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Death on the Road to Svardheim – Darius Hinks

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Ghoulslayer’

A Black Library Publication

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Death on the Road to Svardheim

by Darius Hinks

‘Idiots.’ Gotrek stomped through the dust, his axe jolting on his sunburnt shoulders.

His words shook Maleneth out of a daze. It had been hours since either of them had spoken and his sudden outburst made her realise how close to sleep she was. They had been walking for three days with no sign of civilisation. No sign of anything, for that matter. She looked around at the desolate, sun-baked fields. The earth was the colour of blood, and so riven with cracks that it reminded her of Gotrek’s scarred face. There were no clouds. No vegetation. Nothing to break the monotony of the view. There were also no people. ‘Who?’ she said, her voice a dry croak. ‘Who are idiots?’

Gotrek nodded at the pale shapes heaped all around them. The road from Gamp to Svardheim was lined with skulls. The plains had been conquered, liberated and reconquered so many times that the ground was more bone than earth. And, at some point, Khorne’s cannibals had decided to decorate the road with human heads. Crows had taken the flesh and the sun had bleached the bone. Now the skulls gleamed in the heat, grinning at everyone unfortunate enough to pass by.

For once, Maleneth agreed with the Slayer. ‘How did they think they could stand against the legions of Khorne with picks and shovels? They should have fled to Svardheim. At least a few of them might have kept their heads.’

Gotrek stopped and grabbed one of the flasks at his belt. Then he muttered a curse and held it upside down, spilling a single drop of liquid into the dust. He stared at the dark spot it made, looking bereft. ‘No beer.’

Maleneth rolled her eyes, threw him a flask of water and wandered over to the edge of the road. The skulls were covered in patches of crimson dust and she had not realised, until now, that there were designs scored into the bone. She stooped down to examine one of them, wiping some of the dust away. To her surprise, rather than the brutal symbols of Khorne, the skulls were scored with elegant characters that she could read. ‘Sigmar?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

Gotrek wiped his beard and threw the flask back. ‘Probably put here by your sort. Starry-eyed lightning enthusiasts.’

‘Nonsense.’ Maleneth dusted down more skulls, revealing the name Sigmar on each of them. ‘The God-King does not demand human sacrifices.’

‘He doesn’t demand anything. He just hides. Skulking in the clouds, keeping his head down and waiting for someone else to sort out the mess he made. I didn’t say they were sacrifices, anyway. I just said they were put here by your sort. By people so stupid they think writing names will save them.’ He booted a skull down the road. ‘They put these out thinking Sigmar would see their devotion.’ He laughed. ‘Thinking he would send help.’

Maleneth’s pulse quickened as she realised they were resuming an argument she thought they had abandoned hours ago. ‘The war for the realms won’t be decided by mortals. It doesn’t matter how big your biceps are, Gotrek. It doesn’t matter how sharp your axe is. Your fate will be decided by the will of gods. You’re a piece in their great game, whether you know it or not.’

‘Codswallop.’ He rounded on Maleneth. ‘You’ve skulked in my shadow longer than most, aelf, so you can’t be as dim-witted as I thought. But you won’t last long if you persist in thinking that gods care about you. Sigmar, Khaine, or whoever it is you really whisper to in the dark when you think I’m asleep – they don’t know you exist. And if they did, they wouldn’t give a rat’s arse about you.’

Maleneth snatched a knife from her belt and waved it at the skulls. ‘Call them idiots, Gotrek, but the people who left these have more sense than you. They know that they can’t be saved by muscles or iron. They know they’ll only be saved by faith. Only divine power can stop divine power. Only gods can halt gods.’ So many hours without rest or food had left her nerves raw and she turned her knife on Gotrek, her hand trembling. ‘And don’t try to kid yourself that you’re not part of the struggle. If you’re not fighting for Order, you’re aiding the enemy. There’s no middle way. There’s no impartiality. You are either with us or you’re against us.’ Maleneth had never accused Gotrek so directly and it was a blessed relief to finally spit the words out. They had festered between them for too long.

‘I’m with no one.’ He leant towards her, his eye blazing. ‘And no one is with me.’

‘Then perhaps you should ask yourself why. You have so much power, Slayer. Power beyond anything I have encountered.’ She tapped the rune embedded in his chest. ‘Power that can’t be explained by this Fyreslayer gold. And where do you think it came from? Do you think you caught it, like an ague? Do you think you gained it through heroic consumption of beer? Do you think you earned it by being more ill-mannered than anyone else? Of course not. So where in all the hells of Shyish do you think it came from?’

Gotrek’s expression darkened but he seemed at a loss. He spat into the dust.

‘It came from the gods,’ she continued. ‘Or one particular god. Either way, you’re a pawn. A piece in the game whether you know it or not. And if you don’t lend your strength to Sigmar’s crusade then you might want to think about why. Maybe it’s because your power comes from the forces he has sworn to defeat.’

‘Chaos?’ He gripped his axe in both hands and began circling her. ‘You’ve got some bloody balls, saying that to a son of the Everpeak.’

‘Then prove me wrong. Show me you’re working for something other than yourself.’

The Slayer continued pacing for a while, then marched on down the road, muttering curses.

Maleneth smiled as she followed. She doubted she had done anything to change Gotrek’s mind but goading him was one of her few remaining pleasures.

They walked in silence for another few hours, with Gotrek pausing only to boot the odd skull down the road. Then, finally, just as Maleneth thought she could bear the heat no longer, the light started to dim into a sullen dusk.

‘Is that a campfire?’ she said, spotting a glow up ahead.

‘Doubt it. Too many cannibals and brigands round here. Even the local morons know not to light fires.’ Gotrek gripped his axe and nodded to Maleneth’s knives. ‘Keep your wits about you, aelf. This journey might not be quite as tedious as I thought.’

Maleneth drew her knives and jogged down the road, peering into the dusk, trying to make out the source of the light. It was not long before she spotted the silhouette of an overturned wagon. The horses had gone and there were flames whipping across a torn canvas. ‘This happened recently,’ she said, slowing and glancing back at Gotrek.

