided with their fellows.

Thalvess tried to fly. His left wing was shredded to ribbons. He spiralled downward. Kavak sped after him, but before he could reach him, a colossus seized Thalvess. It was a ghorgon, a creature warped into a monster that towered over the battlefield, raging in mindless frenzy. Two of its four arms ended in blades as long as a man. It still had hands on the other two, and it snatched Thalvess out of the air. The oxen head opened its mouth, revealing grinding teeth. Crushing Thalvess’ legs in its grip, it bit down on his chest. Bones snapped and splintered. Thalvess’ one good wing flapped in helpless agony.

Shrieking in rage and grief, Kavak dived at the ghorgon and landed on its head. It slashed at him with its blades. He flattened himself against its back, wrapped his tail around its muzzle and squeezed, breaking bone. With two quick stabs of his blade, he put out the monster’s eyes, then took to the air again.

The ghorgon howled. It dropped Thalvess and broke into a stumbling run. It clawed at the blood streaming down its face. It weaved back and forth, crushing its kin until they were forced to hack at its legs with axes and fell it like a tree.

Kavak caught Thalvess just before he landed. Narrowly missing horns and blades, he swooped back up, carrying his friend through the rain of blood.

‘Finished…’ Thalvess croaked.

‘You just have to feast,’ said Kavak.

Thalvess shook his head weakly. ‘Be my vengeance,’ he said.

Kavak grimaced in soul pain. ‘I will,’ he promised.

‘Carry my blood with you,’ said Thalvess, a last wish for honour and the mercy of a meaningful death.

The Vengorian Lord’s body twitched and shook, its undead force draining quickly, leaving it forever.

‘I shall,’ Kavak promised. He bent down and, in mid-flight, bit through Thalvess’ throat. The other vampire shook once more and was still. Kavak drank long draughts of his blood. Then he dropped the body. It was no longer Thalvess. The memory of Thalvess lived with him now, and the Vengorian Lord’s blood cried out for the extermination of the beasts.

Below him, as Kavak lunged back into the struggle, Lauka Vai descended on a great bray-shaman. The sorcerer was surrounded by heavily armoured bestigors. Orgo’s elite warriors protected the bray-shaman by raising shields and axes, bracing to hurl themselves into the Mother of Nightmares. She didn’t give them the opportunity. With a shout of anger, she unleashed a single, enormous arcane bolt. Brighter than day and colder than night, the blast struck through the bray-shaman’s sorcerous protection. It transfixed him to the land he had thought was his ally. The explosion that followed scattered his guards into fragments of meat. Of the bray-shaman, nothing remained. The wrath of the Mother of Nightmares had vaporised him.

One of the conjured bulls exploded in its turn, engulfing vampires and beastmen. Its flames raged on over the bodies of the dead, but the monster was gone.

Lauka Vai laid waste to the beastmen around her, cutting a swathe through the devoted of Tzeentch, fighting to reach Orgo. The beastlord was making for her as well, the monarchs of death converging across the battlefield, their encounter slowed by their own followers. Vargheists fell on Orgo, and he hacked them from the sky with whirlwind blows of his axe blades. As Lauka Vai gathered sorcerous energy around her once again, one hand blazing while the other wielded her blade, three cygors converged on her. The single, blank eye in the centre of each beast’s forehead was blind to everything but sorcery, and Lauka Vai’s power drew them with the force of a riptide. They came to devour her.

They came into her trap.

She held back on her blast, building it up and up until her fist was a lethal star in the darkness of the battlefield. The fall of blood from the sky spun in a vortex around the blaze. The cygors closed in, and Lauka Vai’s sword flashed. She slashed up on the left and right, a single, fluid movement of monstrous grace, and gutted the cygors. Their feet tangled in their own viscera, and they fell, still reaching for the feast that was denied them.

Lauka Vai unleashed the blast, incinerating a score of beastmen before her.

A score. Out of thousands upon thousands.

Lauka Vai had said that the Avengorii did not need the Colonnade to defeat the beastherd. Kavak had believed that. It had seemed impossible that this brutish mass could overwhelm the dynasty.

But now…

No. Not even now. The beasts would not win. They would die. They must die.

Kavak dived into the maelstrom of battle, striking from the midst of a swarm of fell bats. The Avengorii killed beastmen everywhere in the field, but they had lost the coherence of their formation. The sea of beasts was closing in, and it threatened to drown the vampires in unending waves of brutish force.

The flat of a bestigor’s blade rang Kavak’s skull like a bell, and he fell to the ground. He slashed furiously with wings, claws and blade to keep from being trampled. He severed legs and cut off the hands that reached for him. He was caught in a battering darkness. There were no individuals. It was as if he were surrounded by a storm of claws and hooves and blades.

He roared, crying vengeance for his comrades and fealty to Lauka Vai, and he would not be stamped into the mire of blood. He would not end here, like this. He slashed his way up, dismembering an ungor that thought it would hack his wings off, and then he was in the air again.

And so was Lauka Vai. She climbed high, burning the chimeras that tried to stop her. Midway between the land and the clouds, she spread arms and wings and shouted at the sky, commanding it to do her will. The sky answered. The tempest of blood became a hurricane, a deluge that fell with such force that the sea of beasts found itself in a true sea of blood. The wide bowl of the battlefield filled with black gore. The rain fell in heavy, unbroken sheets. In moments, the beastmen were wading ankle-deep in blood, and the tide kept rising. The wind that came with the rain was corrosive. The armour and weapons of the enemy rusted and pitted, turned brittle and shattered against the bodies of the Avengorii.

At the centre of the battlefield, Orgo shook his axes at Lauka Vai. ‘Coward!’ he bellowed. ‘You fear to face me!’

‘No,’ Lauka Vai answered. Her smile was so terrible, the lesser beastmen froze at the sight of it. ‘I was merely whetting my appetite for you.’

She dived at the beastlord, sword before her. The earth shook at their meeting, in a clash of blades and claws. Orgo was covered in the blood of the Avengorii he had slain, its red smearing with the black rain. Streamers of vampire flesh hung from his jaws. He was the monster of a thousand fears, the beast that trampled the world before him. He attacked Lauka Vai with a fury that had levelled armies. She fended off the two axes with her sword, and he pressed her hard, forcing her back, not giving her the chance to retaliate. She blocked a high strike, and Orgo lunged forward, his horns slamming into her armour and piercing the chestplate. Lauka Vai snarled in pain, forced back and back. Orgo had the momentum, and she could not free herself of his monstrous horns. The beastlord thundered forward with greater force, a stampede of one. His bellow of triumph shook the ground.

Lauka Vai answered with a hiss of rage. She pushed back instead of retreating, took the greater injury from the horns and snaked her long tail around Orgo, wrapping it around his throat. She choked off the beastlord’s roar. She squeezed. Her grip shattered Orgo’s armour. The coil of her tail tightened around his neck. His jaw worked, his voice suddenly silenced, as he struggled for air. He tried to hack at the tail, but she blocked him again with her sword, and kept blocking him.

He was the monster of a thousand fears, but she was the far greater monster. She was the Mother of Nightmares.

Lauka Vai beat her wings and rose into the air, lifting the beastlord with her, still fending off each of his axe strikes. His movements became more frantic, pained and uncoordinated. The tail squeezed even tighter, and snapping sounds came from inside Orgo’s body. Lauka Vai grabbed his shoulder with her free hand, sinking her clawed fingers into the armour.

With a final wrench of her tail, she decapitated the beastlord.

Thousands of bestial throats let out a cry of dismay as Orgo’s head tumbled through the air. Lauka Vai fastened her mouth over the stump of the neck and feasted.

Leaderless, the herd faltered. Uncertainty rippled over the ranks of the beastmen.

Lauka Vai drank deeply. Her anger and her bloodlust flowed directly from her to every member of her dynasty. As she gave herself to the frenzy of the kill, so did they, and the tempest from the sky became a mere squall beside the storm of bloodletting that hit the battlefield. As one, the vampires fell on their foes with a devouring fury. They were more bestial than the beastmen.

Kavak’s sense of reason and self vanished. He was a thing of instinct, a thing of hunger, a body of teeth and claws. He could not be harmed, and his thirst could not be sated. He saw only black and red. He was a predator in a sea of hapless prey, and for a long time he had no sense of anything except the ripping of flesh and the taste of blood – the taste that made him burn within, that made him kill and kill and kill. His world was the feast, and his existence was a tearing asunder.

After an age of lost time, the will of his queen reached into Kavak’s mind. It pulled him out of the frenzy. It restored him to reason. The clouds of his bloodlust parted, and he knew himself again.

He was standing over the eviscerated corpse of a bestigor, up to his underbelly in a swamp of blood. Lightning flashed through the clouds, illuminating the battlefield, revealing an abattoir miles across. The corpses of beastmen and vampires lay everywhere. The Avengorii had lost many of their number, but the beastmen had lost all of theirs. The beastherd of Orgo was gone, its legions reduced to butchered slabs.

And everywhere the Avengorii hunched over corpses, triumphant vultures. Only Lauka Vai was in the air. She hovered over the centre of the battlefield. She was looking to the south.

And from the south came the blare of trumpets. The Colonnade announced its arrival in the war. The fanfare sounded like a mockery.

The Avengorii looked up from their feasting, and a snarl of anger rumbled over the land.

Lauka Vai, the empress of the slaughter, was silent, her blank yellow eyes cold and waiting.

CHAPTER 24

‘The war is over,’ Dawnbolt said to Tarvynde, her voice tight with anger.

The lords of the Maelstrom of Light and the Colonnade had called a halt at the edge of the massacre. Torvassen, Atella and the other senior officers of the Freeguild Guard had drawn near to the two supreme commanders. The gathering was less an informal council and more a search for understanding. The full force of the Colonnade had marched for two days for nothing. The threat that had sent fear through the city, that had cast its very existence into question, no longer existed.

Atella stared at the battlefield, at the lake of stagnant blood. The ranks of the Maelstrom of Light stood at its edge, boots sunk in the mire. A strong wind blew, stirring the blood into blackened foam. More blood fell in a steady rain from the clouds, slowly making the lake deeper.

This was death on a scale she had never seen, not even during the worst of the tzaangors’ siege. Tens of thousands of bodies lay hacked apart, half submerged in the blood, or stacked high into heaps. Snapped bones stuck out of limbs. Ribcages stripped of flesh stood out, outlined by the flashes of lightning. The Avengorii crouched over the bodies and on the hills of flesh, angular silhouettes of darkness. And above them all, their queen hovered with slow beats of her wings, gazing down at the forces of the Colonnade with something colder than judgement, deeper than anger.

Truly, this was where nightmares were born.

Truly, this was the work of the monstrous. The field of massacre stretched out as far as she could see in the blackened day. From the Guard came exclamations of horror and disgust. She felt stunned admiration.

‘There is no battle here for us,’ Dawnbolt said. ‘This is…’ She trailed off, lost for words and lost in frustration, and cursed.

Atella grunted in surprise. It was almost comical to witness Stormcast Eternals deprived of purpose. They had come for a war, and the war had not waited for them. It had gone and finished itself, leaving them nothing to do.

‘This is a stain on our honour,’ Dawnbolt said.

‘Your honour will survive, as will the Colonnade,’ said Tarvynde. There was no frustration in his voice. He sounded indecently pleased.

Honour. The word stung Atella like a hornet. Tarvynde had no right to utter it. She rounded on him, furious. ‘Honour?’ she shouted. ‘What honour? We betrayed the Avengorii.’

