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Blood Gold – Gav Thorpe

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Realmgate Wars: Volume 1’

A Black Library Publication

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Blood Gold

By Gav Thorpe

The foothills seethed with movement – like a crust of red and black constantly breaking and reforming, a mass of Bloodbound warriors poured over slopes and crests in a continuous wave.

Their goal stood before them. The dark flanks of the immense pinnacle known as Vostargi Mont. It was not so much a mountain as a cloud-piercing edifice that defied the eye to judge its height. Countless lifetimes of spewed molten rock had grown the volcano into a titan amongst its kind, and from a thousand calderas and fumaroles the flame-ridden forces at its heart continued to burst into the world.

But the mount was not a dead place. Its surface was covered in great battlements and walls, guarding gates reached by winding, tower-flanked roads.

Those gates protected a labyrinth of tunnels, caverns and mineworks so vast that it was impossible for a single mind to know them all; so complex and ancient that even the annals of their inhabitants covered but a fraction of their full extent. Vostargi Mont was the ancestral home of the fyreslayers, fierce descendants of the stout duardin race who had been forged in the bowels of the World-That-Was.

Before the Gate of Endless Defiance, one of the lesser portals into the lower runeholds, the rocks themselves seemed alive. As the hills moved with the teeming horde of the Blood God’s howling servants, so the ridged slope of the mountain was also home to an army.

They were unlike any other duardin, unique among the fyreslayers even. Their flesh was like solidifying lava, a dark grey-black that cracked as they moved, showing glimpses of red-and-yellow heat from within. Ten thousand eyes that gleamed with the flame of a volcano’s heart watched the approaching Bloodbound.

Like all of their kind, they wore little armour. Their helms were split at the scalp, allowing great crests of fire-like hair to jut through, sculpted in extravagant designs, hung with clasps and rune-beads. Their beards were likewise a fall of orange and yellow hair-fire, plaited and knotted in intricate patterns and ringed with pale gold.

The air shimmered with heat haze. Their sheer presence brought a crackle of flames, and a smog carried on their breath.

At the fore waited Ungrimmsson Drakkazak, runefather of the clan, descended in direct lineage from their earliest progenitors. Like all of his kin his appearance was of volcanic rage given flesh, bound with golden torques and high helm, his beard forked many times by complex knotwork. The axe he held in one hand was almost as tall as he was, save for the great bifurcated crests of his hair, its blade edge dancing with undulating blue flame. As with many fyreslayers, his flesh was hammered with runes of ur-gold – mystic shards believed to be the fragments of the duardin warrior-god Grimnir, whose immortal form had been showered across the realms. Sigils of fortitude, strength, courage and power gleamed with an inner light from where they nestled in bicep and thigh, pectoral and shoulder. From belt loops and bracelets hung amulets and keys denoting his many ranks and titles amongst the Zharrthagi clan.

His eyes glowed with flame as he gazed at the mass of rage-driven humanity that surged across the foothills. A movement to his left caught his eye and he saw one of the fyreslayers, a young vulkite berzerker, bending one knee. The youthful warrior rubbed his hand in the dirt and then curled his fingers about the haft of his pick as he rejoined the line of his kin.

‘One of my runesons teach you that?’ Ungrimmsson asked. ‘Better for grip, eh?’

The vulkite berzerker nodded, the single binding of his short beard clattering against a gorget he wore about his neck. He looked away, staring out at the horde that approached. His fingers flexed on the haft of his pick again and the fyreslayer darted another look towards his runefather before fixing his eyes on the Bloodbound once more.

‘Come here, Alvi,’ said the runefather, beckoning with his axe. He knew every one of his kin by name. The fyreslayer approached with quick strides.

‘Yes, lodge-sire?’

‘You seem agitated.’

‘I’m not afraid, lodge-sire!’ the warrior protested.

‘I didn’t say you were afraid, Alvi. Agitated. Something’s vexing you.’

‘It’s not important,’ the fyreslayer told him. ‘I shouldn’t be troubling you.’

The vulkite berzerker took a step back towards his companions, but Ungrimmsson stopped him with a disapproving grunt.

‘I’ll decide what’s troubling me. Spit it out, lad.’

‘When I came to my first battle you said you were going to tell me about the Zharrthagi curse, lodge-sire. But you never got around to it. I asked the others but they said I needed to hear the tale from you.’

‘Why is it bothering you now?’

‘If I die, I’d like to know first, is all,’ confessed the fyreslayer. He flexed his arm and the skin cracked, leaving a crease of fire in the crook of his elbow. ‘I’d like to know why we’re the way we are.’

‘Well, there’s a thing,’ said Ungrimmsson. ‘First off, you’ll not be dying today. I promise you that. Second, you’re right, I do owe you the tale. You’re of age now, you should know.’