He nodded as he passed her, testing the weight of his axe and scouring the surrounding plains. ‘Look there,’ he said, pointing his axe towards the sinking sun. ‘Another road.’

Maleneth shook her head ‘Just hoofprints. Fresh ones. And I think I see the riders.’

Gotrek turned back to the smouldering cart. ‘I wonder if they left anything to drink in there.’ He marched towards the flames, humming tunelessly.

Bodies were scattered across the road and most of them were headless, darkening the road with their blood. They were wearing white robes trimmed with gold and stitched with hammers and comets.

‘Sigmar botherers.’ Gotrek paused as he reached the first one, prodding the corpse with his boot. ‘They should know better than to travel these plains.’ He gave Maleneth a pointed glance. ‘Funny. Faith doesn’t seem to have done them much good. Perhaps Sigmar was too busy having his hair plaited. He always looks so pretty in those paintings. It must be hard work keeping his nails in good condition.’

Maleneth ignored him, treading carefully through the corpses, looking for survivors.

Gotrek snorted. ‘What do you care, aelf? You’d have done the same to them if you thought it would impress Khaine. He is called Khaine, isn’t he? Your preferred bloodthirsty deity?’

‘I serve the Order of Azyr. I’m sworn to hinder Sigmar’s foes and aid his followers. It is the faith of people like this that will give the God-King his victory over Chaos.’

‘And then what? If the Chaos Gods really were defeated, how much would you care about Sigmar and his followers then? You’d be doing murder dances for Khaine before I could say “fickle turncoat”.’

Maleneth was about to reply when she noticed a gleam of polished metal under one of the cart’s broken wheels. In truth, her reasons for scouring the corpses were not entirely virtuous; she was always on the lookout for weapons or artefacts that might be valuable. As she approached the metal, she saw it shift slightly. ‘Who’s there?’ she cried, raising her knife and backing away.

Gotrek rushed to her side, lifting his axe.

‘There’s someone under here.’ Maleneth nodded at the wheel. ‘Armed, I think. We should tread carefully in case–’

Gotrek booted the wheel and tipped the cart over. Dust and splinters flew everywhere, and someone bolted, clutching a sword.

Maleneth was about to hurl a knife, then paused and held up a warning hand to Gotrek. It was a human priestess, dressed in the same Sigmarite robes as the others. ‘Wait!’ cried Maleneth. ‘We serve Sigmar.’

Gotrek was about to disagree but Maleneth yelled again before he could speak. ‘We mean you no harm.’

The woman ran further down the road, then, when she realised no one was following her, she paused to look back. Her robes were torn and bloodstained, and the sword trembled in her hand, but she did not look badly injured. ‘There’s nothing left to take,’ she said, glancing at the ruined cart. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, then pointed the sword at Gotrek, frowning as she took in his tattooed muscles and tall crest of hair. ‘What are you?’

Gotrek raised an eyebrow. ‘A pawn.’

The priestess looked even more confused. She shook her head and turned to go.

‘Wait,’ called Maleneth. ‘I’m Maleneth Witchblade. I’m an agent of the Order of Azyr. I have travelled here from the Celestial Realm.’

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve seen the Eternal City?’

Maleneth nodded. ‘I spent many years in Azyrheim.’

The priestess took a few, hesitant steps back towards them. ‘Really? Azyrheim… Is it as beautiful as the ancient hymns claim?’

Maleneth thought of the Khainite Murder Temples where she learned to kill, picturing the blood-drenched altars and statues. ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’

The woman stared at her, clearly shocked. ‘I am called Carmina,’ she said, lowering her sword. She looked at Gotrek. ‘Are you a Fyre–’

‘He’s Gotrek,’ interrupted Maleneth. ‘He comes from the world-that-was.’

The priestess looked even more dazed. Maleneth started to wish she had let her run off. There was nothing more annoying than a doe-eyed weakling dogging your every step. She decided that they needed to be rid of her as soon as possible. ‘Who did this to you?’ she asked, nodding at the corpses.

Carmina’s face turned an unhealthy grey as she studied the bodies. ‘All dead,’ she whispered, stumbling again. ‘All of them.’

‘Who was it, lass?’ asked Gotrek. ‘Khorne’s Blood Tribes?’

‘No… Well… Yes, they might have been followers of Khorne. Most people are in these plains. And they were well armed and provisioned. But they weren’t cannibals from the Skran Hills. I think they were just thieves. Marauders.’ She clamped her eyes shut. Then she rushed over to Maleneth and gripped her hand. ‘You have to help me.’

Maleneth extracted her hand and wiped it clean. ‘Where were you headed? Svardheim? We’re going there too. You can travel with us.’

‘No.’ Carmina sounded almost hysterical. ‘That’s not what I mean. The brigands took our cases.’

‘Looks like they took everything,’ said Maleneth, ‘but we’ll get you home.’

‘There was a holy relic.’ The priestess grabbed Maleneth’s arm again. ‘The Incorruptible Fist. The cornerstone of our faith. We must retrieve it.’

Maleneth laughed. ‘Retrieve it?’ She looked at the tracks she’d spotted earlier. The riders had vanished into the growing dusk. ‘If we chased every rogue in this desert we’d never leave.’

‘The cornerstone of your faith, you say?’ Gotrek gave Maleneth a wry look. ‘Sounds like the sort of thing the Order of Azyr should be protecting.’

Maleneth glared at him.

He shrugged, the playful look still in his eye. ‘You lecture me on the value of faith, and then when this lass tells you that her precious Sigmar tat has been stolen you’re too scared to try to get it back. Scared of a few lowlifes.’

‘Scared?’ Maleneth knew Gotrek was playing mind games with her but it was impossible not to bite. ‘Of course I’m not scared.’

Carmina’s eyes lit up. ‘Then you’ll help? The Incorruptible Fist is the relic that we built our temples to preserve. Losing it would be a terrible blow.’ She stared at the corpses, her eyes full of tears. ‘Such a blow.’

