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Beneath the Rust – Graeme Lyon

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Overlords of the Iron Dragon’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Beneath the Rust

Graeme Lyon

The Rusted Wastes stretched out before Borri Kraglan.

The name was appropriate. The landscape was the colour of rusted iron, something that made Borri instinctively uneasy. No self-respecting duardin, particularly a Kharadron of Barak-Nar, would ever allow rust to mar any of their equipment. The reason for the colouring had become clear as soon as Borri and her fellow endrinriggers had started to excavate the area.

In the realm of Chamon, metal infused everything in one way or another. There were forests of silver trees that shed golden leaves in the autumn. There were oceans of mercury and molten lead. Further out from the realmsphere’s core, where the magic was wilder and the laws of nature more malleable, great creatures of living metal stalked the landscape like technological marvels of a bygone age. Here, in the Rusted Wastes, the ground itself was like solid iron.

That was what made their discovery all the more perplexing.

‘You had no idea this was here?’ she asked her companion, looking up at the impassive mask he wore.

‘None,’ replied Ferram Drakesbane, shrugging. As he did, the great golden frames on his back stretched, and wings of the purest light briefly flared, haloing his armoured form. ‘I would not have thought the daemon-worshippers capable of such a feat.’

‘We can’t be sure it was them,’ said Borri. ‘It was fairly deep beneath what used to be their camp.’

The Kharadron Overlords had retrofitted a drill cannon from one of their sky-vessels into an excavation tool – much to the consternation of the ship’s captain – and used it to begin digging in the area the Stormcast Eternals of the Sigmarite Brotherhood wished to build their Stormkeep. To their surprise, they had been beaten to it. Beneath a deep layer of ironearth, they had broken through into an existing tunnel, nearly losing the drill and its operator in the process.

‘How far down does it go?’ Drakesbane asked.

‘Far,’ Borri replied. We sent some arkanaut privateers down to see if it was a limited space. They say the tunnels reach a huge shaft that goes down a considerable way.’

‘Can it be filled? Or covered and ignored?’

‘Probably…’ Borri mused. ‘We can certainly cap it and cover it, and work the foundations on top of what’s there. But my worry would be why it’s there. Did the tribe who lived here build these tunnels? Were they there already? And in either case, they must have a purpose. They’re definitely artificial. You can see from the–’

The Knight-Venator held up a hand. ‘I trust your skills, my friend. Now I must trust to mine. I will lead an expedition into the tunnels and discover their purpose.’

‘Aye, that sounds like a plan,’ Borri said. ‘Will ye be needing a wee hand down there? I mean, you Stormcasts are good in a fight and all, but you don’t know tunnels like a duardin.’

‘Have you spent much time in tunnels, my friend?’ Drakesbane asked, amusement behind his words. ‘I wouldn’t think there are many in the wide skies of the realms.’

‘Aye, well, maybe we’re not quite as used to tunnels as some of our distant kin, but still. A duardin is a duardin.’

Drakesbane nodded slowly. ‘And what payment will your people expect for this service, Borri Kraglan?’

Borri cleared her throat. Under the dictates of the Kharadron Code, she could, and almost certainly should, ask for remuneration for such a potentially perilous task. The Admirals’ Council back on Barak-Nar had been very clear that this entire expedition was about forging relations with the Sigmarite Brotherhood. Still, it never hurt to push for a little more.

The Stormcast Eternals had appeared across the Mortal Realms in recent decades, bringing the wrath of the God-King Sigmar to those who followed the Dark Gods of Chaos. They had fought the Realmgate Wars, dealing the so-called Everchosen a blow that had sent him back to his infernal fortress to lick his wounds. And more importantly, they had opened near-infinite new avenues for trade, and resources that the Kharadron Overlords could exploit.

The Sigmarite Brotherhood had chosen to situate themselves here, on the shores of the Stratis Skull, where lines of power apparently converged. From here, the constellations of Azyr, the Celestial Realm, could be most clearly seen in the night sky. Drakesbane had explained that they were used for the divinations of the Stormcasts’ Lord-Ordinators. They were going to be a new power in the region, and the Kharadron sky-port that allied most closely with them would reap great rewards. Barak-Nar had been quickest off the mark, offering resources and expertise to the Sigmarite Brotherhood in exchange for future favour – as well as a hefty retainer in precious substances. They had a reputation to maintain, after all.