Ungrimmsson cocked an eye towards the red-armoured barbarians and gave the youngster a wink. ‘I figure we’ve got a bit of time to kill and here’s as good a place as any. The Zharrthagi curse, the fire in our bodies, goes back a long time, to before the Red Feast when the Great Parch was gripped by the ravages of the Blood God unleashed by that lord of slaughter, Khorgos Khul. The runefather of the Angastaz Lodge, as the clan was known then, was one Brynnson Drakkazak. A prouder nor more stubborn runefather has yet to walk the halls of Vostargi Mont…’

Sigmar’s reign held relative peace over the lands of the Great Parch and a great many other regions over many realms. Even so, the children of Grimnir were not ones to be idle and we warred with orruks and ogors and even the humans on occasion. Their holds were raided by grotz, and even bands of aelves would occasionally seek to take their overland territories. Even so, there were also times when the lodges fell to conflict with each other, though only rarely did such disputes end in battle, even amongst hot-headed fyreslayers. Sometimes runesons and runefathers might duel each other to prove a point or settle an argument.

The Ironfists were more aggressive than most, spending years at a time on the surface seeking ur-gold while others delved deep into the spine of the mountain to find the shards of Grimnir. It was good that they did, for often disagreement followed when they returned to Vostargi Mont. The Ironfists were not the most numerous nor the wealthiest lodge, but Brynnson Drakkazak was determined that they would have great reputation all the same. In ferocity it was said there was nothing like an Ironfist, and it was joked that the fire of the world-salamander, Vulcatrix, had mixed with the blood of Grimnir to make them. Perhaps those jests contained more truth than mockery. Brynnson certainly did nothing to quell these chattermouths, and took some delight in the bloodthirsty tales told of his exploits, whether true or not.

Matters did not sit well with the councils and runefathers of the other lodges. It seemed to them that Brynnson’s bellicose nature courted disaster for all the people of Vostargi Mont and the Great Parch. He would likely lead his clan into war against one of the human powers like the Aridians, Aspirians or Bataari. Though the Fatherspire would be safe, such outright war between the fyreslayers and the pre-eminent empires of the humans would be disastrous for both, and would bite deep into the truce with Sigmar also.

‘Faint-hearts and fair-weather warriors!’ Brynnson called his peers when his presence was demanded at the High Temple. He did not like the summons one bit and the accusations of the other runefathers were wearisome in the extreme. ‘Grimnir would cover his eyes ’fore he’d look at the likes of you. Had he the guts of his lesser sons, Vulcatrix would have devoured him and the realms would burn eternal.’

But the other runefathers were not cowed by his venomous words and demanded of Brynnson an oath pledging the Ironfists to not raise arms against the civilisations of the humans, or risk being named ufdaz – less than duardin. The lodges were bound to one another by lineage and home, but Brynnson did not care for the tone of the other runefathers, nor the threat that his people would be dispossessed by their peers.

‘None put words upon my tongue, nor oaths upon my back,’ Brynnson roared at them. They had gathered by the Firewell in the heart of the eternal mountain, and before its flames Brynnson raised his fist and pledged his own pact. ‘Cross waste and mere, mountain and valley, sea and ice, I will not rest while there is ur-gold to be claimed. Our godlord demands it and thus I vow it!’

How the flames leapt at his words! The runefathers grumbled their disapproval and cut their ties with the Ironfists but there was no opprobrium or censure they could level that would pierce the armour of self-righteousness that guarded Brynnson’s purpose.

And despite the misgivings of the oldbeards, it seemed no ill came of the Ironfists’ exploits over the years that followed. For near a score of summers the prosperity of the lodges increased and the tribes and cities of humans grew in power and influence. Brynnson was a canny leader and though he held true to his oath, he was of enough sense to venture far from the Great Parch for much time, using the Realmgates to prosecute his hunts for the ur-gold across distant lands in Chamon, and even allied and warred with the wraith-aelves of Shyish.

But vows, once made, never break nor age. Brynnson did not forget the words he had spoken before the Firewell of Grimnir, and their echo would return long after their utterance.

Though they spent a great deal of time abroad on their wars and quests, on occasion the Ironfists returned to the halls of their lodge at Vostargi Mont and would melt down the ur-gold they had collected. Brynnson would meet with the council and boast of the gains he had made on his endeavours, mocking the other runefathers for the scarcity of their ur-gold. Never let it be said that Brynnson was a modest leader, but he never lied either and spoke as he saw. After returning during one particularly scorching season, Brynnson received word to attend to the council of the most senior runefathers. With no patience to weather further scorn or rebuke, he refused to heed their call. It was only when he learned that a stranger had come to Vostargi Mont demanding audience that he relented in his defiance and climbed the winding stairs and long passages from the lodges of the Ironfists to the High Temple, where the Vostarg and other clans would meet with this visitor.