Maleneth resisted the urge to hit her. ‘Yes. I’ll get your damned relic back.’ She jabbed her finger at the Slayer. ‘Because I know that serving the God-King is the only way to liberate the realms.’

Gotrek raised an eyebrow. ‘You have more guts than I thought.’ He looked at the priestess, his eye gleaming again. ‘How many of these brigands are there, would you say?’

She grimaced. ‘Fifteen. Maybe even twenty.’

Gotrek looked disappointed. ‘Shame. Still, better than nothing.’ He hefted his axe, catching firelight on the blade. ‘It’s been so long since I actually used this thing.’

Maleneth nodded. ‘Good. If there are so few, we can make short work of them and get out of this tedious desert.’ She sheathed her knives and continued down the road, waving for the priestess to follow. ‘Stay near me and away from him. He doesn’t always swing that axe where he’s meant to.’

Gotrek grinned at the priestess. ‘Don’t worry, lass, I know how to swing an axe. As long as no cowering aelves get in the way.’

Maleneth led the way to the tracks Gotrek had pointed out earlier and began following them. The going was easy for the first hour or so, but after that the land tumbled into a series of ridges that had not been visible from the road. Even with the sun almost setting, the desert was fiercely hot, and the ascents soon had Maleneth gasping for breath. It did not help matters that the priestess was clinging to her shoulder, barely able to walk.

‘Why did you venture out here?’ asked Maleneth. ‘This whole country is full of warbands and brigands. Why would you risk your lives? Why would you risk the relic for that matter?’

‘What use is it if we don’t show it to people? The Fist is what drives us.’ Carmina looked out into the dust clouds. ‘People have cowered for so long, crushed by the boot of Chaos, but they’re rising now. Because they know Sigmar is coming to their aid.’

Gotrek cast Maleneth a sideways glance but she ignored him and nodded for the priestess to continue.

‘If we keep the Fist hidden away in a temple it’s worthless. It has to be out here, where people can see it. See proof of Sigmar’s will.’

Maleneth was about to argue with Carmina’s logic when Gotrek grunted and signalled for them to keep their heads down. They had reached the brow of a hill and as Maleneth edged forwards, she saw why Gotrek had warned them. Nestling in a small valley, hidden from the surrounding plains, was a ruined keep. It must once have been large enough to house a thousand soldiers but most of it had been destroyed centuries ago. The architecture was unfamiliar to Maleneth. It did not have the spires and domes of a Sigmarite Stormkeep, nor the brutal, thorn-sharp towers of a Chaos Dreadhold. She guessed, from the organic curves of its walls, that it was from the time before recorded history, the time before Chaos laid claim to the realms. The masonry was carved to resemble mythological beasts and warriors clad in strange, elaborate armour. The light was fading fast now, but she could see that one of the towers had been refortified. The walls had been repaired and there was a light flickering inside, red and angry as it spilled from the crumbling windows. It did not seem like firelight and something about it troubled Maleneth. There were a dozen or so horses tethered outside, huddled in the shattered remains of a stone outbuilding. The sound of laughter and singing drifted up towards them through the darkness.

‘Sounds like there’s barely twenty,’ said Gotrek.

‘Good,’ muttered Maleneth.

‘They’re heavily armed,’ whispered Carmina.

The priestess grew more pathetic by the second and Maleneth cursed herself for ending up in this situation. If it had not been for the argument with Gotrek, she would never have got herself drawn into such an absurd predicament. Not for the first time, Maleneth had the horrible feeling that her true feelings were more aligned with the Slayer’s than she could bear to admit. She crushed the idea, refusing to accept it. Gotrek was grinning and about to speak but she talked over him. ‘Before you suggest it, we’re not going to just walk down there and kick the door in.’

Gotrek’s grin broadened. ‘Simple plans always work best. You aelves overcomplicate things. What could be wrong with clobbering them, getting the relic and clearing out?’

‘Firstly, I don’t trust you not to behead me. Secondly, while we’re stuck at the gate, fighting guards, someone else could easily get on one of those horses and take the relic, which would make the whole exercise pointless.’

‘Boring, but true, I suppose. What do you suggest then? A bit of prayer?’

Maleneth looked down at the ruins and thought for a moment. ‘I suggest not acting like savages. It’s almost dark. We should wait until the sun’s gone down. Then, you can go ahead with your elegant door-kicking plan. But you can wait until I’ve positioned myself at the rear of the tower by that toppled archway. Then, when you start shouting and stamping, and all eyes are on you, I’ll make my way into the tower with less opposition and find the relic.’

‘You mean, I do the hard work while you sneak around and get the prize?’

Maleneth shrugged.

Gotrek nodded. ‘Stops you from getting under my feet, I suppose.’ He looked at the priestess. ‘And what about you? What’s your plan?’

The woman looked terrified. Maleneth replied on her behalf. ‘Carmina will stay up here, on this ridge, until we come back for her.’

Carmina nodded eagerly, holding up her sword like it was hurting her hand. ‘I would only hinder you.’

Maleneth shook her head. ‘How in the name of Khaine have you reached adulthood without learning to defend yourself?’

The woman shrugged awkwardly.

Maleneth sighed and looked back at the tower, trying to discern its details before the last of the light faded. There was an exterior staircase that circled the tower from the ruined arch. It was too unstable for clumsy, heavy humans but she would be able to race up it to another archway at the top of the tower. Once Gotrek started bellowing she would easily be able to descend into the tower from there.

They sat in silence until the sun was no more than a crimson line on the horizon; then Maleneth nodded at Gotrek. ‘Wait until that light has gone and then attack in whatever manner you think best. Just make sure to make a lot of noise.’

Even in the half-light she could see his rows of buckled teeth, smiling back at her.