‘I think this would necessitate an amendment to the existing agreement,’ she said at length. ‘An extra twenty per cent on the payment should suffice. Besides, who knows what trouble you might get into down there?’

‘This is a terrible idea,’ grumbled Harek Steelfist for what Borri thought might be the hundredth time. The arkanaut captain was at the front of the group of Kharadron Overlords who had ventured into the tunnels. Winged Stormcast Eternals had offered to carry them down the long shaft, but Harek had refused, insisting that the arkanauts rapelled down. It had been a long and awkward journey, and combined with the perceived slight from the Prosecutors’ well-meaning offer, he had been left even less happy than usual. His mood hadn’t improved since. Even Mala, his life partner, hadn’t been able to cheer him up, and that was rare.

Borri glanced at Mala, who floated alongside her, held aloft by the portable aether-endrin that all endrinriggers used. When they were performing their duties keeping sky-vessels in working order, the aether-endrins allowed the duardin to float around the ships, ensuring they could make repairs without having to dock at a sky-port. In battle, they allowed the Kharadrons to get above their enemies and strike with rivet guns and aethermatic saws. Harek had complained that the tunnels might get too tight for them, but Borri and Mala had argued that if that was the case, they would also be too tight for the Stormcast Eternals who accompanied them. Harek had grudgingly agreed to wait and see.

‘Harek seems in an even worse mood than usual,’ Borri said quietly.

Mala’s face was hidden behind her helmet, but Borri was sure she was smiling as she replied. ‘You’d think he’d be happy to get his privateers into action. He’s spent the last month complaining this duty was too boring. He’s never happy.’

She laughed, and Borri joined her. This was a familiar refrain. For as long as Mala and Harek had been together, Harek had always had something to grumble about. And yet the way he smiled when he looked at Mala showed that he really was happy. And he made Mala happy too. As her best friend, Borri appreciated that, though she did wish she could see more of her friend, outside of engagements like this one.

Harek’s habitual grumpiness had its uses though. It came from a place of wariness, and that made him a good arkanaut captain. He kept his privateers ready for action – and that could be invaluable here. The tunnels so far had been deserted, but there was no guarantee they would remain that way.

‘How could those blood-worshipping filth have dug all this?’ Harek asked no one in particular, knocking his fist on the smooth wall of the tunnel, which stretched to five times the height of a duardin.

‘They may not have,’ answered Drakesbane. The Knight-Venator walked alongside Harek’s arkanauts, his immense wings folded at his back and bow held loosely in one gauntlet. A large bird the colour of the night sky rested on one shoulder, its gaze fixed firmly ahead. His Prosecutors, a trio of Stormcast Eternals with a smaller wingspan and hammers, had ranged ahead to try and get a feel for the layout of the tunnels. ‘This region was settled in the Age of Myth, before the coming of Chaos. The forebears of your own people excavated much of the lands around the Stratis Skull in search of minerals.’

‘So these could be duardin-made?’ Mala asked.

‘That makes sense,’ grunted Harek. ‘Too sturdy to be dug by any men, let alone the daemon-lovers.’

Borri felt a surge of anger at Harek’s casual dismissal of the work of men. While it was true that even the work of Sigmar’s most skilled human smiths was no match for that of duardin, saying so in their company was impolite at best. The Kharadron Code was very clear that insulting employers wasn’t a good idea, at least before payment had been made in full.

Borri’s thoughts were interrupted by a flash of light from further along the tunnel. It was a Prosecutor flying towards them at speed.

‘My lord Drakesbane,’ the Stormcast said, her voice issuing from her mask with a metallic rasp. ‘We have engaged enemy ahead. Bloodreavers, in great numbers.’ She turned and flew back the way she had come.

Drakesbane turned to the duardin.

‘I expected a handful,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If they are here in numbers, there must be a reason.’

‘I thought such savages would have stood and fought when we took their camp,’ Harek grumbled. ‘Maybe it’s the cowards of the tribe.’

‘Savage they may be, but I have rarely crossed blades with a cowardly servant of the Blood God,’ Drakesbane said. ‘There is more going on here.’

The Knight-Venator’s wings spread and he took to the air, pulling an arrow of purest starlight from his quiver and nocking it to the bow. His star-eagle lifted off from his shoulder with a loud caw and sped in the direction from which the Prosecutor had come. Drakesbane followed, and Borri pushed her aether-endrin to maximum to keep up.