The one that had come was a human, of slender build even for their kind, and garbed in fine robes of purple and grey. His head was bald and patterned with black ink in zigzag patterns. He wore rings through nose and brow and ears, the glint of the gold pleasing to the eyes of the runefathers, and more precious metals and gems adorned wrist and ankle.

‘I am Ologhor Sheng, dreamwalker of the southern plains,’ he introduced himself, bowing low before the council. ‘I have come before the renowned runefathers of the fyreslayers to offer a pact.’

Storbran, runefather of the Vostarg and head of the council, sat upon a granite throne with a broad Grimnir icon in gold above him. The other runefathers likewise were enthroned upon chairs of stone in a semicircle about their petitioner, while at the human’s back burned the unending flame of the Firewell.

‘It is uncommon for the children of Sigmar to call upon the sons of Grimnir in this way,’ said Storbran.

‘But not impossible,’ replied Sheng. ‘I know of the fyreslayers’ quest to recover the shards of their ancestor-god, and that their axes are willing to bite in return for it and many other treasures besides.’

‘You have travelled far for this pact,’ remarked the runefather of the Whitefire Lodge, Nordron-Grim. ‘The southlands lie distant to this peak and you have passed many other potential allies to come here. What is it the fyreslayers possess that these others did not?’

‘The will to do what must be done,’ replied Sheng. From his robes he produced a small nugget that he held out in his palm, the glint of the gold ruddy and lively in the light of the Firewell. ‘Ur-gold. And there will be more if we can find common ground.’

The lodgemasters gathered close while Storbran called for his auric runelord, the widely famed Augun-Skrandin. To their experienced eyes the claims of the human seemed true, but in the matter of ur-gold no duardin takes an assertion at face value. When Augun-Skrandin arrived, Sheng delivered to his hand the piece of metal.

Augun-Skrandin, wise in the ways of ore and seam, proceeded to assay the offering of Sheng. He rubbed a gnarled thumb upon its surface, listening to the sound. He smelt the gold and examined it through the lenses of his auric scrutineer. Holding the nugget between finger and thumb the auric runelord touched it with the tip of his tongue and closed his eyes, savouring and assessing the taste.

‘Seems right,’ he offered as summation of his appraisal, but held up his hand when Sheng made to retrieve his nugget. ‘There’s one more test and we’ll know for sure.’

Holding the alleged ur-gold on a calloused palm he approached Storbran. The runelord lifted his hand close to the rune of ur-gold hammered into the left arm of his liege and all eyes were set upon the small piece of golden metal. As it drew closer it started to shake upon his palm, twisting ever so slightly as iron is wont to do when close to the lodestone. Nearer still the runelord moved his palm and both flesh-runes and nugget began to gleam in sympathetic recognition. From the body of Storbran the ur-gold glowed with an orange hue. Upon the palm of Augun-Skrandin a darker red shone, flickering with tiny black filaments. The elder’s brow creased like the deep valleys of the Cynder Peaks.

‘Not ur-gold?’ whispered his runefather.

‘’Tis ur-gold, right enough,’ the runelord declared, tipping it back into the hand of Sheng. ‘Though of a nature I’ve never seen before.’

‘There is more,’ announced Sheng, as the lords of Vostargi Mont returned to their stone seats. ‘The land of my people is rich with these deposits.’

‘Be warned, Ologhor Sheng, that false promise is a crime punishable by death among the fyreslayers,’ growled Storbran, but Sheng showed no hesitation.

‘Payment will be made, in full.’

‘Payment you have offered yet you have not said for what task it will be exchanged.’

‘I wish the deaths of my enemies, and only the fyreslayers have the strength and the determination to end them.’ Sheng looked at all the gathered runefathers while his hand slipped the ur-gold back into its nestling place within his robe. ‘The tribes of the Flamescar Plateau are gathering for an ancient rite. The chieftains of those I wish dead will meet to choose one amongst their number to represent them at this celebration. To have so many leaders of my foes in one place is opportunity too ripe to waste, and so I call upon you to bring your blades with me and lay them upon my enemies at this tribal council, slaying them all at a stroke and scattering their people.’

‘It is bloody work indeed,’ said Storbran, but he rubbed his chin in contemplation. ‘Yet not a task beyond the Vostarg. Who are these people that have so earned the wrath of Ologhor Sheng?’

‘They are a powerful tribe who have encroached upon our lands for generation after generation without respite. They are called the Direbrands.’