Maleneth waved Carmina back a few steps then ran down into the narrow valley, leaping easily over rocks and scrub. She had never seen a keep hidden at the bottom of a valley before, but she could see the sense of it. It would be hidden from any of the roads that crossed the plain. As she neared the ruins, she dodged around the patches of red light thrown from the windows. The sounds of revelry grew louder as she came nearer. She could not understand the language, but it was clear from the slurred words that the brigands had been drinking. Maleneth was pleased. If they were drunk this should all be over quite quickly.

She ducked even lower as a door creaked open and a man stumbled out. He was wearing a copper-coloured cuirass and helmet, and there was an axe slung over his back, but he was clearly drunk, mumbling and singing to himself. He weaved and staggered off into the night, leaving the door open.

Maleneth waited until he was out of sight then dashed over to the side of the doorway, listening carefully for sounds of any other guards. Then she stepped inside, knives raised. The passageway was lined with doors and, at the far end, it opened onto a courtyard, which was the source of the red light. Figures were moving back and forth in front of it, dancing and stumbling. Maleneth took a few steps down the corridor, identifying the door that she thought would most likely lead out to the staircase she had seen. Then she halted. There was another sound coming from the courtyard. As well as the voices of the brigands, there was a deeper, louder sound, like the breathing of a large animal. Very large, she realised. Each rattling breath drew another burst of laughter and jeers from the men. Maleneth cursed. ‘What is that?’ she whispered. She carried on past the door, keeping to the shadows as she edged closer to the opening at the far end of the corridor.

‘Khaine’s teeth,’ she whispered as she saw what was happening in the courtyard. There was a small group of drunken men and women, all clad in the same copper-coloured armour as the man she had seen outside, and all of them were singing. It was not the scene of wild debauchery she had expected, though. The brigands were moving with purpose, dancing around a circle of objects. Maleneth barely looked at the drunks, however. Her gaze was drawn straight to something that was seated at the centre of the circle. For a moment, she thought it was a repulsive statue. It was nearly thirty feet tall and built in the likeness of a bull but with muscular arms and the head of a slavering hound. It was gripping a sword the size of an oak tree, with the blade plunged into the ground. Maleneth quickly realised that it was not a statue. There was a palpable sense of malice pouring from it and its bare, heavily muscled chest was oozing blood.

Maleneth whispered a prayer and edged back into the passageway. ‘Daemon,’ she gasped, the word catching in her throat. She could not take her eyes off the thing. Every inch of it was wet. Streams of blood were rushing from its flanks and the beams of light she had seen from outside were blazing from beneath the lids of its closed eyes, spilling across the drunken dancers. The circle that surrounded it, scored into the flagstones, was incredibly complex, decorated with sigils and script and divided into eight segments. An object had been placed at the outer edge of each segment – a seemingly random assortment of holy icons and religious relics. Maleneth had seen enough blood rites to realise what was happening. These people were not simple thieves. They had sourced holy artefacts with a specific purpose in mind: to drag this monster from the aether-void.

‘Gotrek,’ she whispered, remembering that the Slayer was about to burst into the ruins.

She hurried back down the passageway and as she left the building, she sighed with relief. The sun had not quite set. There was still a line of red on the horizon. ‘I still have time,’ she whispered, heading back across the valley.

‘Form a queue!’ bellowed Gotrek as the sound of breaking wood echoed through the darkness. ‘I can’t kill you all at once!’

Maleneth clutched her head as she heard the unmistakeable sound of the Slayer wading into battle. ‘It’s not time!’ she hissed, halting and looking back at the ruins. The red light was flickering, and she could hear the sound of blades clashing. ‘I hate him,’ she spat, turning and heading back towards the doorway she had just left, running back down the passageway.

She reached the courtyard in time to see Gotrek barrel into view, crashing into the crowd of drunks and sending them tumbling in every direction. ‘Stand and fight, you bloody cowards!’ cried the Slayer. ‘There must be one of you who can–’ His words stalled in his mouth as he saw the daemon. ‘Grungni’s balls,’ he muttered, stumbling to a halt and lowering his axe, looking up at the blood-slick giant. ‘You’re an ugly beast.’

‘Gotrek!’ howled Maleneth, running across the courtyard towards him. One of the brigands lashed out at her with an axe but she ducked the blow and slit his throat without breaking her stride. ‘We have to get out!’

Gotrek was staring up at the daemon and Maleneth’s heart sank. His eye was flashing with kill-fever. She would not get him to leave until either he or the daemon had been destroyed. She wished she could leave the oaf to his fate, but she was sworn to protect the rune in his chest.

Another attacker lunged towards her, but she parried the blow, turned on her heel and opened his throat. Most of the brigands were already dead or sprinting for the exit, but Gotrek had clearly lost interest in them. He walked slowly towards the towering figure at the centre of the courtyard, staring at it eagerly. ‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’

Maleneth halted and looked up at the daemon’s canine features, praying the thing would not hear Gotrek.

Red light blazed across the courtyard as the daemon opened its eyes and turned to face Gotrek. It bared a row of tusk-like teeth. ‘I remember you.’ Its voice was like an earth tremor. The walls juddered with each syllable. ‘The Slayer who ran.’

Maleneth’s sanity was straining. The daemon’s voice was not a natural sound. It was not produced by vocal cords but torn from the darkness. It split the air, rattled her teeth and filled her head with visions. She wanted to howl or flee but Gotrek replied as though he were still speaking to one of the drunks.

‘Ran? What are you talking about, ran?’

The daemon’s reply caused Maleneth’s stomach to lurch. ‘When the others marched, you fled.’ The daemon glared down at Gotrek. ‘Fled your own world. Left them to die.’

Gotrek looked dazed for a moment. Then his brows bristled. ‘Liar.’ He paced closer. ‘I did not flee anything. The gods tricked me. Grimnir tricked me. He said I would find my doom.’

‘Gotrek!’ cried Maleneth, realising what was happening. ‘Don’t listen! It’s goading you. It wants you to–’

Gotrek charged across the courtyard, entered the circle and dived at the daemon, raising his axe as he hurtled through the air.

The moment Gotrek entered the circle of runes, the daemon roared and rose up, shattering the roof as it drew back its sword.