She heard the battle before she saw it. The unmistakable roar of bloodthirsty cannibals and the clash of blades on armour was drowned out only by the boom of thunder as Prosecutors hurled celestial hammers into their foes.

Borri rounded a corner to a scene of carnage. The tunnel was no wider here than elsewhere, and the press of unwashed bloodreaver bodies made it feel positively claustrophobic. Drakesbane had joined the Prosecutors in battle. He was moving fast, loosing arrows from his great bow with unerring accuracy. Each shot felled a Khorne worshipper, the star-forged missiles striking hearts or heads. Yet for each bloodreaver that was killed, another five seemed to take his place. Around him, Prosecutors hurled celestial hammers, each one hitting with the force of a meteorite before dissolving into celestial light, leaving only ruined bodies.

Though the tunnel was huge by duardin standards, the men stood tall enough to strike at the Stormcasts as they swooped overhead. So far, their sigmarite armour seemed proof against the crude axes and swords, but weight of numbers would bring the Prosecutors down like falling birds in time.

‘Let’s get stuck in,’ Mala said with relish.

Borri looked back, another surge of irritation passing through her. Harek and his privateers were so slow.

‘Aye. Let’s go,’ she said, activating her aethermatic saw and speeding towards the enemy. She dived straight into the closest and brought the saw down, carving messily through flesh and bone. The bloodreaver spasmed, the muscle reflex driving his axe into the arm of a comrade, who roared in pain and fury and lashed out at Borri. She tried to dodge the blow, but it came too fast. At the last second, Mala’s saw blocked it with a resounding clang. She followed up with rapid-firing shots from her rivet gun, and the Khorne worshipper fell back. Mala swept forward and took the brute’s head from his shoulders.

‘Thanks,’ Borri said, and Mala rounded on her.

‘Watch yourself! Recklessness like that could get you killed,’ she snapped.

Borri was taken aback. Mala had never spoken to her like that. The shock quickly turned to anger, but her reply was interrupted by a shout from behind.

‘Arkanauts, form up!’

Harek had arrived. He ordered his warriors forward, and the privateers joined the fray.

It was brutal, bloody work. With the duardin wading into the thick of the enemy, Stormcast and endrinrigger alike had to be more careful where they placed their blows. The armour of the privateers was sturdy, but the sky-suits beneath, which simulated the rarefied atmosphere of Barak-Nar to which the Kharadron Overlords were adapted, could be easily pierced by a stray rivet or the impact of a celestial hammer.

Though it was absolutely normal for endrinriggers to have to be so careful when their fellow Kharadrons fought below them, Borri found the need to do so here profoundly irritating. She silently cursed Harek as she fired a stream of rivets past him, ruining the face of a bloodreaver who was finished by a blow from an arkanaut cutter moments later.

She pushed the resentment down and busied herself with killing Chaos worshippers.

One of the brutes came at her, an immense axe swinging at the globe of her aether-endrin. It deflected from the hardened metal, the blade notched, and Borri was rocked back by the force of the blow. She fired her rivet gun and the shots went wide, tearing through another bloodreaver, who was fighting one of the Stormcasts. Borri cursed as the barbarian in front of her roared and raised his weapon high to strike. She fired her rivet gun again, and this time found her mark. The rivets tore the human’s face apart, leaving a lumpen mass of bloody flesh over a grinning skull. It took him long moments to realise that he was injured, and the axe came down. It sliced through armour and sky-suit and into Borri’s shoulder. She dropped the rivet gun as pain coursed through her.

She lashed out instinctively with her saw and finished the bloodreaver, who fell with blood pulsing from a ragged wound in his chest.

‘Give that to your god,’ Borri muttered as she gingerly felt her shoulder. The wound wasn’t deep – the armour had robbed the blow of most of its momentum. She moved her arm, testing the pain. She would live, and still be able to fight. She picked up her rivet gun and looked around.

She grudgingly admitted to herself that the privateers’ arrival had helped to turn the tide. Though they still massively outnumbered the forces of Order, the bloodreavers had been forced to focus on the duardin in their midst instead of the celestial warriors above them. Finally, they were realising through whatever red mist clouded their perceptions that they couldn’t win the fight, and started to fall back.

‘Come on, let’s follow and finish them!’ Mala shouted furiously.