A shared intake of breath greeted this revelation. The Direbrands were known well amongst the lodges, as a sizeable and powerful people of the Flamescar Plateau and, more importantly, as devout and favoured servants of the thunder god, Sigmar.

‘To move against the Direbrands is to dare the wrath of Sigmar Himself,’ warned Storbran.

‘And yet I thought the fyreslayers only indebted themselves to the memory of Grimnir,’ retorted Sheng. ‘I did not know Sigmar had cowed the folk of Vostargi Mont so well.’

‘Ease your tongue, Ologhor Sheng, and do not think to shame us with words when the deed you ask of us risks war with an ally of our father-god.’ Storbran shook his head, the rings and finials of gold in his beard clanging against each other. ‘No, it will not be done. Even promise of ur-gold is not worth the shattering of the peace that has been forged here.’

Sheng nodded and shrugged, accepting this judgement with good grace. He said nothing but turned his gaze to the next runefather, Orskard-Nok of the Forgestorm. Orskard-Nok shook his head also.

And so it continued, from one runefather to the next. In turn each silently declined the contract that Sheng offered.

All but one.

‘Mithering soft-hearts,’ growled Brynnson Drakkazak. He stepped down from his chair and ran a hand through his fine crest, sparks of ur-fire gleaming from his fingers. ‘You’d let the shards of our mighty father-god lie in the chests of these mystics rather than bloody your axes?’

‘To move on the Direbrands–’ began Storbran, but Brynnson did not care for the argument.

‘Gold is gold,’ the runefather of the Ironfists declared. He pointed to the flames where he had pledged himself to the spirit of Grimnir. ‘And ur-gold belongs to us, wherever it has fallen. Would Grimnir have held his blade back? No! And neither shall the Ironfists!’

The condemnation of the others was like the breaking of a storm, but their words troubled Brynnson no more than the patter of rain on the flanks of Vostargi Mont. With Sheng at his side, he left the High Temple to seal the pact.

When Brynnson led his forgesons from the Ironfists’ halls it seemed as though the sky itself was a vast sea of embers. That erratic heavenly body that was called the Sky Crucible burned ruddily above, its wayward course taking it over the Flamescar Plateau as it slowly arced from the north. Its scarlet crescent met a swathe of storm clouds that had swept up from the south, as though the tempest had been following Sheng. The human mystic called the waxing orb above the Blood Moon and said its motions across the sky had guided him to Vostargi Mont.

Sheng guided the fyreslayers for many days, while each night the Blood Moon grew larger and larger. The Ironfists did not need much rest, and slept only for a small portion of the night, but when they stopped after each march Sheng would erect a small tent and hide himself away. Strange smells and sounds emanated from this dwelling, and often the human could be heard chanting in some unknown tongue.

Unsettled by this behaviour, Brynnson confronted Sheng and demanded to know what he was doing. The dreamwalker took the runefather into his tent and showed him many crystals of different sizes and shapes: ruby, emerald and sapphire, each carved with small designs of interlocking lines and circles, so that their irregular planes created odd shadows by the firelight, thrown upon a stark white sheet Sheng had drawn across one end of the tent.

Upon a brazier he heated dozens of strangely wrought brands, each as small as a thumbnail and exquisitely fashioned. Brynnson did not recognise the symbols as any language of duardin, human or aelf that he had encountered, but Sheng assured the runefather that they were nothing more than the tools of his rituals.

‘By the crystals I step into the dreamworld between the realms, my thoughts travelling on currents of past, present and future. In that state I use the symbol brands to record what I see, in the mystical language of my people. On waking I interpret what I have written.’

He showed Brynnson sheaves of brand-marked paper, the individual runes dark, their accumulation creating whorls and angles and lines of letters that seemed like words.

‘And what do these dream-visits tell you?’ Brynnson asked.

The human answered with a smile.

‘That all goes as I foresaw. The Direbrands are holding conclave, as I told you. One among them has already departed with an honour guard, leaving the gathering of their other leaders perfect for the slaughter.’

‘Slaughter?’ said Brynnson. He was no soft-heart but had marched forth expecting battle.

‘They are protected only by their closest family and few guards.’ Sheng’s delight was clear, his gold-studded teeth showing in the brazier light. ‘The greatest and wisest of the Direbrands will be easy pickings for a throng as ferocious as the Ironfists.’

As Sheng had said, so it was to be.

Three nights later the lodge warriors of Brynnson Drakkazak came upon the encampment of the Direbrands. They were in their revels, celebrating the coming together of their widespread tribe, drunk equally upon strong wine and good humour.

The fyreslayers fell upon the camp with brutal ferocity, led by their runefather. Scores of foes fell in the opening charge, several hundreds more in the following battle. Brynnson let his fury flow as molten metal spills from the forge. His ur-runes blazed with the ire of Grimnir and his axe smote many a bone that bloody night. The Ironfists followed the lead of their runefather and showed no mercy, even as Sheng urged them on with exultant shouts and promises of reward.