Gotrek’s axe clashed with the daemon sword. A wave of energy slammed into Maleneth and the few remaining drunks, sending them tumbling across the flagstones as masonry crashed down around them.

Maleneth rolled clear a moment before a stone lintel crushed her.

Coarse laughter filled her head as the daemon hurled Gotrek through the air, sending the Slayer smashing through the wall and causing another section of the tower to tumble.

Maleneth dodged more falling stone and ducked under an archway.

‘You can’t kill it!’ she cried, as Gotrek clambered back into view and ran back into the circle, drawing his axe back and leaping up for another attack.

The daemon parried, but Gotrek’s blow was so fierce that it staggered under the impact, swaying and almost falling. Maleneth noticed that the daemon’s smile faltered when it neared the circle’s perimeter. It managed to right itself but not before Gotrek had hacked deep into its chest, spilling crimson light.

‘It’s not ready to be born,’ she said, looking at the objects arrayed around the circle. ‘It can’t leave the summoning circle.’

More wall crashed down as Gotrek and the daemon fought, and Maleneth had to dodge the falling debris.

‘If not for your cowardice,’ said the daemon, ‘your world would never have died.’

Gotrek sneered and hacked at the daemon’s leg.

Again, the daemon was so concerned with not stepping outside the confines of the circle that the Slayer was able to land another blow.

Maleneth sidestepped more falling masonry and found herself next to the circle. She could feel power radiating from inside it, crackling across her skin and pounding in her skull. She was standing beside one of the objects placed around the perimeter and realised it was an ugly, badly chiselled rendition of a fist. ‘That?’ She laughed in disbelief as she realised that the lumpen object must be the relic Carmina sought. She grabbed and was about to hurl it in disgust when the daemon howled and grew smaller, shrinking visibly.

It looked down and fixed Maleneth with its burning glare.

‘Wait,’ she gasped, backing away.

‘Quick thinking, aelf!’ Gotrek dropped to the ground and booted another relic from the circle.

The daemon convulsed and roared as it shrank a few more feet.

Maleneth cursed herself for not seeing the answer before. The daemon was not yet born. The circle of relics was the only thing giving it purchase in reality. She dashed around the circle, scattering objects as Gotrek did the same.

The daemon jerked and juddered as it shrank, howling and barking until, finally, it was only a few feet taller than Maleneth. The light had almost totally faded from its bloody flesh and it was struggling to stand.

Gotrek strode from the dust clouds and beheaded it with a single blow of his axe. ‘A Slayer does not flee.’

The head blazed like lava then blinked out of existence. The rest of the daemon slammed to the floor then did the same.

Gotrek stood over the scorched flagstones, breathing heavily and gripping his axe, staring at where the daemon had fallen. Then the tower let out a deep groan and started to lean.

‘Out!’ cried Maleneth, bolting for one of the archways.

Gotrek paused to pick something up from the ground, then jogged calmly after her, wiping blood and dust from his face.

A few of the brigands had survived and were hastily mounting horses and racing from the valley, but most were sprawled in the ruins.

‘Keep moving,’ said Maleneth as the tower slumped slowly in their direction.

They ran on, back up to the top of the slope where Carmina was waiting, cowering on the ground, her eyes wide. She was about to speak when the tower’s foundations finally gave way, sending tons of rock crashing onto the ground. Maleneth shook her head, looking at Gotrek. ‘That place probably stood for thousands of years. You’ve been here two minutes and it’s rubble.’

Gotrek gave her an elaborate bow.

‘You have it,’ whispered Carmina, staring at Gotrek.

‘He has what?’ demanded Maleneth.

Gotrek held up the Incorruptible Fist and frowned at it. ‘It looks like a bloody turd, lass. Are you sure this is going to inspire devotion?’

Carmina hesitantly took it from him. As soon as she held it, cool light spilled from the knuckles, lighting up her ecstatic face. ‘I’m sure.’

Maleneth took a few steps backwards. ‘I’ve seen enough magic light for one evening. What is that?’

‘The power of faith,’ whispered Carmina. ‘When so many souls believe in something, they imbue it with power. Power that goes beyond nature.’ She held the icon towards Gotrek’s face, bathing his battered features in light. ‘You have achieved something incredible tonight, Slayer. You have retrieved a portion of the God-King’s might.’

Maleneth expected Gotrek to say something dismissive, but he looked puzzled, staring into the glare. Then he rolled his shoulders and grunted, backing away from the priestess. The light faded from the Fist and Carmina secreted it in her robes.

Gotrek pointed down to the outbuilding. ‘The idiots have left you a horse. Get yourself home, lass. You’ll travel quicker on that than with us. Get that relic back to your temple.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘And don’t go wandering around in the desert with it.’

Carmina’s eyes flashed in the dark as she gripped Gotrek’s hand and kissed it. Then she rushed through the shadows towards the outbuilding. A moment later they watched her ride off into the night, steering the horse with the skill of an experienced rider.

Gotrek watched her for a few minutes, muttering into his beard, then he turned and began marching back towards the road.

Maleneth hesitated before following him, thinking of how he had looked into the holy light, and how he had insisted that Carmina keep the relic safe. ‘You do believe,’ she said rushing after him.

He glanced back, his face half-hidden in the darkness. ‘In what?’

‘In faith. In gods. In the power of gods.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘When you saw that fist light up, you didn’t know what to say.’

‘Rubbish. I just know when to shut up. Not like some people I could mention.’

Maleneth smirked, pleased to know that she had been right. Helping the annoying priestess had been the correct thing to do. Even Gotrek could see it. They had helped the followers of Sigmar preserve a powerful talisman of their faith. She sensed that there would be great ramifications in the battles to come.

They reached the skull-lined road, and for the next few hours they marched in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Maleneth was determined not to show weakness in front of the Slayer, but she was ready to sleep at the roadside when she spotted lights in the darkness, just less than half a mile from the road.

‘That might be a place to sleep in safety,’ she said, pointing it out to Gotrek.

He laughed. ‘Safety?’