‘Prosecutors, after them,’ Drakesbane ordered, still firing arrow after arrow into the fleeing warriors, each one replaced in the quiver by Azyrite magic as soon as it was drawn. ‘The rest of us will regroup here.’

His fellow Stormcasts followed his order, advancing after the bloodreavers until both were out of sight. Mala followed them, ignoring Harek’s calls for her to stay with the group.

The Knight-Venator landed lightly, and Borri approached him.

‘Why hold us here? We should support Mala. The more of us taking the fight to them, the better,’ she snapped at him. He gazed at her, the stern visage of his mask impassive.

‘The Prosecutors have the speed to harry them as far as is required. Neither you nor your privateer brethren can say the same. It was the logical choice.’

‘Logic be damned! We want to finish the fight!’ snarled Harek, who had joined them.

‘Stay out of this,’ Borri snapped. ‘It’s between me and Drakesbane.’

‘You’re not in command here, Kraglan,’ Harek replied.

‘No, I am,’ Drakesbane said, his voice booming. ‘And I would know where this animosity comes from.’

‘It’s coming from Kraglan here not knowing where her boundaries lie,’ Harek said. ‘In battle or in life.’

‘Or maybe it’s about Steelfist sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted,’ Borri shouted, fury surging through her.

‘You feel great anger, Borri Kraglan?’ asked Drakesbane levelly.

‘Aye, I do. Can you blame me?’

‘And you, Harek Steelfist?’

Harek turned and punched the tunnel wall, an answer in itself.

‘There is something more at work here,’ Drakesbane said. ‘A malign influence working upon you all.’ He turned and watched the privateers for a moment. Borri followed his gaze. Her fellow duardin were clearly as irritated as she was, restive and on the edge of brawling.

‘You must fight the urge towards anger,’ Drakesbane said, his voice loud and clear. Something in it washed over Borri, and she felt the haze of anger lift from her. ‘This is some machination of our enemy. Their lord uses anger and fury as weapons as surely as his followers use axes and swords. Do not allow it to overwhelm you.’

‘Th-thank you, Ferram,’ Borri said, shame now flooding her to replace the rage. ‘I can’t believe I… Harek, I’m sorry.’

Harek simply glared at her and turned away.

The shame grew. It was true that Borri loved Mala. Perhaps more than she’d ever been willing to admit to herself, let alone say aloud. She cleared her throat.

‘Why weren’t you affected, Drakesbane?’ she asked the Knight-Venator.

‘The lord Sigmar plucked me from the realms, destroyed my mortal form and reforged my eternal soul into something better. With that comes protection from the works of the Dark Gods. It is a rare influence that will affect a Stormcast Eternal. Would that all servants of Order could say the same.’

‘Think you’re better than us, do you?’ spat one of the privateers.

Borri turned on him. ‘Shame on you, Kareg Half-fist,’ she said. ‘Control yourself!’

‘Don’t you speak to my warriors like that, Kraglan!’ bellowed Harek. Suddenly he was in her face, his stylised face mask clashing against hers. ‘They are mine to discipline.’

Anger rose again, and Borri snapped, ‘Then actually discipline them!’

‘Enough!’ bellowed Drakesbane, and the red mist receded again.

Borri stepped away, taking deep breaths.

‘We don’t know what we’ll face as we continue,’ the Knight-Venator said. ‘But there is a dark power at work in this place, and I doubt my Prosecutors and I can do so alone. We need you. All of you. Set aside these squabbles and work together, or whatever is at work here may be the undoing of us all.’

Chastened, Borri nodded, and looked into the tunnel before them as the Prosecutors returned, their great wings carrying them swiftly towards the party. It took Borri a moment to realise what was wrong. Harek voiced it first from where he stood against the far wall.

‘Where’s Mala?’

None of the Prosecutors had seen Mala taken, but it was the only explanation.

‘She wouldn’t have run off by herself,’ Harek argued furiously. ‘Even with this… whatever it is working on her, she’s not stupid.’

Borri agreed, but the constant ache of irritation she felt towards Harek, and the anger she harboured towards herself for not ignoring Drakesbane and going with Mala, prevented her from saying so.

The Knight-Venator had counselled that they should continue. It was their best chance, he said, of finding Mala, as well as the source of the influence working upon the Kharadron Overlords. The tunnels took them steadily downwards. The further they went, the harder it became for Borri to let go of her anger.