By the light of their fires, the Direbrands died. Though set upon by a terrible foe, worse the wear for their drinking and feasting, not one tried to run or surrender. As defiant an enemy as Brynnson had ever seen, the Direbrands fought to the last, man and woman, blades in hands as they were cut down.

Sheng stalked among the dead and spat upon their bodies, joyful at the carnage.

‘Enough,’ Brynnson called to the man, axe in hand. ‘They died well, they deserve no disrespect.’

‘Speak not of respect until you have fulfilled your contract,’ Sheng replied with a snarl. He pointed to the tents of the Direbrands a short way off from the fires. ‘You promised the death of all that attended the gathering.’

Shamed by the accusation of oathbreaking, Brynnson led his warriors upon this second camp. Yet there were children in the camp and even the battle-raged fyreslayers baulked at slaying these innocents.

‘You paid for warriors, not murderers,’ Brynnson told his employer. ‘You have won – the Direbrands will not recover from the blow you have dealt tonight.’

‘I want them all dead!’ shrieked Sheng, and he raged more, in tongues both understandable and foreign, calling the Ironfists weak-thewed and dishonourable. ‘None of them are to survive. The Direbrands will not rise to threaten my lord again.’

‘What lord do you serve?’ demanded Brynnson, for his pact had been with Sheng and no other patron had been mentioned by the mystic.

‘One that will long remember this slight, Brynnson Drakkazak of the Ironfists.’

The threat was empty though, for Sheng could not force the fyreslayers to turn their weapons on the infants.

‘They’ll die without care, all the same,’ the southerner said eventually. ‘The Flamescar Plateau is a cruel bower to sleep in.’

‘Do not think to shirk the payment,’ Brynnson warned.

‘Of course not,’ said Sheng, bitter and snarling. From his belongings he brought forth ingots of ur-gold, eight of them as had been agreed. A considerable sum for the effort involved, Brynnson had thought, but now he knew why the price had been so generous.

‘Take them and be gone,’ Sheng bid the fyreslayers.

Brynnson did not think it boded well for the children for them to be left with Sheng, but he could not raise a weapon against the mystic while their pact was in place.

‘Never come again to Vostargi Mont,’ he told the dreamwalker. ‘If you do, you’ll find the axe-welcome waiting for you.’

Leaving the remnants of the camp burning in their wake, the Ironfists took their ur-gold from Sheng and departed.

The journey back to Vostargi Mont was one of mixed feelings for Brynnson. The deed performed left ash in his mouth, even as the gentle whisper of the ur-gold he had earned for his lodge soothed his worries. All the while they travelled back to Vostargi Mont the Blood Moon continued to swell to fullness, glaring down upon the Ironfists with its ruddy gaze. The Great Parch seemed to burn beneath its eternal stare, the air hot and still. A latent but potent tension lay upon the world.

Coming back to their halls, Brynnson called upon his runelords and runesmiters to smelt the ur-gold and fashion the flesh runes as swiftly as possible. They warned that the portents were poor for such work, that the forging of runes beneath the swollen Sky Crucible was never wise. Brynnson roared at them to follow his command and against their better judgement the runeworkers complied. The ur-gold from Sheng was melted down and the blessings of Grimnir laid upon it as it cooled in the moulds.

Runefather, runesons and all the Ironfists came to the temples to receive their reward and a great hammering was undertaken, to set ur-gold into flesh as tradition dictated. Brynnson was first and as the shard-flesh of Grimnir touched his skin he felt the power of the warrior-god course into his veins, bringing strength and pain and a deep burning through his body. He did not cry out, for it was against his creed to show any weakness.

And when the ritual was done he bid the runesmiters to labour on his kin as the smouldering runes settled into his muscle and turned sinew to taut iron.

That next night the Blood Moon waxed fullest, a ruddy orb pierced by the summit of Vostargi Mont. The fire in Brynnson’s flesh had not settled and the ache of the runes chafed his spirit as he declared a feast of celebration for the lodge. Uneasy in his own skin, Brynnson climbed to the outer galleries of his lodge halls and stood upon the flanks of the mountain.

Looking to the south he saw a terrible tumult in the skies, of a black-clouded storm that boiled upon the far horizon, churning above the southern seas. A flickering face of almighty wrath and terrifying power appeared within the stormhead and it was as though the light of the Sky Crucible above reignited the flames that had smelted the ur-gold, for suddenly his body was ablaze.

The flames burned into Brynnson, and even as his cries resounded from the mountainsides so he heard the anguished bellows and roars of pain from his kin within the lodge halls. In the echo of the clamour he heard a voice, recognising it as Sheng’s.