‘This road is under the protection of Svardheim. I know it’s teeming with brigands but a building that’s so visible from the road must be under the aegis of Svardheim. It looks like a monastery to me.’

Gotrek was unimpressed. ‘I say we keep on until we reach the capital.’

Maleneth thought for a moment. ‘I imagine they’ll have ale. And food.’

Gotrek shook his head. ‘You act like I only think with my belly.’ He looked at the distant lights, frowning. ‘Perhaps I do.’ He thought for a moment, then turned off the road and struck out across the plains.

As they neared the building, Maleneth saw that she was right: it was plastered with symbols of the Sigmarite faith and the Svardheim colours were flying from its walls.

They were still a few minutes away when voices called down from the battlements, demanding to know who they were.

‘I’m Maleneth Witchblade,’ she yelled back. ‘I serve the Order of Azyr.’

‘Get back on the road,’ replied a hidden speaker, sounding angry and afraid. ‘You’re not welcome.’

Gotrek laughed but Maleneth felt a surge of fury. ‘We have just risked our lives saving one of your most precious relics. You can at least have the decency to offer us a place to sleep.’

There was a pause. ‘Which relic?’

Maleneth stiffened with anger and wondered if she could pinpoint the speaker accurately enough to hurl a knife. ‘The Incorruptible Fist!’

There was another pause. ‘The Incorruptible Fist was stolen last night.’

‘We know that, you nitwit,’ cried Gotrek. ‘We found the bloody cart. We got the relic back to Carmina.’

‘The Fist was stolen from our vaults last night,’ the voice was trembling with anger, ‘by a murdering thief called Carmina. She disguised herself as one of our order. She and her companions killed several priests as they raided the vault.’

Maleneth could not understand what she was hearing for a moment, thinking of the timid, cowering priestess they had rescued from the cart. Then she recalled how Carmina had seemed to change her demeanour as she rode off into the night, replacing her hesitant manner with a sudden confidence. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It can’t be.’

‘The Fist is made of realmstone,’ cried the voice. ‘It’s priceless. Carmina will have it smashed into pieces and sold to a hundred bidders. She has stolen our most treasured prize just to make herself rich. Have you seen her? She has to be stopped.’

Maleneth gripped her scalp, trembling with hate as she realised how completely she had been deceived.

Gotrek watched her for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he threw back his head and laughed, his great, booming guffaws echoing through the night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darius Hinks is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novel Blackstone Fortress and three novels in the Mephiston series, Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius, Mephiston: Revenant Crusade and Mephiston: City of Light. He also wrote the novella Sanctus. For Warhammer, he wrote Warrior Priest, which won the David Gemmell Morningstar Award for best newcomer, as well as the Orion trilogy, Sigvald and several novellas. His work for Age of Sigmar includes Stormcast, Warqueen and the Gotrek Gurnisson novel Ghoulslayer.

An extract from Ghoulslayer.

Gotrek was snoring, attacking the night with brutal barks. Even asleep he was savage, hammering Maleneth’s skull with every snort. The sound rattled through the Slayer’s chest and shook the chain linking his ear to his nose. The brazier in his rune-axe was still smouldering, but the light had faded from his filthy muscles. He shifted, as though about to speak, let out a ripe belch and then lay still again. He had drunk for hours, downing ale like water, before finally collapsing next to an outhouse, surrounded by the corpses of brigands who had had the ill-conceived idea of trying to rob him. There was no dawn in this particular corner of Shyish, but even the endless gloom could not hide the rune buried in Gotrek’s chest. A great slab of burnished power. The tie that bound her to him. The face of a god, glaring from his ribs, demanding that she hold her nerve.

She stepped gracefully through the dead, as though gliding through a ballroom, scattering flies and gore, a dagger held lightly in each hand. The Stormcast Eternal had gone, scouring Klemp for news of his own kind, and she was alone with the Slayer.

The heart-shaped silver amulet at her throat flickered, revealing the vial of blood at its core. Now. This is your chance.

Maleneth ignored the voice, creeping closer to the Slayer, wincing at his stench. He was grotesque. A graceless lump of scarred muscle, bristling with porcine hair and covered in knotted tattoos. Even by the low standards of the duardin race he was primitive – like a hog that had learned to stand and carry an axe. He was shorter than the brigands he had carved his bed from, but twice their width and built like a barn. The stale, sweet smell of beer shrouded the bodies, mixing with Gotrek’s belches and stinging Maleneth’s eyes. She could see the dregs glistening in his matted beard as she leant closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rune. The rune stared back.

Despite her loathing she hesitated, knives trembling, inches from his body.

The amulet around her neck flickered again. Coward.

That was enough to spur her on. Her dead mistress was right. Klemp would soon be rubble, just like all the other towns they had passed through. The whole region was in uproar. And when the fighting started, who knew where the Slayer would end up? Once he was in one of his rages there was no way of predicting what he would do next. It was a miracle she had stayed with him this far. This might be her last chance. The Slayer’s skin was like iron, though. She would need to punch the blade home with all her strength to get the poison into his bloodstream. She tightened her grip and leant back to strike.

‘Maleneth.’ The voice echoed down the alley, heavy with warning.

She whirled around, blades lowered.

Trachos’ armour glimmered as he limped through the darkness, sparks flickering from his ruined leg plate. He was wearing his expressionless helmet, but she could tell by the way he moved, careful and slow, that he understood what she was planning. His head kicked to one side and light crackled from his mouth grille. He gripped the metal, holding it still, but the damage went deeper than the mask. All that god-wrought armour had done nothing to protect his mind.

He stopped near the corpses, staring at her, lights flickering behind his faceplate.

He remained silent, but the way he raised his warhammers spoke clearly enough. That rune is mine.

They stood like that for a long moment, glaring at each other across Gotrek’s snorting bulk.

Trachos came closer, his metal boots crunching through broken weapons and shattered armour. The sky had grown paler, outlining him, and she saw how confidently he gripped the warhammers. Damaged or not, he was still a Stormcast Eternal. A scion of the thunder god. He was several feet taller than a normal man and, even broken, his plate armour made a fearsome sight.