‘The convulsions of the land are not our doing,’ said Tarvynde. He was worse than calm. He was smug.

‘Aren’t they?’ Atella asked. ‘Wasn’t our departure from the Colonnade planned down to the hour? What use are charts? Why even have the position of Scholar of Tides? Is Baveth Ullior a soothsayer mumbling over goat entrails? Or is she merely incompetent?’

‘You forget yourself, Councillor Reigehren.’

‘No,’ said Dawnbolt, ‘she does not. Her questions are pertinent, and I would hear an answer instead of an evasion.’

Tarvynde sighed. ‘The land is increasingly unpredictable. We all know this. Scholar Ullior has done her best. Her predictions were wrong by very little.’

‘A very little hour,’ said Atella. ‘One that has made all the difference.’

‘Your insinuations are unworthy,’ Torvassen put in.

‘They aren’t insinuations. They are accusations.’ She glanced back at the Avengorii and their furious stillness, and her cheeks burned in shame. ‘This betrayal was deliberate,’ she said.

‘I will not–’ Tarvynde began, then stopped, interrupted by a roar from behind.

‘What is that?’ said Dawnbolt, though she knew.

She had to. Atella knew what the sound was, and she shared Dawnbolt’s disbelief. She stared in horror at the regiments of the Colonnade.

Each time he witnessed the acts of the Avengorii, Jaras beheld a new zenith of monstrosity. The destruction of Farwilde had made what he had seen the day the caravan had been destroyed seem insignificant by comparison, and he had not slept properly since that first encounter. But the vista before him now surpassed his worst fears and his most extravagant hopes. He had trouble understanding what he was seeing. That lake could not be blood. Those islands could not be bodies. Such things were not possible.

Only they were.

His body wrestled with contradictory emotions. He was nauseated by the sights and by the stench that wrapped itself around him like a thick, wet cloth. The smell of rotten blood thrust itself into his nose and down his throat. He wanted to throw up, as if he were trying to cough up a snake. He also wanted to dance. He wanted to shout.

Do you see this? This is my doing! I have done this! I speak, and thousands die!

He had told Baveth to ensure the Colonnade’s forces would not reach the battle in time. He had predicted the Maelstrom of Light and the Freeguild Guard would find a weakened enemy. Everything had happened as he had commanded and foreseen.

Look at me, Lord Tarvynde! Look at me, Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt! This lowly bard holds the string of your destinies. You dance to my whim.

Now it was time for the final stage of his plan. All was ready. The only thing that was missing was Tarvynde’s order to attack.

It didn’t come.

He should have issued it as soon as the city’s forces arrived at the site of the battle. Instead, the march stopped. Tarvynde, Dawnbolt and others were speaking, and nothing was happening. Jaras wanted to hear what they were saying. He wanted to order them to do what he and fate compelled them to do. They just talked, and talked. Dawnbolt argued with Tarvynde, her displeasure obvious even from a distance.

No. The moment is going to be lost. We have to attack.

The Maelstrom of Light were motionless statues.

Jaras shouldered his way to the front of the lines. He found Velazun. He was staring at the lake of blood, grey and uncertain. He looked at Jaras, and his eyes were pleading for leadership.

‘Comrades!’ Jaras shouted. ‘You see this! You see the truth of these monsters! We must act now!’

There was a stirring. The shock of the spectacle began to release its hold. The salvation of the Colonnade depended on hate, and the hate he had stoked in the city and in the regiments began to reassert its hold.

‘Look!’ Jaras commanded. ‘Look! This is what the council wants to admit back into the Colonnade. They want those monsters inside our walls. How long will it be before we never wake again? Don’t you see?’ He pointed at the lake and its corpses. ‘This is the future of the Colonnade. We will drown in our blood unless we attack now.’

Attack. The first time he had used the word. He had left it unspoken until then, an implication hovering behind his suggestions. The time for hints was over. Attack. The people had to feel the urgency of the word. They had to learn that it was a command.

‘See how many of the Avengorii are dead!’ he said. He ran back and forth in front of the regiments, looking directly at the troops, focusing first on one face, then another. He was speaking to them directly, forcing them to look into their souls and know that he was right. ‘This is our chance. It will never come again. They are weak. Come with me, comrades. Come and save the Colonnade, and all of Ghur. Come and exterminate the monsters!’

The anger overflowed. The regiments became a mob. The heroes of the Colonnade answered Jaras with a roar. They saw. They feared. They hated. They were ready.

Jaras drew his sword. ‘ATTACK!’ he shrieked, and he slashed the air with his blade.

The regiments raced forward, the soldiers howling their hate of the monstrous. They rushed past Jaras. He stayed where he was, motionless, sword pointed at the vampires, shouting ‘ATTACK!’ until he was hoarse and the army had left him behind, running to embrace the destiny of purity.

‘What are your troops doing?’ Dawnbolt shouted as the Freeguild surged forward. ‘Command them to stop.’

‘They will not listen,’ Tarvynde said. The expression of concern on his face was so transparently a mask that it was an insult. His eyes were bright. Atella saw through him. She saw him at his worst. He had not engineered this event. She didn’t think he had even knowingly allowed it to be engineered. He had simply hoped that it would happen. A politician to his marrow, he wanted the purity of the Colonnade preserved and his word of honour untainted. He would be able to say he never acted against the Avengorii, while at the same time being the lord who presided over the city’s preservation.

Torvassen, though, was grinning fiercely. Whatever role he had played in this, he had known the moment would come.

‘Halt!’ Atella shouted, sword raised. She was a leaf in a hurricane. Her voice was drowned out by the roar of hate from the troops.

‘Halt!’ Dawnbolt’s voice cut through the roar. Her hammer flashed with lightning. Her Stormcast Eternals turned around at her shout, and they were a line between the Freeguild Guard and the Avengorii. The front of the charging mob stopped at once, the authority of the Maelstrom of Light beyond challenge.

Atella felt hope flare. The worst would be prevented. The shame of the betrayal would have to be dealt with, but she welcomed that next to the atrocity that Dawnbolt had stopped.

There was another voice on the wind, shouting behind the regiments. She couldn’t hear the words. She recognised the tone. It was Jaras Anvarheim.

At the rear, his influence was stronger than Dawnbolt’s. He was not a distant figure, rarely seen in the Colonnade, holding himself aloof from the lives of the citizens. He was one of them. His songs gave voice to their hopes, their fears and their hate. He was their true representative. He shouted and they obeyed, because he was not giving commands. He was unleashing the truth of the Colonnade.

As the full realisation hit home, Atella had time to think, This is what I fought so hard to save.

From the rear came a hail of crossbow bolts. The volleys arced, whistling, over the Maelstrom of Light and came down in the lake of blood, on the Avengorii. They thudded into the bodies of vargheists and tore through their wings as they began to take flight. Some of the vampires did not rise. They lay where they had fallen, pierced by iron.

The horse-drawn artillery thundered in the next moment. Helblaster volley guns opened up in the darkness. A storm of metal shot exploded into the Avengorii. Atella saw at least two take direct hits, and their bodies were blown to shreds.

Time slowed for Atella as the beats of the catastrophe fell, as if the land were held by the heavy, relentless tolling of a mourning bell. She saw each act unfold in its awful inevitability. She was moving as though deep underwater, seeing as if from a distance.

Dawnbolt turned around to witness the effect of the artillery attack. The arm that held her warhammer lowered, a gesture of despair as she saw events torn from her grasp.

Lord Tarvynde and General Torvassen leapt onto their horses. They were not shocked. They were part of the current that flowed through the souls of the Colonnade. The flight of crossbow bolts released them from all pretence. Jaras had unleashed them, too.

The Avengorii rose into the air, a legion of monsters turning on their betrayers, their wings the shape of vengeance.

The Mother of Nightmares roared, and a bolt of crimson, coruscating power flew from her hand. It struck the rear ranks of the Freeguild. The fireball of the volley gun’s explosion illuminated the battlefield, casting the red of flame over the black sea of rotten blood.

Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt raised her hammer again. Her Stormcast Eternals turned and struck forward, because there was no longer anything to prevent, and they had a purpose once more. War had begun against the forces of Nagash.

Tarvynde shouted, ‘For Sigmar, and for the Colonnade!’ He urged his steed on, and he led the charge as his regiments raced to the attack again.

With his shout, time accelerated. But Atella was still frozen. Now she was the one whose purpose had been stolen from her. She had devoted herself to the creation of an alliance, and it was burning. Her oaths of duty bound her to join in the attack, but those oaths burned with the alliance. She would not be bound to atrocity.

This is what I fought to save.

I was a fool.

There was nothing in the Colonnade worth saving.

She stood in blood, and smelled blood, and war surrounded her again with the promise of more and more and more blood. The blood took her back to the walls of the Colonnade, to her slaughter of the tzaangors. The taste in her mouth was a thirst, and it was a need – the need to disappear in the eruption of battle. All that Kavak had said, all that he had taught and all that he had shown her came together in her soul. She knew where her true allegiance lay. She knew where she belonged, and she made her choice between two kinds of monster.

Torvassen drove his horse past her, knocking her into the blood. She was on her feet again in an instant, her armour and face slicked with gore. Its stench was less offensive than the sight of the commander of the Freeguild Guard.

Torvassen had pulled his steed to a stop beside her. He looked down at Atella, his lips pulled back in a grimace of contempt. ‘We’ll deal with traitors later,’ he said.

‘You’ll deal with me now,’ Atella snarled. She leapt at him, seized his cloak and yanked down with her full weight.

Startled, Torvassen lost his grip on his reins and fell. They struggled and thrashed in the blood. He tried to use his greater bulk to force her under and keep her there. She was faster, and more agile. Before he could pin her arms down, she rammed her fist against his chin, jerking his head so violently that he fell back. She lunged back up, sword arm free, and came at him. He raised his blade to block her blow at his head, but she changed her strike at the last moment, swinging back and then sideways, cutting through the joint of his armour and breaking his knee. He howled and fell. The thick blood slowed him, and she stamped her foot on his sword arm, trapping it.

Torvassen looked up in disbelief. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said.

She laughed, because for the taste of blood she dared everything, and then she drove her blade through his eye.

CHAPTER 25

More than a mile away from the mortal forces, Kavak shared in the collective anger of his kin at the sound of the Colonnade’s fanfare. The long silence that came next gave him pause. It was the pregnant silence that preceded thunder. His shoulders hunched with tension. He was too far away to see what was happening. Lauka Vai was in the air, though, so there was no dialogue between the Colonnade and the Avengorii.

Tension turned to dread.

The attack began. The rage of the Mother of Nightmares and the rage of her dynasty were one. She destroyed the artillery of the Colonnade, and Kavak rose with his kin to gather in the great swarm around his queen. The rain of blood, which had eased in the aftermath of the victory over the beastmen, became ferocious again. The wind awoke waves on the black lake.

Lauka Vai’s will resounded in Kavak’s mind. She had but to conceive of her strategy and her dynasty responded. The Avengorii descended on the Freeguild Guard as a storm, as rain. There was no formation this time, no wedge upon which the Maelstrom of Light could concentrate their might. There were no front lines. The vampires struck everywhere at once. The charge of the Colonnade faltered because there was no concentration to attack. The regimental formations broke up as the guards responded to the wrath that came at them from above. The blood corroded their armour and weapons. Pistols exploded when fired. The nightmare that the citizens of the Colonnade had feared came for them, summoned by their own treachery.