‘Your fate is sealed, the curse brought upon you by your treachery against the Lord of Skulls,’ that dread voice declared. ‘From the ancient rocks of the World-That-Was the duardin were born. Into your flesh that lava-birth is re-enacted! And so for your kin forever more. When Grimnir fought Vulcatrix and was shattered, not all his pieces fell first to the Mortal Realms. The Bloodthirsty Power who had delighted in the battle between god and drake took His toll. He bade the Crimson Smiths that labour in the infernal citadel to bind the ur-gold with brass from the walls of his keep, and so forever made it part of his bloody domain. That reward should have made you stronger than any other, but in shunning the Blood God you have sealed your doom instead. Now the blood-marked ur-gold will turn your flesh to the magma of its birth!’

‘Yet the curse was not to slay the Ironfists,’ Ungrimmsson told the fyreslayer, gesturing at the lava-form of his own body. ‘But still we are fyreslayers, though we have raised axe against ally and our own kind, and are exiled from the mountain of our birth. By Brynnson’s oath we are bound, still searching for Grimnir in the ur-gold wherever it has fallen.’

‘And that is how we earned the name Zharrthagi, for killing in betrayal?’

‘It is,’ Ungrimmsson said with a sour look.

‘You speak the tale as though you remember it, lodge-sire.’

‘I do, for it was not just the Ironfists whose name changed.’ A tear of flame ran down Ungrimmsson’s cheek. ‘It was me that took the payment. And for generation after generation Khorne has kept me alive to know the price of my betrayal.’

Alvi swallowed hard at this revelation, eyes wide with shock. Now the fyreslayer understood the truth behind the name Ungrimmsson – inheritor of the broken oath.

‘Back to your blade-brothers, now,’ said Ungrimmsson.

The Bloodbound horde was but a hundred paces away, the earth rumbling beneath their feet, their cries and crashing weapons a din that rang back from the gatehouse and mountainside.

Fifty paces distant the army of Khorne’s mortal followers slowed and stopped. A single figure emerged from the front line, a warrior taller than any other. She was clad in red-and-black armour, a standard of bones tied to her back, and carried an axe in each hand.

She approached the runefather, but there was no challenge nor charge. The champion of Khorne set her axes into the earth a few paces from Ungrimmsson and brought forth a small sack. She upended it into her palm, where a ruddy light shone from nuggets of metal. Ungrimmsson felt the runes in his body twitch in recognition of tainted ur-gold, the same that had cursed the Zharrthagi.

‘Blood is blood, Khorne cares not who sheds it,’ said the champion, putting the ur-gold back into the bag before throwing it to Ungrimmsson’s feet.

‘And gold is gold,’ replied Ungrimmsson, stooping to pick up the sack as he turned towards the gates, readying his axe with his other hand.

About the Author

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs, as well as several audio dramas including the bestselling Raven’s Flight and The Thirteenth Wolf. He has written many novels for Warhammer 40,000, including Rise of the Ynnari: Ghost Warrior, Jain Zar: The Storm of Silence and Asurmen: Hand of Asuryan. He also wrote the Path of the Eldar and Legacy of Caliban trilogies, and two volumes in The Beast Arises series. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. In 2017, Gav was awarded the David Gemmell Legend award for his Age of Sigmar novel Warbeast. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from The Realmgate Wars: Volume 1.

The bolt struck Vandus Hammerhand like a spear flung from the heavens. First there was light, a searing luminescence so bright it eclipsed all sense of being and self. Then pain brought him back with white daggers of pure agony. Heat, fury, and the drumbeat of immortal vigour rushing through his veins reached a crescendo so loud it turned into deafening silence.

Then peace, a feeling of true solace and quietude.

Vandus would come to learn it was always this way. This is what it meant to be born of the storm and borne by the storm.

Reforged, wrought anew. Brought back. This is what it was to be eternal. But as with all such godlike deeds, this apotheosis did not come without a price.

Before…

After defeating Korghos Khul, the Hammerhands went north.

Though the Goretide were scattered, their ranks would swell again. The war against the dominion of Chaos was far from over, but Sigmar’s Stormcasts had won a great victory at the Gate of Azyr. Now that momentum had to be seized upon were it to mean anything.

And so the Hammerhands went northward.

Thousands clad in unalloyed sigmarite crossed the Igneous Delta. Liberators bloodstained and begrimed by war marched with grandhammers slung across the burnished plate of their shoulder guards. Dour Retributors strode in grim silence, their massive lightning hammers held firm across their chests. Above the infantry, retinues of unearthly Prosecutors had taken wing and soared across the blighted sky. At the clarion sound of the warrior-heralds’ war horns, their masked brethren below would close ranks and raise shields, knowing an enemy horde approached.