Maleneth stepped through the pile of bodies, readying herself. She had always known this moment would come. They could not both claim the rune. There was a rent in Trachos’ leg armour from his left knee to his left boot. It had been there when he first approached Maleneth months ago, wandering out of the hills like a deranged prophet. He was in desperate need of medicine, or repairs, or whatever help Stormcast Eternals received when they returned to the Celestial Realm. Every step he took was difficult, and his Azyrite armour sparked whenever he moved. She smiled. Usually, such a warrior would be a test for even her skills, but in this state he should be easy prey. There would be blood for Khaine this night.

Maleneth dragged one of her blades across a vial at her belt. The crystal broke in silence, but she could smell the venom as it spilled across the metal.

Trachos dropped into a crouch, hammers raised.

The two warriors tensed, preparing to strike.

‘Grungni’s arse beard!’ cried Gotrek, lurching to his feet and grabbing his rune-axe. ‘Don’t you people know when you’re beaten?’

He swayed, obviously confused, still drunk, piercing the night with his one, scowling eye, trying to focus, trying to spot an opponent. Seeing none, he turned to Maleneth.

‘Aelf! Point me to the simpletons.’

Maleneth lowered her weapons and Trachos did the same. The chance was gone. She shook her head. ‘All dead.’ She backed away from Trachos with a warning glare.

Gotrek’s face was locked in a thunderous scowl and his skin was as grey as the corpses. He kicked one of them. ‘Lightweights. They could barely swing a sword. Even splitting skulls is no fun in your stinking realm.’

Trachos’ hands trembled as he slid his hammers back into his belt. ‘This is no realm of mine.’

‘Nor mine,’ said Maleneth, looking around at the peculiar hell Gotrek had led them to. The sky was the colour of old pewter, dull, bleak and riveted with stars. The stars did not shine but radiated a pitiless black. Points of absolute darkness surrounded by purple coronas, wounds in the sky, dripping fingers of pitch. And the town was equally grim. Crooked, ramshackle huts made of warped, colourless driftwood. There were panicked shouts in the distance and the sound of vehicles being hastily loaded. Columns of smoke stretched across the sky, signalling the approach of another army. They looked like claw marks on dead skin.

Gotrek muttered a duardin curse and picked his way through the corpses. ‘Where’s the ale?’

‘You drank it,’ replied Trachos.

The Slayer frowned and scratched his shaven head, causing his enormous, grease-slicked mohawk to tremble. Then he glared at the ground, his massive shoulders drooping and the haft of his greataxe hanging loosely in his grip. He whispered to himself, shaking his head, and Maleneth wondered what he was thinking. Was he remembering his home? The world he claimed was so superior to the Mortal Realms? She suspected most of his thoughts concerned his past. What else did he have? There was something tragic about him, she decided. He was like a fossil, revived by cruel necromancy and abandoned in a world where no one knew his face.

‘You’re right,’ said Gotrek, looking up with a sudden smile. ‘We need more ale.’

Maleneth shook her head in disbelief. She and Trachos were glaring at him. Anyone else would feel their hatred like a physical blow, but the Slayer was oblivious. He waved them back down the alley, away from the outbuilding, humming cheerfully to himself as he headed out onto the main street.

They stumbled into a chaotic scene. There were wicker cages rattling against every lintel and doorframe – hundreds of them, the size of a human head and crammed with teeth, skin and bones. Alongside the offerings to Nagash there were wooden eight-pointed stars, hastily hammered together and painted in gaudy colours. Braziers spewed clouds of blue embers across wooden icons that had been painted with the faces of daemons and saints. And all of this jostled happily against yellow hammer-shaped idols that had been scored with an approximation of Azyrite runes. Every corner revealed some desperate attempt to appease a god. And through this carnival of colours and shapes, people were rushing in every direction, hurling belongings from windows and clambering into carts. There was a cold wind whipping through the streets that seemed heavy with portent. Men and women howled at each other, arguing while their children fought in the dust, like a premonition of the violence about to be visited on the town. For weeks, seers across the region had been wracked by agonising prophecies. Some sprouted mouths in their armpits and spewed torrents of bile, others were visited by horrific, sanity-flaying visions, and some had found their voices replaced by a bestial, guttural language they could no more understand than silence. Whatever the nature of their visitation, all of them agreed on one thing – death was coming to the region. Most people had taken that as a cue to flee, but Gotrek, still furious at not finding Nagash, had decided to stay, relishing the coming fight as a distraction if nothing else.

As Gotrek swaggered onto the wind-lashed street, he almost collided with an enormous beast that was being led through the crowds – an armour-clad mammoth, draped in furs and sacks and scraping tracks through the dirt with its tusks. Dozens of fur-clad nomads were crowded into its howdah, and more were swarming round it, driving it on with sticks and insults, trying to goad more speed out of the plodding creature.

Gotrek halted, glaring at the nomads, and Maleneth guessed immediately what had annoyed him. She hated to admit it, but she was starting to understand him. He was brutal and heartless in many respects, but there were a few things that seemed to offend his primitive sensibilities. The sight of a wild creature bound into servitude was one of them. For a moment, she thought he might accost the nomads, but then he shook his head and marched on, barging through the traders and making for the largest building on the street, muttering into his beard.

Maleneth struggled to keep up as the Slayer booted the door open and plunged into the gloomy interior of the Muffled Drum. Despite the scenes of panic outside, Klemp’s only inn was crowded with languorous, dazed patrons – people so far gone they lacked the sense to try to save their own skin, calling the prophecies scaremongering nonsense. There were more nomads, wearing the same filthy furs as the travellers outside, but there was also a bewildering array of other creeds and races – humans from every corner of the Amethyst Princedoms and beyond. Maleneth saw hulking savages from the east, as heavily tattooed as Gotrek and looking just as uncouth. There were waif-like pilgrims, dressed in sackcloth and wearing charcoal eye makeup that had been smeared by the beer they were lying in. In one corner there was a party of duardin, dispossessed travellers, hunched over their drinks and eyeing Gotrek from under battered crested helmets.