But as the Freeguild forces began to fall to confusion, the Maelstrom of Light struck, their unbreakable discipline untouched by the rain and the raiding flights of vargheists. Any vampire that tried to approach them was cut down. The Stormcast Eternals moved across the battlefield at a steady pace, their attacks as precise as they were merciless. The Judicators sent up a steady barrage of skybolts. Like a curtain of lightning striking upward, they burned the Avengorii out of the air. The methodical concentration of the shots forced the vampires back and gave the guards within proximity of the Maelstrom of Light the chance to regroup. Handgunners, crossbowmen and pistoliers coordinated their fire. Many of the weapons were still functional and lethal. Barrage after barrage came from the ground, taking out more and more of the vampires. Avengorii came down, many still able to fight but unable to fly. Sigmarite weapons finished them off. The Maelstrom of Light marched on, crushing every attempt to break their lines.

And in the air were the Prosecutors. They were a worse threat than the chimeras. They flew with tactical purpose. They caught up to vargheists and crushed their skulls with celestial hammers, and impaled them from a distance with storm-blessed javelins.

There were two storms over the battlefield, warring with each other as much as the armies did. The lightning and blood of the clouds answered to Lauka Vai and the Avengorii. Sigmar’s storm cut through the vampiric one, blue-white energy lancing out to mystical weapons and incinerating the vampires those weapons struck.

Lauka Vai’s command did not change. Spread out. Strike from all sides. Do not create a concentration. Force them to hunt you one at a time.

The Maelstrom of Light were almost untouchable, but they were massively outnumbered still. Like an axe blow to water, Kavak thought, as he drove through Guard infantry a safe distance from the Stormcast Eternals. This time it was the Avengorii who were the water.

Only they had finally killed the sea they fought. Mere numbers would not be enough.

The assaults coming from everywhere on the Freeguild had some effect. They forced Dawnbolt to spread out her attacks more than she would have chosen. The Maelstrom of Light could not focus too precisely, or the Freeguild would be destroyed completely. The mortals of the Colonnade were not defenceless, and their regiments were strong, but alone against the Avengorii, they were outmatched. The Avengorii were still a dynasty. They had been bloodied by the beastherd, but not broken.

Dawnbolt sent the Prosecutors to range wider. Their strength was barely diluted, and their armour and the range of their weapons made them lethal to the vargheists. The Vengorian Lords fought back with sorcery, but the Avengorii no longer had mastery of the air.

Kavak cut through lancers, then shot up and back before their comrades could get a fix on him with crossbows. He climbed high and fast, one with the storm and the cataracts of blood. Searing light came at him from the left, and he banked in an instant, folding his wings and dropping into a vertical dive

A Prosecutor was coming after him. The Prosecutor-Prime was hunting him.

He’s strong. Stay alive. Look for the chance.

It was a fight he had never wanted. As a mortal, he had held the Maelstrom of Light in awe. Even when he had been conscious of the failings of the mortal government of the city, he had regarded the Stormcast Eternals differently. They were above the petty politics of the council. They were beings of a higher plane than the mortal. After he had become one of the Avengorii, and finally seen the philosophy of the Colonnade for the obscenity it was, he exempted the Maelstrom of Light from his contempt. Perhaps he had been wrong.

Not that the right or wrong of anything in his past mattered now. His existence was reduced to the succession of seconds, each passing one perhaps his last.

He jerked out of his dive, banked right, dived again, then swooped up sharply, the effort almost pulling his wings from his body as their expanse caught the wind. The Prosecutor followed hard after him, his match in agility and armed with terrible weapons. He threw javelins at Kavak, a new one materialising in his hand as soon as each was away. It was like trying to evade a lightning storm. The javelins seared the air and hit the ground with thunderclaps. Kavak launched an arcane bolt back at the Prosecutor, who banked sharply, evading the attack. His pursuit never slowed.

Kavak kept his flight unpredictable. He pulled ahead as far as he could, trying to hide himself in the sheets of rain. He could not shake the Prosecutor. The champion of Sigmar had chosen Kavak for destruction, and nothing would sway him from his path.

Kavak flew through war, explosions of sorcery and lightning blazing on all sides. The cries of vampires, the shouts of Stormcast Eternals, the screams of guards and the howls of the storm were a tapestry of violence that enfolded the land.

He couldn’t evade much longer. He had been battered by the struggle against the beastmen, and the effort to keep up his speed and violent turns was draining his energy. He would need blood to replenish it. He was tiring, a mortal sensation he had almost forgotten.

There was no escape from the Prosecutor-Prime. There was no escape from the war. It seemed there was no escape from a destiny that ended here.

I will not accept that.

Go where he cannot follow.

Leave the air.

Kavak dived again, beating his wings furiously to go faster than he ever had before. He jerked left and right, and then straight down again, as if he could outpace the lightning. A javelin burned past him just as he dodged left again, close enough to send a streak of fiery pain down his right flank. Then he plunged into the centre of the lake of blood.

The black rain had fallen so hard that the lake was more than fifteen feet deep in the middle of the bowl. Kavak shot straight to the bottom, curled up and lay still.

This is blood, Prosecutor. This is my element. Follow me at your peril. I have a promise to keep.

Stormcall javelins pierced the night of the rotted blood, turning into steam where they hit. They fell in a scattered pattern. The Prosecutor could not see him.

Kavak looked up. The blood concealed him, but it was as air to his dark eyes. He saw the Prosecutor fly overhead, then circle, uncertain. In the depths of blood, filled with blood, one with blood, Kavak became the hunter again.

The Prosecutor-Prime wheeled once more, then began to move away. His back was to Kavak’s position.

Kavak shot out of the blood, directly behind the Prosecutor. He arrowed vertically up and seized the Prosecutor’s helm with his foreclaws. His speed and violence were enough to tear the helm off. The Prosecutor reeled in the air, but he already had a javelin in his hand. He whirled to throw it at Kavak.

Kavak looped backwards the instant he had pulled the helm free. The Prosecutor hurled the javelin up, but Kavak was not there. The loop was tight and fast, and he came at the Prosecutor again from below. The Stormcast Eternal didn’t have time to look down before Kavak’s sword slashed through his throat.

In the centre of the battlefield, Lauka Vai and Dawnbolt met, the nightmare warring with the storm. The dracoth Havazzor spat lightning at the vampire. She deflected its bolts with counter-blasts of sorcery, and her blade clashed with the Lord-Celestant’s hammer. The earth shook each time the weapons met, and concussive blasts rippled out, hurling away the bodies of anyone who tried to interfere with the duel.

‘I expected better of you,’ Lauka Vai said, blocking another swing of the hammer. ‘I thought you were a warrior of honour.’

‘I do not defend the actions of mortals,’ said Dawnbolt. She pressed hard against Lauka Vai, striking with swift, shattering blows, forcing the vampire back. ‘But I defend the mortals themselves.’

Lauka Vai’s tail thrashed angrily. Her huge wings beat a wind of blood at the Lord-Celestant and her mount. Havazzor choked on the gore, and he thrashed with his foreclaws in retaliation. ‘And so you dream of your moral high ground,’ she said.

The dracoth spat lightning again at the same time that Dawnbolt hit with her own thunderbolt, and the duel explosions struck home, burning the vampire. Lauka Vai snarled and leaned harder into the battle, unleashing an arcane blast that Dawnbolt barely deflected with her shield.

‘I do not dream,’ said Dawnbolt. ‘My one purpose is to serve Sigmar.’

‘Then you should return to him.’ Lauka Vai blocked the hammer again, and raised her left hand as if to hurl another arcane bolt. Instead, the blow came from the sky, as she channelled her power through the tempest. An immense fork of blood-born lightning slammed through the Lord-Celestant and her mount. Havazzor collapsed, his body charred and smoking.

Lauka Vai seized Dawnbolt’s right arm as she tried to strike back. The Mother of Nightmares held her prey fast. Her eyes blazed. She and Dawnbolt glowed with a dark, violet aura. Dawnbolt shook, her body convulsing as the full strength of Lauka Vai enveloped her. For these few moments, the blood tempest ceased, all of its energy called down to one foe. The power to erode the weapons of an entire army flowed to the point where Lauka Vai held her, and the impossible happened. The Lord-Celestant’s sigmarite rusted, pitted and disintegrated.

‘I take no pleasure from this,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘Your vigilance should have been turned inward, and I was wrong to think of peace with the rotten heart of the Colonnade.’

Then she ran Dawnbolt through with her sword.

As with the beastmen, so with the Colonnade. Frenzy came for the Freeguild Guard. Everything the people of the city had feared about the Avengorii was unleashed, and it devoured them. The Avengorii tore the bodies of their foes apart and feasted on the remains, a tempest of savage nightmares. Yet as he streaked back and forth across the battle, harrying the guards, drinking their blood and eroding the size of the regiments, Kavak felt the queen’s will forcing him to surface now and again from the ocean of pure, frothing madness. She kept pulling him and the other Vengorian Lords back to themselves long enough to redirect their attacks, before plunging them into the delirium of blood once more.

It was against the Stormcast Eternals that instinct and fury could not be enough. And so while the vargheists tore the Freeguild asunder like a plague of monstrous locusts, Lauka Vai and the Vengorian Lords took on the Maelstrom of Light. There was no moment of despair from the Stormcast Eternals when Lauka Vai slew Dawnbolt. There was no cry of dismay. The Stormhost pursued their campaign without pause, without mercy, and strove with yet greater determination, spurred on by the need to avenge the Lord-Celestant. But the loss was meaningful. The most skilled tactician and most powerful warrior of the Stormhost was gone, taken by Sigmar’s lightning back to Azyr. Her absence was felt.

Kavak felt that absence when Lauka Vai altered her strategy. Her will said Gather. Her will said Fall on the Stormcast Eternals. Overwhelm them.

He obeyed, flying towards the centre of the conflict. As he closed in, he saw Hevat Grask in a sorcerous duel with a Lord-Arcanum.

Too close.

Kavak paused.

The two sorcerers were within a few feet of each other, and their battle had turned into a stalemate, both of them drawing upon ever-increasing intensities of force, unleashed in the form of continuous, colliding arcane bolts. They seemed to be connected by writhing, intertwining lightning.

You fool!

Hevat Grask was risking too much. He had been reckless in his hunting at the Colonnade, and he was being reckless again. He and the Lord-Arcanum were locked in a cycle that could only end one way. Neither could retreat. Neither could stop.

Neither could win.

Kavak banked away from the approaching cataclysm.

The energies overwhelmed the beings who wielded them. They fed into each other, fused, and then lost all coherence in an annihilating explosion. A terrible dawn burst over the lake, a dome of boiling forces that incinerated all within its boundaries. Hevat Grask perished, and so did all the Avengorii that were fighting near him.

So too did many of the Maelstrom of Light, and they could not afford the losses.

Maybe not such a fool, Kavak thought. Hevat Grask’s final hunt had turned the tide in favour of the Avengorii, and it would not be pushed back. Huge swarms of fell bats clustered around the Prosecutors, frustrating their flights, distracting and slowing them, giving the vargheists the chances they needed to take the winged knights down one by one. Lauka Vai destroyed one champion after another.

Now it was the turn of the Avengorii to be methodical, and while the Colonnade’s regiments struggled not to drown in the rising lake, the warriors of Sigmar who had been their guarantors and protectors were, slowly but surely, ground down.

Atella’s sword pierced the heart of pistolier. She felt nothing as he fell. She had been fighting her fellow citizens of the Colonnade for hours now. She recognised many of the faces of the people she had killed. She had trained some of them, and led them to this place of tragedy.