There had been many enemies, for the Igneous Delta and its surrounding lands were overrun by those bound in blood to Khorne.

It would fall to other Stormcast Eternals to hold the realmgate they had opened to Azyr. At least now they had a foothold at the Brimstone Peninsula, something to defend. But the vanguard could not rest. They had to forge on, despite the lead in their limbs.

Only when night had fallen and they reached the crags did they stop to make camp on a sheltered plateau of rock. Here the army had mustered, whilst a few of its leaders had walked up the shallow incline to a second smaller plateau from which they might gauge the best route onwards.

‘This is a strange land,’ murmured Dacanthos as he regarded the rime of frost around the fingers of his gauntlet. He clenched it in a mailed fist, shattering the ice that had formed.

‘Agreed,’ said Sagus, leaning on the head of his lightning hammer as the caustic wind of the delta tried to sear his armour. The air was rank with the stench of blood and cinder. It carried a foul cawing, like the mockery of crows, only deeper, as if uttered from the throat of a larger beast. Several carrion-creatures had already been seen.

The Hammers of Sigmar had left the scorched desert behind them. Here, on the rugged crags and low hills, a deep winter prevailed.

Snow hid some of the land’s deformity, its hillocks like the petrified claws of some ancient leviathan, a golem trapped forever in its final moments of agony. Eight stunted crests rose up from the smothering tundra like horns, and there were hollow cavities where eyes might once have been.

‘It is a grim place, enslaved to darkness,’ uttered Vandus, his voice deep, his distaste unmasked. From the edge of a rocky promontory, he looked out across the Igneous Delta and beyond. Swaths of forest colonised much of the eastern lands, but the trees looked unnatural, bent and tortured, their limbs petrified.

The Lord-Celestant’s eyes narrowed. He could have sworn he saw something stir within the dark heart of the forest. His gaze went skyward to an even greater and larger mountain fastness than the one his warriors had camped on. Clad in ice, it appeared more like a glacier. Oily mists crept from its footings, lathering the earth below in a foul tar.

Further north, Vandus discerned the forbidding silhouette of an immense tower, obscured behind scads of pyroclastic cloud. It was one of eight brass towers that surrounded Khul’s domain. Here then was their god-given mission, though he knew his own destiny lay elsewhere.

‘Rank indeed,’ snarled Vandus as he turned away to speak to his men. ‘But there is worse below…’ He gestured for Dacanthos and Sagus to join him at the cliff edge, certain those below them would not notice three figures watching from on high.

Sagus’s gauntlets cracked loudly as he clenched the haft of his hammer, and when the Retributor spoke it was with barely restrained anger.

‘Wretched filth… I would see them seared from this land, scraped away like dirt from a boot.’

Dacanthos had no words. He merely stared through the lifeless eyes of his mask, his body trembling with righteous anger.

Far below in a smoke-choked basin of tar-black rock, shawled by drifts of ash and snow, were mortal followers of Khorne known as the Bloodbound.

Hordes of the warriors had gathered to rest, after a long march. A great fire burned, spilling a column of smoke that almost reached the promontory where the Stormcasts were watching. Garbed in spiked leather and furs matted with dried blood, the tribesmen left their arms and torsos exposed. These Vandus and his men had come to know as bloodreavers. The lesser of the vast and mighty Goretide, they were nonetheless brawny and muscular fighters. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in aggression and devotion to Khorne.

Bellowing and fighting, they revelled around the fire. Long shadows cast by their bodies contorted in the fell light, transformed into an echo of what they might become should they live long and worship with enough devotion. A bloodreaver’s altar was the battlefield, his offerings slaughter and death.

They were a rabble, but a dangerous one. Their blades were thick and sharp, notched by battle and stained black with the blood of innocents. But of late they had grown arrogant and complacent.

‘When do we bring the storm’s wrath, my Lord-Celestant?’ Dacanthos said at last.

‘Soon,’ said Vandus, half-turning as he felt the presence of eyes upon them. ‘After I have consulted with our Lord-Relictor.’

All three warriors turned as one to face Ionus Cryptborn. The Lord-Relictor emerged from the shadows, as if he were a part of them and they him. Morbidity clung to Ionus like a curse, and his skull-helmed visage gave him a grim aspect that was entirely in keeping with his demeanour.

Ionus gave a shallow bow, disturbing the oath scrolls attached to his golden war-plate. He rasped, his voice like the last stirrings of a disquiet spirit.

‘I crave your ear, Lord Hammerhand.’

Hanging his tempestos hammer, Heldensen, on his belt, Vandus nodded at the other two warriors, who departed with muttered reverence to the relic-keeper.