Gotrek made a point of ignoring the duardin and stormed straight across the room to the bar, where a tall, fierce-looking woman was looming over one of her customers, shaking him back and forth until coins fell from his grip and rattled across the bar.

‘Next time,’ she snarled, ‘it’s your guts I’ll spill.’

The man fell away from her, collapsing in a shocked heap on the floor before scrabbling away on all fours as Gotrek strode past him and approached the woman.

‘Still no good,’ said the Slayer, looking up at her.

She shook her head in disbelief, then leant across the bar and stared down at him, peering at his impressive gut. ‘You drank all of it?’

Gotrek pounded a fist against his stomach and belched. ‘For all the good it did me.’

The woman looked at Maleneth as she reached the bar. ‘He drank it all?’

Maleneth nodded, grudgingly, annoyed to notice that the landlady looked impressed.

Gotrek studied the bottles behind the woman. ‘Got anything stronger?’

She stared at him. ‘Are you with them?’ she asked, nodding at the party of duardin.

Gotrek kept studying the drinks, ignoring the question. The only sign of a response was a slight tightening of his jaw.

She shrugged, taking a bottle from the shelf and placing it before him. It was the shape of an elongated teardrop and it was clearly ancient – a plump dollop of green, murky glass covered in dust and ash. There were fragments of something suspended in the liquid.

Gotrek grabbed the bottle and held it towards a fire that was crackling by the bar, squinting at the whirling sediment.

The woman grabbed one of his tree-trunk biceps. ‘It’s not cheap.’

Gotrek threw some coins at her, then continued eyeing the drink.

He jammed the cork into the bottle with his fat, dirty thumb, and a heady stink filled the room.

Maleneth coughed and put a hand to her face.

Gotrek sniffed the bottle and grimaced. ‘It’s not Bugman’s.’

‘Don’t drink it then,’ said Maleneth, remembering what had happened the last time the Slayer got drunk. There was no way they would leave Klemp intact if Gotrek picked a fight just as an army came over the horizon.

He gave her a warning glare.

‘What about Nagash?’ she said, the first thing that came to mind.

His scowl grew even more fierce, but he did not put the bottle to his lips.

‘You dragged us all this way to find him.’ Maleneth looked over at Trachos. He was standing a few feet away, watching the exchange, but as usual he seemed oblivious, locked in his own personal hell. Realising the Stormcast would be no help, she turned back to Gotrek. ‘And now, just as his armies are about to reach us, you’re going to drink yourself into a stupor. You could miss the very chance you’ve been looking for. The chance to face him. Or whatever it is you were hoping to achieve.’

Gotrek glowered. ‘He’s not here. Gods don’t have the balls to lead from the front. Nagash will be hiding somewhere, like the rest of them.’ He drank deeply from the bottle, holding Maleneth’s gaze.

Then he paused for breath, threw more coins on the bar and took the bottle to one of the benches that lined the room. The wood groaned as he sat.

There was an elderly man sitting at the bench, and he watched with interest as Gotrek drank more of the foul-smelling stuff. He was tall and slender, sitting stiff-backed and proud, and as he sipped his drink he moved with the precise, delicate movements of an ascetic. Unlike everyone else in the Muffled Drum, he was immaculately dressed. His tunic, cloak and trousers were embroidered with golden thread, and his receding, slicked-back hair was so adorned with beads and semi-precious stones that it resembled a skullcap.

When Gotrek lowered the half-empty bottle onto the table, the man leant over and whispered, ‘You have business with the necromancer?’

The drink had clearly not affected Gotrek yet. His hand shot out with surprising speed and locked around the man’s scrawny neck.

‘Who wants to know?’

A strange noise came from the man’s chest. It might have been laughter.

Gotrek cursed. Rather than grabbing skin and bone, his hand had passed through the man’s neck and was left holding a fistful of ash. The powder tumbled through his fingers as he snatched back his hand. He glared at the man.

For a fraction of a second, the old man had no neck, just a landslide of fine dust tumbling from his lower jaw onto his shoulders. It looked like sand in an hourglass. Then the dust solidified, and the man’s neck reappeared. He stroked his greasy hair and looked at Gotrek, his eyes glittering and unfocused, as though he were looking into smoke.

Gotrek’s cheeks flushed with rage and he gripped the haft of his greataxe. ‘What are you? A spirit? In my day we burned the restless dead.’

‘I’m quite well rested, thank you,’ said the man, with a vague smile.

Maleneth and Trachos approached the table.

‘What are you?’ demanded Maleneth.

The man ignored her question, studying the rune in Gotrek’s chest and the barbs on Maleneth’s tight-fitting leathers. Then he looked at the shattered gilded sigmarite of Trachos’ war gear. ‘You don’t look like servants of the Great Necromancer.’

‘But you do,’ said Gotrek, taking another swig from the green bottle. ‘Why don’t you…’ He hesitated, looking at the bottle with a surprised expression, rolling his head loosely on his shoulders. ‘Actually, this isn’t bad.’

He looked over at the landlady and gave her a nod of approval.

To Maleneth’s disbelief, the ridiculous woman blushed.

‘Like you, fyreslayer, I kneel to no god,’ said the man, looking at Gotrek with an expression that was hard to read.

‘I’m not a fyreslayer, and you’re nothing like me.’ Gotrek stood up and started away from the table. He stumbled and had to grip the bench to steady himself. ‘This is good.’ He sat back down, and the bench gave another groan.

‘Why do you wish to reach Nagash if you don’t serve him?’ asked the stranger.

‘What are you?’ repeated Maleneth, gripping her knife handles. ‘Are you human?’

‘I’m Kurin,’ he replied, holding out a hand.

Click here to buy Ghoulslayer.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Johan Grenier.

Death on the Road to Svardheim © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2020. Death on the Road to Svardheim, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-80026-314-7

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