Killing Torvassen had been an act of justice. The other deaths had been acts of war, but each time she had seen the incomprehension and the accusation in the eyes of the soldiers. They had heard the rumours about her. Perhaps they had believed them. But not fully, not really, not until the moment that she took their lives.

She became numb to the looks, numb to her crimes. Now she was a traitor. Now she had betrayed her oaths as officer and councillor many times over. It did not matter that she had set out to save the city. What mattered was what she did now.

And she kept fighting. She renounced her vows, because she had seen the true purity of the Colonnade, and it was hatred. She had seen it on the faces of her comrades as they had rushed forward in the belief that the Avengorii were a spent force, and easy to exterminate. She had seen the Colonnade renounce the vows it had made, because the treaty had been signed with beings it did not honour.

What worth were oaths made to a faithless city? What worth were oaths made to hatred?

And she had seen the sublime in Lauka Vai. She had seen what she had been born to embrace.

So she fought, and she killed, and she descended deeper and deeper into the dream of a war that she did not believe would ever end. She was knee-deep in stinking blood, moving from skirmish to skirmish, and nothing had any meaning any longer, except blood, more blood, the waves and oceans of blood. She no longer fought for what she believed to be right, which she once believed had been her purpose. She fought for the blood, and for the blossoming of monstrosity.

Atella turned from the dead pistolier, and a Liberator confronted her. The Stormcast Eternal was without a squad, and his armour was scorched and pitted. The downpour of black blood stained the silver face of his helm.

Atella stood still. She had no chance against the towering warrior, though even now the thought of attacking one of the Maelstrom of Light remained a step too far. She had raced past every other line she would have drawn.

The Liberator looked at the corpse of the pistolier, then back at Atella. ‘You have dishonoured yourself, councillor.’

‘I think not,’ she said.

‘If you do not think so, then you are truly lost.’ He spoke with melancholy and raised his axe with an air of regret.

Before he could swing, an arcane bolt slammed into his side, scorching his armour and throwing him down into the blood. He was on his feet in a moment, and rushed at the Vengorian Lord who had landed in the blood ten yards away. Kavak swung his sword, but the Liberator, moving with blinding speed, evaded the blow and slammed his warhammer against Kavak’s chestplate, cracking it in two. Lightning flashed, burning undead flesh. Kavak staggered, badly wounded.

The Liberator loomed over Kavak, readying the death blow. Kavak hurled a mass of sticky, rotten blood in the Liberator’s face. The Stormcast Eternal raised his helmet to see his prey.

Atella had the pistolier’s gun in her hand. She shot the Liberator in the head, and at last, she thought, there were no more lines to cross.

The explosion of the volley gun stunned Jaras. The concussion knocked him down, and he was slow to rise, his head stuffed with lead, his ears ringing. He shook himself and staggered up. His vision cleared as, a hundred yards from the edge of the blood lake, he watched the war unfold. He exulted in the first stages of the battle. He had been waiting since his first sight of the Avengorii to see the monsters killed, and now he did.

But then the Mother of Nightmares killed Lord-Celestant Dawnbolt. And then the Avengorii wore down the Maelstrom of Light steadily, and there were still too many monsters in the sky. Horror filled the air and covered the battlefield. Monstrosity reigned triumphant.

‘No.’ He spoke the word as if it were a spell, one that would break the illusion he was seeing. ‘No.’ There was no other response to this madness. This was not what fate had decreed. Something was wrong. ‘No!’ The monsters could not be victorious. The Colonnade could not fail. It was not permissible for the grotesque to triumph over the pure.

‘No!’

The cry tore his throat. He spat blood. His denial was so great that it should have cracked the firmament. But the monsters did not fall.

Jaras fled. He ran from the black lake, ran from the growing massacre, ran from the impossible. He found a horse, its harness caught by an overturned supply wagon. He freed it, mounted it and rode south, along the cliff wall, racing to the low point where he could turn east again.

He had to reach the Colonnade. That was his mission, his justification, his rationale. He had to reach the city and raise the alarm. He had to rouse a city that no longer had an army to defend it.

He was just starting the eastern journey when he heard, from far behind, the Colonnade’s trumpets sound the retreat.

CHAPTER 26

‘Let them run,’ said Lauka Vai.

The dynasty of the Avengorii lined the top of the new mountains. The slaughter was behind them. They looked to the east, towards the Colonnade. Already, the clouds that foretold their coming were moving for the city, blotting out the light of Hysh and casting their deep shadow over the retreating forces. Atella could not think of what remained of the Freeguild Guard as an army. It was a rabble, a tattered, fleeing band of frightened survivors. It would be the work of an hour for the Avengorii to slaughter them all, but Lauka Vai held back. She wanted them to return to the city, Atella guessed. She wanted the Colonnade to know exactly what had happened.

‘I was wrong,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘I did not seek the destruction of the Colonnade. I thought to humble its pride, to confront it with monstrosity and with its hypocrisy.’ She paused. ‘I was wrong,’ she said again. ‘I let my own pride govern my decisions. I did not understand that the pride of the Colonnade is a facade over a hatred much more profound. There is only one lesson to teach the city, and that is vengeance.’

‘Why do we not pursue them?’ Kavak asked. He had a hand on Atella’s shoulder. She felt the shield of his protection, as she had in the Sascathran Desert. Once again, she was a lone mortal surrounded by vampires. This time, she was not an ambassador seeking an alliance. She did not know how the other Avengorii regarded her. Kavak’s gesture was a declaration that she was not one of the treacherous mortals fleeing across the plain.

‘We do not pursue them because I want them all in the city,’ Lauka Vai said. ‘Our final lesson will come to all, and at the same time. They will know, most profoundly, what it means to betray the Avengorii. They will know, all of them, what it means to awaken the wrath of the monstrous.’

‘They will think they have the refuge of the walls.’

‘They will,’ Lauka Vai agreed. ‘They still have their walls. They still have their pillars. They have the delusions of their beliefs. What of them? What help will they be against us? What they do not have is the Maelstrom of Light.’ There were no Stormcast Eternals in the retreat. They had fought to the last. ‘What the people of the Colonnade have is nothing. We shall teach that to them, also.’

Lauka Vai turned to look down on Kavak and Atella.

‘Do not fear your truth,’ Kavak whispered to Atella. He let go of her shoulder and stepped back a pace.

Atella bowed before the queen of the Avengorii.

‘You stood with us,’ said Lauka Vai. Her blank eyes glowed in the deep shadow of the day. The deluge of blood had finally spent itself, but the wind was still strong, blowing the vampire’s long hair.

I stood for what was right, Atella was about to say. She stopped. Do not fear your truth. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I stood with you.’ The idea of standing for anything except this divinity of horror was absurd. The ideals of her past were a false dream from another age. She no longer recognised the person she had once been, or the principles she had once thought worthy of defence.

Lauka Vai smiled as the night smiles. ‘Tell me what you want. Are you still of the Colonnade? Do you wish it spared?’

Atella shook her head. ‘There is nothing for me there. I believe now that there never was.’ She drew her sword and, taking a knee, presented it to the queen, her head lowered. ‘I renounce all my former vows. They were made to a falsehood. I offer you my service, if you will accept it.’

‘I do,’ said Lauka Vai, ‘but is that all you want?’

Atella hesitated.

‘Look at me.’

Atella looked up, into that beautiful and terrible face.

Lauka Vai coiled her tail around her and bent down, her eyes filling Atella’s soul. ‘I am the Mother of Nightmares,’ she said. ‘What do you wish?’

‘To be one of the nightmares,’ said Atella. She tilted her head back, baring her throat.

In the ecstatic pain that came when Lauka Vai’s fangs sank into her flesh and the change began to take hold, she felt herself becoming Atella in the fullest and most transcendent sense, and the chains of Reigehren fell away.

Who would sing of the fall of the Colonnade?

Of whom would they sing?

Would they sing of the bard, he who had composed the last song of the city? Would they sing of how he returned?

This was what they would have to sing of. They would sing of Jaras Anvarheim, two days after the catastrophe, riding up the evil miracle of the slope that rose to the gates. They would have to sing of the tears that streamed down his face, and how his voice was hoarse when he called for the gates to open for him. The guards who had remained at the city knew him. His was the voice that had given utterance to the soul of the Colonnade. The guards hurried to let Jaras in, hoping that he had returned first with news of victory.

But even as the gates parted for him and he dismounted from his exhausted horse, the guards realised that this was not the news he brought. The sky darkened. The clouds of the Avengorii swept in from the west and hid the face of Hysh from the Colonnade.

‘They are coming,’ Jaras gasped. ‘The Avengorii are coming to destroy us all.’ He wept. ‘All is lost!’

On the ramparts, the officer of the watch shouted that she saw banners of the Colonnade in the distance. The Freeguild Guard was returning.

‘I do not see the banners of the Maelstrom of Light,’ she said, her voice filled with dread.

‘Gone,’ said Jaras. ‘All gone.’

He ran again, through the half-deserted streets, crying out that the Avengorii were coming. His shouts were not a call to arms, because what defence could there be? They were wails of despair, the pleading of a man who had abandoned himself to terror, and who could think only of dragging everyone he saw into the terror with him, so he would not be alone in its abyss.

He did not know where to go. He had always striven to return permanently to the Above, but now its openness made him feel exposed to the claws that would come from the air. In the end, he scurried to the refuge of the Beneath and the familiarity of his garret.

‘What is it?’ Bennor asked when Jaras burst into the boarding house. ‘What has happened?’ He shrank away from Jaras’ expression, not wanting the answer to his questions.

Jaras climbed the stairs to the garret. It was dark in there, and that and the enclosed space made him feel like he could hide. He sank down to the floor against a corner of the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. He would stay here, and wait out the storm. That was the most he was capable of planning.

There he stayed, for the ten days and the ten nights that followed, when the skies remained dark but the attack did not come, and did not come, and the city held its breath, and the foolish dared to hope.

Jaras simply cowered, until, on the eleventh night, a huge shadow appeared at his window. It smashed the wall open, splintering timbers with the claws of its six legs, and then it spoke.

‘Hello, little brother.’

No. They would not sing of the bard.

Would they sing of House Reigehren, the storied defenders of the Colonnade?

Would they? They would have to tell how Ollam entered the city as part of the beaten, filthy army. Like everyone he marched with, and like the lord he marched behind, he was caked in dried blood. If he had still had the concerns of the Ollam Reigehren who had caroused at the White Tauralon, he would have thought that he looked like something from the most miserable reaches of the Beneath.

The thought did not occur to him. He was barely able to set one foot in front of the other. He was numb with shock. Terror carved into the granite shape of despair weighed him down, yet kept him moving. The animal instinct to flee, to find a safe burrow, burned in his heart, a glowing ember, and it took him to the door of his family’s home. He had not noticed when he broke away from the rest of the regiment and trudged on by himself. Now he stared at the door, as if uncertain how to go about opening it.

In the end, he did not have to solve the puzzle. Ollam’s mother opened it, and she recoiled at the sight of her son. Behind her, his father turned pale and began to shake in fear.

Ollam made himself cross the threshold and start the thousand-league journey across the entrance hall to the stairs that would take him to his quarters.

‘Well?’ said Yanna. Her imperiousness had turned brittle, but she clung to it still. Perhaps it was all she had left.

Ollam paused with his hand on the bannister. A ragged, mournful chuckle rattled out of his chest. ‘The beastherd is defeated,’ he said. ‘It is utterly destroyed. It is no longer a threat to the Avengorii.’

Yanna frowned. ‘What about us?’