Only once they were gone, back down to the plateau where the army mustered, did Vandus speak further.

‘I shall not be dissuaded, Ionus,’ he warned.

‘You have spoken to me of the Red Pyramid of skulls, and I now understand that is not something you can ignore,’ said Ionus, slowly taking off his helm to reveal a gaunt, sinister-looking face. ‘I only wish our paths were conjoined. That you, like I, were headed to the brass towers as Sigmar has ordered.’

There was rebuke in Ionus’s tone, regret that they would be parted for the battles to come. It sat ill with him, but his Lord-Celestant had fixed his gaze on thwarting Korghos Khul and destroying the dread Gate of Wrath.

‘But I know your purpose is unwavering, my friend,’ Ionus concluded.

Vandus nodded. He was smiling as he turned towards Ionus and removed his war-helm, holding it in the crook of his arm. In sharp contrast to the Lord-Relictor, Vandus had a noble face and the clean, chiselled features often represented in the statues of heroes. Those monuments to old glories, to an age torn down, were gone but Vandus would see them rise again. He extended a hand to Ionus.

‘Fate shall see us together again, brother.’

The corners of the Lord-Relictor’s mouth only curved up a little, but he clasped his Lord-Celestant’s forearm in the manner of warriors.

‘Aye. The tower shall fall and I’ll make for your brotherhood. United, we shall triumph against any fell beings who claim lordship over these lands. The domination of Chaos is at an end.’

Vandus’s good humour faded, as he was reminded of what he had seen and the desperate battle they had fought and won at the Gate of Azyr.

‘It is possible he survived?’ Vandus asked.

‘Khul?’

‘Who else?’

‘He lives.’

Vandus raised an eyebrow. ‘You sound certain, brother.’

‘It is a feeling. Nothing more.’

Vandus caught an inkling that it was much more, but kept his silence for now. The ways of the Relictor were veiled to him, and perhaps that was for the best. But if Khul did yet live, as Ionus professed, then that meant the vision could still be proven true.

Vandus’s head, cut off and brandished aloft by Khul, exulting as he capped his dread pyramid.

‘I saw my own demise, Ionus,’ said Vandus, after a moment.

‘The vision we spoke of, the one that is leading you to the Red Pyramid?’

Vandus nodded.

‘And you would still step into Khul’s domain, knowing it means your death?’

‘I would.’

Ionus frowned. ‘But why? Unless you believe you can defy prophecy.’

‘Have you not said before that we are architects of our own destiny?’

Ionus gave a curt laugh. ‘I say a great many things, but not all are intended to be heeded on face value alone.’

‘I follow this path because I must, my friend. If I do not stop Khul then who else will?’

‘And if you challenge him, you may end up fulfilling his prophecy for him.’

‘Then that is a chance I have to take.’

Ionus regarded the Lord-Celestant for a moment, and not for the first time was reminded why Sigmar chose Vandus to be the vanguard of his storm.

‘Yes, I believe it is. Still, I hope he does not kill you, Vandus.’

It was meant in humour, but Vandus grew serious.

‘Are we truly immortal? If fated to die, can we?’

‘We are as immortal as Sigmar’s will, but even the God-King does not always get his way.’ Ionus gestured to the Bloodbound they had come to vanquish, then to the land beyond and all its perfidy both seen and unseen.

They stared at the revelling hordes below, and after a brief silence had passed Ionus said, ‘They think they are the death of these lands. They think they have already won.’

Vandus laughed. ‘They are not death, brother. We are death.’

He slammed his helm back on, demonstrably belligerent, and turned at last to the Lord-Relictor. ‘And it’s past time that we dealt our gift to those heathens beneath us.’

He raised Heldensen aloft, so the warriors amassing on the plateau would see it, and cried out in a clarion voice. ‘Stormcasts, to arms! This night, we mete out death and Sigmar’s judgement!’

A great cheer rose up from the golden throng, loud enough that the hordes below heard it. Some of the wretched tribesmen began to look up at the Stormcasts who now emerged above them, others scrambled for blades, a few even began barking orders.

‘Vermin,’ snarled Vandus, as he felt the armoured tread of an entire chamber of Hammers of Sigmar gather at his back. Ionus was at his side, skull-faced once more. It would be their last battle together for a while. If Sigmar willed it, their paths would cross again.

‘Scurry all you like, it will avail you nothing.’

Heldensen flashed like a golden flame against the darkness. This time, more than a thousand hammers joined it in salute.

Ionus roared, unable to hold his righteous fury at bay a moment longer.

‘Smite them and cleanse this land!’

And the storm descended on burnished wings and in a crushing tide of gold.

Click here to buy The Realmgate Wars: Volume 1.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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