‘Oh yes. Us. We are no longer a threat to the Avengorii either. We too are utterly destroyed.’ The sob that formed inside him was too huge to get out. It would have ripped his throat apart. He kept it within. ‘We should be pleased, mother,’ he said. ‘Our schemes were masterful. We have engineered our destruction with a perfection undreamed of by the beastmen. Did you understand that you and I were labouring to give the Avengorii dominion over the Colonnade?’

‘What of your sister?’ Yanna asked.

‘What of her?’

‘She has the ear of the monsters. Will she intervene for us?’

Ollam laughed again and almost choked on bitterness. ‘She took up her sword against the Colonnade,’ he said. ‘She slew many of our warriors.’

Yanna’s eyes were flints. ‘Did you kill her, at least?’

Ollam turned away from her. ‘Do not look to Atella for mercy,’ he said. ‘I fear she may have learned more from you than she would admit.’

He went up the stairs, leaving footprints of blood and muck.

Eleven nights later, as Jaras encountered his brother, so Ollam’s sister would come for him.

Why would ten days and ten nights pass after the return of the defeated? What would the songs answer? They would surely tell of the ten dawns, on each of which the people of the Colonnade watched the land drop a bit further, until, on the last day, the pillars stood proud and high again and the city looked down once more on the distant prospects of Ghur. On the tenth day, though the sky glowered, the people of the Above began to breathe more easily, at least those who had not taken part in the war. Many went about their lives as usual. Some even began to say that the dark clouds were nothing to fear. No one had actually seen the Avengorii. There was no rain of rotten blood.

Day after day, more and more people told themselves that the worst was over. Day after day, the fall of the Colonnade came closer.

Because day after day, and night after night, Atella screamed.

This is what the songs would have to tell of her, though no mortal eye saw what happened, and no mortal tongue could give voice to a song that bore witness to her passage.

Pain and darkness and crimson convulsed Atella’s frame when Lauka Vai fed, and they did not release her when the Mother of Nightmares had slaked her thirst. Atella had little awareness outside of agony, but she knew that she was moving through the air. Lauka Vai held Atella in her arms and flew, hard and fast, west and north, past the Colonnade, past the forest and on into the Sascathran Desert.

Lauka Vai carried Atella beneath the sands, into the realm of the Avengorii, down and down, far past the throne room, down and down to the darkest reaches of the fortresses. Lauka Vai brought her to its centre, and before huge doors of stone. There, Atella felt the vampire queen’s will force her to become aware of herself once more, to see clearly through the red fog of pain.

The stone of the doors was black and rough, utterly without reflection. The designs that covered their fifty-foot height appeared to twist and shudder in the amethyst glow that suffused the hall. The light seemed to be coming from the other side of the doors as if they were porous.

‘Beyond these doors,’ said Lauka Vai, ‘is the Void Maw. It is a Realmgate through which none travel, but by which all are transformed. Now is the time for your first act of service to me.’

‘What must I do?’ Atella managed.

‘You will pass through the doors, and you will undergo the rite of korak’hor. For ten days and ten nights, you will confront yourself, and what comes from the Void Maw. Embrace the blood, Atella Reigehren. Embrace the truth of yourself. Embrace the monster. If you do, and you are strong, you will be great among the Avengorii. If you are weak, then you will be destroyed by madness and change.’

The wracking pain in Atella’s frame grew worse. She could feel her bones changing; the process seemed to have become faster and more severe since they came before the doors and the glow washed over her.

‘I am ready,’ she said. She didn’t know how great the ordeal would be, but she was ready to serve the Mother of Nightmares.

‘Then let the korak’hor commence,’ said Lauka Vai. She spread her arms and spoke arcane syllables. The air vibrated with her words, grew taut, and then with the rumble of mountains, the great doors pulled back from each other. Sorcerous, violet energy pulsed within the blackness of the chamber beyond.

Atella stumbled forward before she could hesitate. She crossed the threshold, and the doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her in the chamber.

She could not tell if the space she was in was vast or small. The walls and ceiling vanished in the violet light. At the centre was the Maw. Within a crumbling, barely discernible stone arch, power writhed. It was hunger itself, and it was death itself, and if Atella had not thrown herself on the floor, it would have pulled her in and devoured her. Even as it hauled at her being and her mind and her soul, it reached out too, radiating power that was a hunger in itself, a hunger that changed what it touched forever.

The death-hunger took Atella. It became the form of her pain. It sought to tear her asunder, to destroy her, to reduce her to a nothingness of ash. She screamed, desperate for blood, for its taste, for its power and for the death that came from taking it. She screamed as the hunger that was death blasted from the Void Maw. And she screamed to embrace her becoming, to embrace the monstrosity that was the most transcendent servant of death.

Ten days and ten nights passed, every second an eternity, an eternity lost in the collapse of time. There could be no end to her pain, no end to the howling madness that consumed what she had been. And because there could be no end, she embraced the agony of death’s change.

If she had not embraced her transformation, she would have perished, as so many had before her. When her lower body lengthened, and bones multiplied, she rejoiced. When she knew she was being wrenched apart and reassembled like a patchwork beast, she rejoiced.

The blood-hunger grew in her. It grew beyond measure, and beyond reason. Yet she knew who she was, and whom she served.

At the end of the tenth night, Atella uttered one more scream, this time of triumph, and the doors opened again.

A Vengorian Lord emerged from the chamber of the Void Maw and grovelled before the Mother of Nightmares.

‘Rise,’ said Lauka Vai. ‘Arise, and fly to the Colonnade. Be the instrument of my vengeance. Teach them the final lesson.’

Now the song would turn to the eleventh night. Now the song would turn to the night of the fall. But whom would it remember? Would it recall the last night of House Reigehren?

If it did, it would tell of Ollam, jerking awake with a terrified gasp to see a great shadow at his high, wide window. The shape crawled in, shattering part of the frame, and it filled the room. Ollam fumbled with the lantern at his bedside, and saw the thing Atella had become. She was a reptile from the waist down, and she had wings, and though her flesh was the colour of bone and her eyes were obsidian, Ollam still recognised her.

‘Hello, little brother,’ said Atella. Her voice rasped and snarled. She shrugged her wings, as if still exploring the novelty of a new form.

Beyond her, outside the window, lightning cut through the clouds. The first drops of black blood spattered against the house. The wind blew some into the room. Atella licked the drops that hit her face. She looked down at Ollam, and she trembled, as if she were barely holding herself back.

Ollam found a reserve of bravado, perhaps even courage, he had never shown before. It surprised even him, though that would hardly make him worthy of even a single verse in the song.

‘You are cowards,’ Ollam whispered. ‘We are weak, yet you creep into the city like thieves.’

‘You are weak,’ Atella agreed. ‘So it doesn’t matter if retribution comes by day or night. It will not come in secret. And the Avengorii are not inside the city yet. Only Kavak and myself. We wanted to see our brothers, to whom we owe so much.’

Ollam thought of trying to escape, then abandoned the idea. He wouldn’t get more than two paces before he fell, whether or not Atella pursued him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

‘I thought it was obvious. I am here to complete our family’s disgrace.’

She was speaking with some difficulty, it seemed, each sentence ending in a hiss that made Ollam think she was about to attack.

Ollam closed his eyes. He braced himself for the agony of claws and teeth.

‘Get up,’ Atella ordered.

His throat parched with fear, Ollam opened his eyes and obeyed.

‘Go to the window, Ollam,’ said Atella. ‘And try to keep your balance.’

The wind blew into the room with greater force. Ollam moved to the window. The blood spat against his face. He looked to the west and began to sob.

The Avengorii were coming. Lightning flashed in sheets, outlining the swarm of winged horrors.

‘And now, brother,’ said Atella, ‘bear witness to the end of our line.’ Her hiss turned into a snarl. Ollam faced her, and her claws split him open before he had the chance to scream.

Who would wish to sing of House Reigehren, a home’s walls awash with blood? Why sing of the Reigehrens and their disgrace of pride and bad faith? They were not unique on that day in the Colonnade. They were not worthy of song. They did not even fight well when the eldest child hurled heads and limbs across the halls in a frenzy of hunger and rage.

Would the bards wish to sing of the Diamond Spire?

Would they sing of the high-born within its walls? If they did, they would tell how Tarvynde, the last lord of the Colonnade, wandered the corridors of the castle day and night without purpose. There was nowhere he could rest. He was pursued by the phantoms of his failure, and the cold fears of what was yet to come. On the eleventh night of his return, he found himself in the empty council chamber. He stared at the throne upon which he had made the decisions that had led to this moment. The gold of the throne mocked him. Its bright gleam was a lie. Its artistry was vainglory.

‘Did you know?’ Atella said from behind him.

Tarvynde knew the voice despite its alteration, and though he was frightened, he was not surprised to see a Vengorian Lord when he turned around. The transformation of his councillor seemed to him to fit the march of events as perfectly as the arrangements of the diamonds on the castle’s spire. With this insight, Lord Tarvynde was closer than most of his subjects to seeing the poetry that was coming for him. But he would not sing of the fall of the Colonnade. He would not sing at all.

‘Did you know?’ Atella asked again.

‘I chose not to.’

Atella nodded slowly. ‘Then I was right.’

‘Does your insight give you satisfaction?’

‘It does not.’ She hissed in frustration. ‘None of this had to happen,’ she said. ‘If you had chosen to know, if you had truly kept faith with the treaty, the Colonnade would be safe, and you would have returned in triumph.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Tarvynde. ‘The Avengorii would never have been accepted. No return with them would have been a victory. It would have always been a betrayal of who we are.’

‘Then who we…’ Atella paused and corrected herself. ‘Then who you are is worthy only of betrayal.’

‘I see that was your decision. Have you come to kill me?’

‘No,’ Atella growled. She wiped blood from her lips. ‘It is only because I despise you so much that I am able to refrain from killing you. I want you to witness the fall. It is the outcome that you ensured, though I will not give you credit for its conception.’

Atella left the council chamber and the worm within it. She threw open the door to the great hall with such force that it flew off its hinges, and she shivered in pleasure at her new strength.

The great hall was not deserted, though it was the dead of night, and there would have been no chance of an audience or the granting of a petition even during the day – because the rulers of the Colonnade were not among those who had given in to the delusion of hope. There were a few nobles gathered near its pillars. They, perhaps more than any others, were unworthy of song. They were the ones that had succeeded, once again, in escaping the risk of war. They had gathered in the hall every day since the departure of the armies, even though there was no one in the throne room with whom to seek favour. Their lives, lacking purpose, depended upon habit instead. It was habit that had brought them here again tonight. They had witnessed the humiliating return of the army eleven days ago, and Lord Tarvynde’s stagger as he entered the Castle of the Diamond Spire. But the lord was within his walls again, and the sky was dark by day and night, and the blood had begun to fall, and they were afraid. So they sought the reassurance of doing what they always had.

Atella stalked down the length of the hall, her tail slashing left and right, her claws clacking against marble, her jaws slightly parted. The nobles hid behind the columns. One of them was Vash Gastar, and Atella pounced. He fled, and she pursued him until she cornered him against a wall. He whimpered and tried to shrink into the stonework.

‘What’s wrong?’ she growled. ‘Don’t you recognise me? Have you changed your mind about seeking my hand in marriage?’ She reared up to her full height and spread her wings wide, ecstatic in the fullness of her monstrosity. ‘Am I not magnificent?’

Vash made high-pitched whining noises. He fell to the ground and raised his hands, pleading for mercy.

It was the plea that snapped the last shred of Atella’s self-control. As it had in her family’s house, the frenzy overcame her. She grabbed Vash with one hand, lifted him high and, with her other hand, yanked his head from his body. His rotting blood poured into her mouth, over her face and down her body. Screams surrounded her, the call of more prey, and she lunged from one victim to another in the great hall. She did not think, and she could not think. She could only tear and feed until the crimson storm passed because there was no one left to kill.

The eastern stained-glass window exploded into shards. Atella looked up. Lauka Vai hovered just outside, and Atella flew up to her queen, and to the Avengorii that awaited her.

‘Now you are truly one of us,’ said the Mother of Nightmares. ‘Welcome, daughter, and rejoice, for we have devoured the hypocrisy of the Diamond Spire.’

Atella laughed and soared away from the Castle of the Diamond Spire, and no one would sing of what she left behind.

Would anyone sing of Baveth Ullior in her tower? She was not the architect of the betrayal, though she was surely its stonemason. She had performed her role well, and now she waited in terror to be removed from the stage.

Eleven days before, in her tower, she had watched the final stages of the prelude to the fall. She had watched the fateful grey clouds race in from the west, grow darker, and knew they would inevitably let fall the rain of blood on her city. She had watched the pitiful remnants of the Freeguild Guard make its painful way up the slope to the gates, and she had wept to wonder how things might have been if she had not broken the duties of her office.

On the eleventh night, she watched as the reckoning came. She watched the storm gather and break. She watched the rage of the lightning, and the black wings fill the sky. The cries of the Avengorii rang in her ears. The legions that had flown over the city on the way to fight for it had returned. They were coming with fury and with vengeance.

Leading the storm was the Mother of Nightmares. Her tremendous wings beat the air with the majesty of fate. Her hair streamed behind her, and it seemed to give birth to the clouds themselves. The fury of her dynasty was in her face, and its sight made Baveth scream and cover her eyes.

But though she squeezed her hands so tightly against her face that she drew blood, she could still see the rage of Lauka Vai, and feel the beating of those wings.

But who would sing of the fall of the Colonnade?

Would it be the bard? He would not be wanted in the song, but would he be the one to give it voice? He had been the Colonnade’s voice. He had sung its destiny into being.

On this eleventh night, after he took Jaras from his garret, Kavak carried his brother to the edge of the forest to the north. Here, the land had changed little. This elevation offered the full prospect of the Colonnade. They saw the complete length of the city, the magnificence of its towers and the wonder of its colossal pillars holding the immense platform aloft, everything illuminated by the continuous lightning of the bloodstorm.

They saw the rain fall in black curtains. Already, in the Above, the streets were running with flash floods of blood. The unwary were swept off their feet. Soon, there would be drownings.

This was just the beginning.

Jaras turned his head away from his city’s suffering.

‘No,’ said Kavak. He sank a claw into the back of his brother’s neck. ‘I want you to watch.’ When Jaras obeyed, he eased the pressure. ‘This is your doing,’ he said. ‘Look upon your works.’

The dynasty of the Avengorii descended on the Colonnade. There were still guards along its ramparts, though not many, and they fired at the vampires with crossbow bolts and iron shot. The battle did not even begin, because after pausing briefly over the castle, Lauka Vai took her legions under the platform, to the Beneath.

‘What are they doing?’ said Jaras.

‘My queen has no interest in storming the Castle of the Diamond Spire. Her throne in the Sascathran Desert is a thousand times more grand. This is not conquest, little brother. This is retribution. This is what you have wrought.’

The Avengorii brought the full wrath of the blood tempest with them. The winds in the Above were fierce, and the blood pelted like hail. Underneath the platform, the winds sheared the weaker chains. Rope ladders disintegrated. Suspension bridges snapped like whips. The blood struck hard enough to tear flesh.

The pillars of the Colonnade were more than a perfection of strength and engineering. They were perfect in their artisanship as well. Nothing else could be permitted for the constructions that were the symbols of the Colonnade as well as its protection. The polish of the granite was so perfect, the stone shone. It reflected, as fine a mirror as a deep pool.

The Avengorii would not permit such mirrors to exist.

At Lauka Vai’s command, the tempest vented its rage against the pillars. The wind hurled blood at stone, and the erosion began. The rock pitted. It rotted. It crumbled and cracked.

Lauka Vai and her Vengorian Lords attacked the pillars with arcane bolts and the magic of decay. Their fury ate into the works that were the wonders of this region of Ghur. But these pillars were young, too. The Colonnade was an infant next to the underground cities beneath the Sascathran Desert.

Who would sing of the fall of the Colonnade?

What would they sing of?

This much is certain. They would sing of the moment the first of the pillars died. The crack resounded across the land. There was movement where none should be beneath the platform. A tree that was a mountain toppled, slow and heavy. Its immense bulk crashed into the pillar next in line. Weakened, that column snapped in half.

The platform began to tilt.

Jaras groaned.

‘Watch,’ said Kavak.

His command was unnecessary. Jaras could not look away, though his soul shrieked at him to shut his eyes.

Another pillar fell, and then another. The levels of the Beneath swung free, their chains snapping, and fell. The catastrophe accelerated, and the great platform angled up like a stricken ship about to slide beneath the waves.

At last, there was no more strength. The pillars tumbled all at once, smashing each other to death, and the city fell. The platform cracked in half, and then in half again. The thunder of its death cry boomed across the leagues, shaking the ground with such force that, like a wounded animal, the land lashed out. A wound split wide, a canyon a thousand feet deep, and it swallowed the cascading ruins of the Colonnade.

A cloud of dust billowed upward. It was caught by the gale of the Avengorii. Its vast shape eddied as if in agony, and then the rain of blood forced it back down.

Then there was nothing.

‘So,’ said Kavak. ‘You saw. You made this happen, Jaras. Can any other bard in Ghur say the same? Can any mortal say they toppled a city? No. You would be a legend, Jaras. You would be, except you will not be remembered.’

Jaras opened his mouth.

‘No,’ said Kavak. With a quick flick of a wing claw, he slit his brother’s throat.

Jaras choked and clutched at the flow of blood. He dropped to his knees.

‘There will be no more words from you,’ said Kavak. ‘You have sung enough.’

Jaras’ mouth gaped. He struggled for air he would never have again.

‘I won’t feast on you,’ said Kavak. ‘I will not taint myself with your blood.’

Jaras fell forward. When he was still, Kavak flew up into the dark beneath the clouds, where Atella waited for him.

Who would sing of the fall of the Colonnade? No one, perhaps.

But if one did, their song would be flawed if they did not turn their gaze to the sky and see there, wheeling around each other, two creatures winged with the grace of monstrosity and blood, reborn in truth to be the destroyers of lies.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Annandale is the author of the Warhammer Horror novel The House of Night and Chain and the novella The Faith and the Flesh, which features in the portmanteau The Wicked and the Damned. His work for the Horus Heresy series includes the novels Ruinstorm and The Damnation of Pythos, and the Primarchs novels Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar and Vulkan: Lord of Drakes. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written Ephrael Stern: The Heretic Saint, Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine, the Yarrick series, and several stories involving the Grey Knights, as well as titles for The Beast Arises and the Space Marine Battles series. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he has written Neferata: Mortarch of Blood and Neferata: The Dominion of Bones. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

An extract from Lady of Sorrows.

The Belvegrod lighthouse was a relic of another age. It stood atop a great spire of rock that stretched away from the jagged cliff face like the prow of a ship. A sheer drop of two hundred feet from the edge before the murky depths of Graveswater, and still another two hundred feet from the summit of the cliff to the pinnacle of the lighthouse. Colossal in scale, the tower might have been raised by gargants such was its enormity. It was the tremendous scope of its construction as much as its place atop the cliff that was credited with the structure’s survival. It was the only part of Belvegrod that had withstood the cataclysm that drowned the rest of the city centuries ago.

Kvetka always felt a sense of awe when she looked up at the lighthouse. Hundreds of legends were told about it by her people, passed down from parent to child over countless generations. The descendants of those who’d fled Belvegrod’s destruction spoke of the last Keeper of the Light, standing fast at his post as the waters rolled over the city. First his voice had been raised in prayers to Sigmar for deliverance, but as the catastrophe grew worse he began to curse the God-King with the obscenest oaths. Finally, the Keeper’s mind broke and his mad laughter crackled across the desolation, chilling the refugees as they fled the rising tide.

Though it was claimed by the Azyrites that the lighthouse had been cleansed of any malevolent gheists, Kvetka’s people knew better. A place as old as the tower was not so easily parted from its past. The Keeper’s mad spirit still walked in the night, climbing the steps to his eternal post. The only sure way to escape his spectral attentions was to carry a hoop of wolfbloom inside the left shoe or the left glove. A gheist was always drawn to the sinister side of a person, but the spurs of the wolfbloom would turn it away.

Kvetka flexed her gloved fingers and winced as the sharp spurs scraped her skin. ‘You don’t really believe in that,’ she told herself. Certainly the Azyrites disdained what they considered heathen superstition. They took no safeguards against the Keeper’s gheist and none of them had run afoul of his spirit. The Reclaimed had an answer for that, of course. Her people said the gheist only showed itself to those who belonged in Belvegrod, not to outsiders.

The Azyrites made it easy to dislike them. They were a proud and haughty people, arrogant in their customs and manners. They weren’t of Shyish and never failed to seize a moment when they could remind the Reclaimed of that fact. Their eyes had beheld the wonders of Azyrheim and the Celestial Realm and for them there was no other standard of quality. They had no time for the traditions and sensitivities of others, still less for trying to understand.

‘Careful, Kvetka, or you will start sounding like Ivor,’ she chided herself. She pulled her cloak a bit tighter about her shoulders to fight the chill wafting up the cliff from Graveswater. She looked back down the winding trail to the city below.

No, Kvetka corrected herself, not a city but rather two towns. Two settlements that were as distinct from one another as a duardin and an orruk. The Twinned Towns, they were called by travellers, but only because of their proximity to one another. Both had been raised upon the ruins of the old city when the flood was drawn away by the magic of Sigmar’s Stormcasts. A part of Belvegrod was exposed, expanding the island on which the lighthouse stood.

The colonists from Azyr, following in the wake of Sigmar’s knights, established the town of Westreach. They used the old ruins as a quarry, razing what had been to build homes such as they’d known in their own realm. The Reclaimed settled the other half of the island, creating the town of Eastdale. They didn’t tear down the ruins but rather sought to restore them, to recover something of the glories of their ancestors.

Left to their own, the two peoples kept themselves apart. The townmasters made an effort to foster a sense of comradeship between the communities, but the gulf between them was too wide to bridge. The Azyrites were determined to change everything into a semblance of their own realm. They refused to understand the Reclaimed and their determination to recover the legacy of their own past.

Only at the Belvegrod lighthouse did the two communities regularly interact. Here the wise came together to conduct their studies, seeking to unlock the mysteries of past, present… and future.

The future. Kvetka shivered when she considered what that meant for the Twinned Towns. They existed under a baleful curse that infected them all with misery and despair. Each night, phantoms from the ruins came to prowl and prey upon the living. There was hardly a family in either settlement that hadn’t lost someone to the undead. Yet even that was nothing beside the doom that hovered over them all. The Twinned Towns were plagued as no other place by the nighthaunts. Once a generation a great host of the fiends would lay siege to them, driving the people before them like a tidal wave. Commanded by the remorseless Lady of Sorrows, the spectres would sweep over the communities, killing all they caught. For hundreds of years the pattern had been repeated. Each time, the people were driven to the very brink of destruction, but miraculously escaped annihilation. The phantom hosts would falter in the end, receding back into the mists to regather their strength, to await the hour when the Lady of Sorrows would call them once more from their graves.

The future. Was there any for the Twinned Towns aside from this cursed cycle of death and destruction? The answer to that question was what those gathered in the lighthouse sought so keenly. Hope for their people.

Kvetka quickened her step as the path plateaued and she drew closer to the base of the lighthouse. Four guards stood outside the massive iron doors set into the tower’s granite walls. Two wore the gilded armour of Westreach, their breastplates sculpted into the sharp beaks of gryphons. The other two wore the studded hauberks of Eastdale, charms and talismans hanging about their necks. The Azyrite guards moved to bar her path, but the Reclaimed soldiers gave them a sharp look and they desisted. Kvetka thanked the men from her town and walked past the guard post. The iron doors loomed before her. As she reached for them, they were suddenly drawn back.

Standing in the doorway was a man she’d hoped to avoid. The Azyrite had a dusky complexion, with eyes like pools of frost. His pure white hair was cut close to his skull, little more than fuzz. His face was sharp and vulturine, devoid of warmth and compassion. Those were qualities that many of Sigmar’s warrior priests made an effort to cultivate, but not Mahyar. His was a harsh and uncompromising kind of faith – a faith in which all were found wanting.

Especially if their blood was that of Shyish rather than Azyr.

Mahyar gave her a cold look. ‘Ivor has been waiting for you,’ the priest stated, his voice as pleasant as a drawn dagger.

Even among the Reclaimed, there were few who cared to cross words with Mahyar. Kvetka was one of those few.

‘Hierophant Ivor,’ she dared to correct the priest. ‘His rank is due the same respect as yours, Elder Mahyar.’

Fire boiled up in the priest’s eyes. ‘Save your sharp tongue for Ivor. He is the one who believes your presence here has some value.’ Mahyar stepped aside and gestured to the great winding stair that circled the tower’s central column. ‘They’re in the observatory.’

Kvetka gave him a puzzled look. ‘Will you not be attending the augury?’

‘Once I have rendered my prayers to Sigmar and requested his wisdom in interpreting the import of these divinations, I shall return for the augury,’ Mahyar replied superciliously.

‘Oh,’ Kvetka said. ‘I won’t delay you then. It would be a tragedy if your insight was absent. I don’t know how we should accomplish anything without your guidance.’ A puckish smile was on her face when she turned and made her way to the spiral stair. It was probably too much to ask that Sigmar cause one of his own priests to get lost on the way back to Westreach, but she couldn’t help wishing for such a happy occurrence. There were many admirable people in the Sigmarite temple, clergy who strove to treat Azyrite and Reclaimed alike with dignity and consideration. There were also pompous zealots like Mahyar, people so certain of their own rectitude that they treated anyone different with intolerance and contempt.

Yes, Kvetka supposed it was too much to wish Mahyar would break his leg on the way down from the lighthouse, but she made that wish just the same.

Perhaps Kvetka would stumble and break a leg on her way up the lighthouse. It was an uncharitable thing for a priest to wish harm upon someone for anything as petty as the irritation Kvetka always provoked in him, but Mahyar couldn’t help the feeling. He’d have to wear a hair shirt under his vestments on the morrow as penance for his resentment of the scholar. There was a difference between upholding the conventions of Sigmar’s temple and baser, personal enmity. He wasn’t so arrogant as to excuse himself for what he knew was a failing of his own character.

Over the years he’d let Kvetka’s impertinence get to him. She took a wicked delight in challenging his authority, never allowing an opportunity to defy him escape. Mahyar was too honest to abuse his position and retaliate. He’d seen for himself that Kvetka’s animosity was directed at him alone. She was respectful enough to other priests, and made all the proper observations to the God-King. No, it was a personal dislike between them, the cause of which Mahyar couldn’t remember. It no longer mattered. Their mutual hostility didn’t need a reason to endure.

Mahyar paused when he reached the guard post outside the tower. He craned his neck back and saw that the immense perspicillum was slowly extending out from the spire of the lighthouse. He indulged in a brief smile. Ivor was always urging haste, frantic that everything and everyone should be assembled as quickly as possible, yet every time the result was the same. Everything would be in readiness and everyone would wait. Try as he might, Ivor couldn’t hurry the astrological conjunctions that governed the science of divination.

The priest’s footsteps echoed through the lighthouse as he ascended the spiral stairway. The many libraries, studies and laboratories inside the tower were empty now. Everyone was up in the observatory, waiting for the stars to fall into alignment. It was an eerie feeling, to know that he was the only person among all those chambers and corridors. It was a solitude far different from the cell of contemplation in the temple. There, even in isolation, he knew there were other people around. Here, he was alone. That primal, irrational part of his brain magnified every stray sound that reached his ears. Though he would never say it, Mahyar could understand why the Reclaimed imagined the Keeper’s gheist haunting the tower. The faint sound of water dripping in some distant room became creeping footsteps. A draught from some crack in the wall became the touch of spectral fingers. Such superstition was rightly condemned, but Mahyar appreciated why it persisted.

A third of the way up the tower voices drifted down to Mahyar. Sometimes he could pick out an isolated word, distinguish an individual voice, but overall it was as intelligible as a cataract’s rumble. Still, it was enough to fend off that sense of loneliness as he climbed the stair.

At the top of the stairs, a set of gilded doors opened onto the observatory. In times past, the great light had resided here, throwing its rays across Graveswater to guide ships to Belvegrod’s port. The old assemblage for the light, a fabulous mechanism crafted by duardin engineers in a bygone age, still dominated the round room. The light itself, however, had been removed, its role taken over by two lesser beacons constructed by the people of Westreach and Eastdale. Instead, the revolving platform that had once served the light now acted as the base for the perspicillum.

The telescope was immense in its proportions, with a framework of shining bronze inlaid with runes of gold and silver. Within its cylindrical body were concentric rings of the same material, each stamped with their own layers of runes. Mahyar could read enough of the duardin characters to know that many related to vision and distance, perception and understanding. He also knew that the lenses within the perspicillum weren’t fashioned from glass, but rather the shed scales of stardrakes polished and cut until they were as thin as parchment and as transparent as water. These panes were then set into round sigmarite frames, the celestial metal binding the lenses so securely that even falling down the steps of the tower couldn’t dislodge them.

For all that he put his own trust in omens from his god, Mahyar couldn’t help but respect the exacting craftsmanship that had gone into constructing the perspicillum.

The priest turned his attention away from the telescope to the room around it. Scholars sat about the desks, quills in hand, ink and parchment ready before them. He briefly watched Kvetka as she tested the keenness of her quill. Unsatisfied, she began sharpening it with a knife she took from her belt. He frowned when he saw her tap the blade against the edge of her desk three times before returning it to its sheath. If there was any activity the Reclaimed conducted that didn’t have some superstition attached to it, he’d yet to discover it.

The desks of the scholars dominated the left half of the observatory. The right half had been surrendered to charts and diagrams, each exactingly represented on a sheet of vellum that was fastened to an ebony frame. The men and women who walked among the stands and consulted the drawings were a mixed group. Most of the wizards from both of the Twinned Towns were here, from grey-headed masters to eager young apprentices. None among those who studied the arcane arts in Westreach and Eastdale would miss one of these auguries if they could help it. They weren’t alone, however. Mixed in among the wizards were priests of Sigmar, their white robes providing a marked contrast to the colourful raiment of the mages. The priests were here to offer guidance and support, to invoke Sigmar’s favour for the divinations being conducted. At least, that was the more comforting aspect of their presence. Magic, even the most benign kind, could be a capricious servant. There were times when the power invoked by a wizard became uncontrollable and would wreak havoc on the bodies and souls of those it afflicted. Though the lighthouse was defended by innumerable wards and arcane barriers, there was always the threat of a spell running amok or a daemon manifesting itself. If such happened, it was the role of the priests to subdue both cause and effect, to prevent anything conjured within the tower from escaping into the towns below.

‘I began to think you wouldn’t make it back, brother.’ The words were spoken by a tall, emaciated man with a dreamy expression. He wore a golden hammer on a chain around his neck and upon his shorn scalp the same symbol had been branded. His raiment was cut in the same fashion as one of Sigmar’s prelates, but where the priests’ robes were white, his were a bright blue. His hands clenched a staff topped by a golden icon shaped after the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar.

‘Bairam, it is good to see you.’ Mahyar felt like a fool as soon as the words left his tongue. The man in the blue robes was an augur, a holy man who’d surrendered his sight in order to focus completely upon the spiritual rather than the physical world. His eyes were completely white, as lifeless as a boiled egg.

‘You understand if I cannot return the sentiment,’ Bairam chuckled at Mahyar’s discomfort. There was no malice in his levity, but rather assurance that he didn’t resent the error. For all that he was blind, he had a remarkable sense for reading the emotions of those around him. Bairam called it his second sight, an ability to perceive the nature of people he encountered. He could evaluate the health of a person merely by standing in the same room with them and few were the liars who could deceive him for more than the most fleeting of moments.

‘I confess I’m surprised to find you here,’ Mahyar said as he helped guide Bairam across the observatory; the augur might be able to perceive a living presence after his strange fashion, but he wasn’t so capable when it came to desks and lecterns. ‘It is usually your custom to ignore these divinations.’

Bairam nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Many times these rituals reveal nothing of consequence. But today, when I sat before Sigmar’s altar in adoration, I was gripped by a compulsion to come here.’ His fingers tightened on Mahyar’s arm. ‘Tonight,’ he pronounced, ‘they will learn something of consequence.’

Mahyar had heard such assurances from wizards and scholars at every one of these rituals. Never had he given their words any importance. When Bairam said it, however, it gave him a feeling of foreboding. He looked aside at the perspicillum and the two duardin engineers who were operating it. The great telescope now extended twenty feet through the hatch in the observatory’s domed roof. The ceiling was rotating along with the platform, angling so that it was in the proper alignment.

What was it, Mahyar wondered, that they were going to find tonight?

Kvetka felt the shudder that rolled through the lighthouse as the perspicillum was brought into position and locked into place by the duardin. She glanced up at the narrow band of sky exposed by the open ceiling. The stars were dim and ghostly, their rays as wholesome as an open grave. She turned her eyes towards the Azyrite scholar seated at the desk beside her. Envy swelled in her chest. The man’s ancestors had come from another realm, from a place where the sky was beautiful and bright, not menacing and ghoulish. Even if he himself had never seen it, he’d have heard stories passed down through his family, stories about the land they’d come from.

She looked back to the giant telescope. She wasn’t about to let anything as petty as unreasoning jealousy distract her now. Let the Azyrites have their stories. Deny it as hard as they wanted, they were people of Shyish now. No more for them the ease and security of Sigmar’s realm. They must endure the horrors of Nagash’s haunted dominion just like the Reclaimed. They would never make these lands like those they’d left behind, however hard they tried. The sooner the Azyrites understood that, the better things would be for them all.

Ivor walked towards the perspicillum. He was an old man with a long silver beard and pale skin, dressed in golden robes. Most learned of the wizards of Eastdale, he’d ascended to the position of hierophant and governor of the lighthouse by careful politicking as much as for his arcane skills. Ivor knew how to appease his detractors and under his leadership a new co-operation had been reached between the wizards and the Temple of Sigmar, though the gap between Reclaimed and Azyrite was less easily bridged.

‘Comrades and colleagues,’ Ivor called out when he stood at the perspicillum. Kvetka thought he must have worked some minor spell to project his voice, for his words sounded as though he were standing right next to her.

Now that all eyes were turned towards him, Ivor continued. ‘The time is upon us once more. The constellations favour our endeavours.’ He pointed his finger up at the ceiling. ‘Our vision shall be cast out across the realm. We shall stare upon the edge of Shyish! The perspicillum will reveal to us that place where the grains of tomorrow drain away into the infinite.’ He turned his pointing finger upon his audience, making no distinction between wizard, priest or scholar. ‘A last warning, my friends. To hunt the future is to pursue the ultimate unknown. What is revealed to us may be the seed of hope or the blight of despair. Those unprepared for the latter would do well to leave now.’

There was a stir among the crowd as a few of the scholars left their desks and removed themselves. Kvetka felt a pang of sympathy. Those who left were young, and this was their first time sitting at one of the divination rites. She could remember her own initiation, twenty years ago, and how overwhelmed she had been by everything. She’d been tempted to walk out too. Only pride had kept her in her chair, an unwillingness to belittle herself in front of Azyrites.

‘Do not begrudge them their reticence,’ Ivor said. For just a moment Kvetka saw him focus on the augur Bairam and a worried look came onto the wizard’s face. ‘Perhaps after we read the portents, we will wish that we too had absented ourselves.’

The hierophant said no more. Turning to the duardin, he gave them a brief nod. One engineer worked a flywheel at the back of the perspicillum, the other threw a series of levers along the telescope’s side. A low, ghostly moan rattled through the observatory. A grey light erupted from an angled tube at the back of the device. Upon the smoothed dome of the ceiling the light flickered, hazy and indistinct. Ivor now joined the duardin in their labours, helping them adjust the machinery.

From a grey haze, the image being projected upon the ceiling now resolved itself into clarity. Kvetka watched as a rippling wave slowly undulated across the dome: not a liquid tide, but a gritty stream of grains. They were looking upon the sifting gravesands that gathered on the edge of Shyish. Each mote of substance was the crystallisation of a lost tomorrow, all the days and hours stripped away from the dead.

The gathered wizards were intent upon the projected image. Kvetka could feel the atmosphere in the observatory change as they drew on their magic. Each of them reached out to the distant gravesands, seeking to draw meaning from the sifting grains. As some fragment of wisdom was drawn out of the cascade, the gleaning wizard would call out the impression that was conveyed. Random words, shards of a greater whole, but the scholars dutifully copied every word that they distilled from the babble.

Kvetka had a talent for this part of the rite. Over the years she’d honed her concentration like a razor, able to focus upon one thing and ignore all others. Ivor himself was always impressed by her method and had often bemoaned the fact that so few scholars were able to emulate her ability. If they could, then each could record a different wizard and nothing would be lost during the ritual.

Tonight, Kvetka’s focus was on Gajevic, a thin, bookish wizard from Eastdale. Even if he was a wizard, she was still puzzled that Ivor had asked her to pay attention to such an unremarkable man. He was timid, awkward and always furtively looking for some avenue of escape when forced into any kind of social interaction; there was nothing that impressed Kvetka as important about Gajevic.

Clearly, however, something had impressed Bairam. Kvetka could see the Sigmarite augur faced towards Gajevic, his blind eyes staring emptily at the wizard. That, she was now certain, was why Ivor had requested she pay close attention to Gajevic: some premonition Bairam had that was related to him.

‘Crypt’ was the first word Kvetka wrote down. It was far from the last. Over the course of an hour there were many others. Alone they had no meaning. Later, like pieces of a puzzle, they would try to fit them together into some coherent revelation.

Four sheets of parchment were filled with Gajevic’s words. The ink on Kvetka’s quill changed in hue as time passed, from black to blue and then to a fiery orange. It was vital the sequence of the words be known if there was to be any meaning gleaned from them, a purpose the changeling ink fulfilled.

It was as Kvetka was starting on a fifth sheet of parchment that Gajevic’s voice rose in a scream. There was no need for anyone to write down the words he shouted.

‘The Lady of Sorrows!’ Gajevic cried, before collapsing to the floor. In the same instant, the projected image on the ceiling lost its focus. Ivor and the duardin tried to restore the projection while several of the watching priests moved to examine Gajevic. The hierophant and the engineers failed to bring back the perspicillum’s picture of the gravesands, but the priests were able to rouse Gajevic from his stupor.

‘What happened? Is the ritual over?’ Gajevic asked as he was helped back to his feet.

It was the stern warrior priest Mahyar who answered the wizard. ‘You screamed,’ he said. His eyes took on a steely glint and Kvetka could see his fingers curling about the knife on his belt. ‘You invoked something profane before you collapsed.’

Gajevic gaped at Mahyar, utterly oblivious to the menace in his tone or the knife that could be drawn in the next heartbeat. ‘I screamed?’ He ran his hands through his hair, as though he could knead the answer into his brain. ‘What does it mean?’

Kvetka rose from behind her desk. ‘We must study what the wizards have gleaned from the gravesands,’ she declared. Her voice was loud enough to carry across the observatory, but her eyes were fixed on Mahyar. ‘Then, perhaps, we’ll know what it means.’

Mahyar returned her scrutiny with a scowl, but his fingers drifted away from the knife. He walked over to join Bairam. For the moment, at least, the warrior priest appeared satisfied.

‘All of you, gather your notes,’ Ivor called to the scholars. ‘Bring them together and we will try to arrange them as they were spoken.’ He looked over to Kvetka. ‘Make a copy of what you have recorded. Denote each word in the order you wrote it down. We may want to refer back to the original.’

‘Yes, excellency,’ Kvetka replied. She didn’t question the request, though she’d never heard it made before. The usual practice was to cross out words as their place in the sequence was determined, yet Ivor wanted her original retained for consultation.

There was something else that was unusual. Deciphering the divination was a process that could take hours, if not days. Once they were satisfied the perspicillum hadn’t drawn some daemon back from the edge of the realm, the priests would make their departure.

This time, however, the priests made no move to leave. When Kvetka glanced over to where Mahyar was standing, he had an expectant look on his face. He was waiting for something.

Waiting. Mahyar was a zealous man, pious and sincere in his faith. There was nothing he wouldn’t do if he felt it to be Sigmar’s will. Yet the supreme test of faith for him was waiting. Inactivity. Enforced idleness. As the hours crawled by he imagined the damned in the lowest underworlds, tortured by their misdeeds.

‘Patience is the noblest virtue,’ Bairam said, his eerie senses picking up on Mahyar’s mood.

‘I was born in a hut slapped together from the rubble of a hovel,’ Mahyar stated. ‘There isn’t a speck of noble blood in my veins.’

Bairam chuckled at the retort. ‘Believe then that your perseverance isn’t without purpose.’ He waved his hand vaguely to where the scholars were cobbling together the results of the ritual. ‘You know that I surrendered my sight so that I might perceive the God-King’s will clearly. You’ve witnessed the veracity of my premonitions before. I tell you, never has an omen been borne to me with such intensity as the one that compelled me to attend tonight’s ritual. A revelation of great importance is before us.’

Mahyar looked towards the wizard Gajevic and considered the words he’d screamed. ‘Perhaps it would’ve been better if it was all for nothing.’

‘Perhaps,’ Bairam conceded, ‘but would it be better to prepare for a calamity before it strikes, or sit in blissful ignorance until its force cannot be escaped? The wheel of fate turns, with or without our consent. If there is a chance, however remote, to end this cycle of despair, would that not be worth knowing? The Twinned Towns will always exist at the edge of annihilation so long as the Lady of Sorrows threatens us, so long as her spectres prey upon our people and bleed the vitality from our community.’

Agitation among the scholars drew Mahyar’s attention. He saw a few of them rush into the observatory with stacks of books. They’d been consulting a wide array of scrolls and tomes, both sacred texts brought down from Azyr by the first colonists and eldritch volumes salvaged from Belvegrod’s dim past. The Azyrites preferred to rely upon the enlightened wisdom found in their books while the Reclaimed perused the superstitious dread of their ancestors – different interpretations that could seldom be reconciled. Mahyar knew the resulting debates could last for months as each faction argued some trifling nuance that favoured their own resources.

Ivor, however, was unwilling to allow the usual deliberations. He kept referring to one set of notes as a framework upon which everything else had to be built. Mahyar was irked to find this record the hierophant put so much value on had been written down by Kvetka.

‘My friends, the arguing of details is pointless,’ Ivor declared, trying to appease the arguing factions. He held up Kvetka’s notes. ‘We understand the pattern. We know what is before us.’

‘What is before us is doom,’ one of the Azyrite scholars moaned. ‘The revelation means doom to our people. The Lady of Sorrows is coming with her legions…’

‘She has come against us before with her armies,’ Mahyar interrupted. ‘By the grace and glory of Sigmar, we’ve defied her efforts to wipe us out.’

‘It’s been twenty years since she attacked our towns,’ another scholar stated.

‘Then we’re about due to suffer her attentions again,’ Mahyar said. ‘Take courage,’ he advised the frightened scholar. ‘Courage is the best armour against the nighthaunts. We’ve beaten back the undead before. If we remain stalwart, we shall do so again.’

Kvetka stood up from her desk. She pounced on Mahyar’s last word as if it were the choicest of morsels. ‘What if there never had to be another “again”? What if we could ensure our towns need never fear the Lady of Sorrows?’

Ivor nodded as she spoke. He stepped to her side and lifted up the combined text she’d been compiling. ‘That is the revelation we have drawn from the gravesands. A way to break the malignant curse that threatens our communities. A way to fight back rather than meekly awaiting the next attack.’

Mahyar weighed the hierophant’s words. ‘How would we do this?’ he asked. ‘How would we strike against an enemy that’s already dead?’

‘By mounting an expedition against the one who calls the dead from their tombs,’ Kvetka said. ‘By moving against the Lady of Sorrows herself.’

‘Madness,’ one of the other scholars objected.

‘Necessity,’ Ivor corrected him. ‘We have a chance to fulfil prophecy. To break the endless cycle of destruction that has cursed our towns for so long. At last we can live in peace.’

‘The old texts agree,’ Kvetka said. ‘They speak of a chosen one, a hero of two realms, who will be the key to breaking the curse.’

‘Who is this hero?’ Mahyar wanted to know.

It was Ivor who answered. The old wizard tapped the notes he held. ‘There is such a hero even now in the Twinned Towns. A man of two realms who has attained such renown as to be spoken of even in your temple.’

Mahyar snapped his fingers. Instantly he knew who Ivor meant. ‘Jahangir! His father was from Westreach, but his mother was of Eastdale.’

‘One of the only men celebrated by both Azyrites and Reclaimed,’ Bairam agreed. ‘An expedition drawn from both towns could only be led by such a man. Only he can fulfil the prophecy.’

‘Yes, but to succeed he must first seek out the Veiled Oracle,’ Kvetka said. ‘Among the Reclaimed, her powers are well known of old. She is an ancient seeress who dwells in a tower several days’ march from the Sea of Tears. Only the mystic knows the secret to entering the fortress of the Lady of Sorrows.’

The wizard Gajevic gave another name to the place. Even spoken in a whisper, it crept into the ear of everyone in the observatory. ‘The crypt-court of Lady Olynder.’

Click here to buy Lady of Sorrows.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2021.
This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited - Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Igor Kieryluk.

A Dynasty of Monsters © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2021. A Dynasty of Monsters, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-80026-590-5

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

For Margaux, with love, and in the gratitude of being home.

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and
the purchaser of a Black Library e-book product (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase a Black Library e-book (“e-book”). The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;
o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media.

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;
o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;
o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;
o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

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

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.