‘This influence must be fought,’ said Drakesbane softly. ‘It is the only way to save your friend.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. We don’t all have mighty Sigmar’s gifts to help us,’ Borri said, venom in her voice.

‘No, you don’t,’ Drakesbane said with irritating calm. ‘Would that we had a Lord-Castellant here, to bring the light of Sigmar to you. As we do not, you shall have to simply try harder, Borri Kraglan.’

He moved on, leaving Borri at the back of the group, seething with misplaced rage. She followed quietly, trying to fight back the feelings.

They continued for some time, until the passageway came to an abrupt halt. Before them was a stretch of blank stone wall, as smooth and finely finished as any of the rest of the tunnels they had passed through.

‘What’s going on?’ Borri said testily, floating over the throng of arkanauts and gently touching down next to Harek.

‘A dead end,’ Harek said through gritted teeth. ‘Either we’ve come the wrong way or those lanky blood-drinkers back there were all that’s to be found.’

‘There is more,’ said Drakesbane firmly. ‘Something is working its influence on you. It must be found and eradicated.’

‘How do we even know it’s something else?’ one of the arkanauts shouted. ‘It could be you doing this to us!’

For a moment lightning seemed to flash behind the Knight-Venator’s bone-white mask. The privateer drew back, muttering something that might have been an apology. Drakesbane turned back to Harek and Borri.

‘My Prosecutors are sure that every other passageway is a dead end, and this is the true path. I trust their judgement. There must be a way through. If these tunnels were duardin-crafted, could there be some subtle enchantment or wonder of engineering hidden here?’

Borri moved towards the dead end and began studying it. She vaguely registered that having this to focus on made it easier to avoid the anger.

‘There might be something here,’ she said, tapping on the wall with the butt of her rivet gun. ‘I’ll need some time to survey it.’

Borri gave the wall a thorough examination, noting imperfections and irregularities. As she covered the whole thing, her heart sank. There was nothing that was obvious to her.

‘If there is some hidden magic or mechanism here, we can’t find it,’ she said at length. ‘Maybe if we had a specialist in ancient runic enchantments–’

‘Well we don’t,’ said Harek angrily. He stomped forward and punched the wall in frustration. To Borri’s astonishment, it began to move. With the sound of grinding rock, a section of the wall simply moved aside to reveal a short passage that widened out into a chamber.

‘What did I do?’ Harek asked, clearly as puzzled as Borri.

The duardin looked to Drakesbane, whose gaze was fixed on the newly revealed entrance.

‘It responded to anger,’ he said. ‘This is troubling. The servants of the Blood God eschew sorcery, but their priests are capable of great craft, and their prayers to their god do not go unanswered, though the costs are high. There must be something of great value here. We need to be very careful, my friends.’

‘We’re past time for careful,’ bellowed Harek. ‘Privateers, move in!’

The arkanaut company came to order and marched in unison down the short corridor and into the chamber. Once more, Borri felt anger and contempt for the idiot her friend had chosen to spend her life with. How could he be so foolish as to rush in after what happened to Mala? For that matter, how had he been careless enough to let her rush off in the first place?

She followed the privateers in, not bothering to activate her aether-endrin. As she passed through the corridor and into the chamber beyond, she felt her anger increase. Harek would pay for everything. She would make sure of it.

Borri stepped inside and saw more carnage. The chamber was huge, the ceiling shrouded in darkness far above them. The walls here were different from the passageways they had navigated. The stone was dyed red, and marked with infernal runes that hurt her eyes and made her head swim. At the chamber’s heart was a large altar. It was twice her height, and the runes that marked the walls were replicated on it, in patterns that made bile rise in her throat.

Atop the altar, unconscious, was Mala, and around it were the fresh corpses of half a dozen bloodreavers, killed by Harek and his privateers. The captain was finishing the last, his cutter embedded deep in the human’s guts. He pulled it out and turned towards her.

‘Help me get Mala down,’ he said gruffly. Borri activated her endrin and floated to the altar, gently lifting Mala and laying her on the chamber’s blood-slick floor.

Harek knelt beside his partner, looking worried. Borri felt anger flood her again.

‘What were you doing, you fool?’ she demanded. ‘Drakesbane counsels caution and you march in here without so much as a thought for the safety of your warriors?’

‘I told you before, Kraglan, my privateers are my business,’ Harek growled. ‘Keep your nose out of it, and out of my partnership while you’re at it.’

‘I would if I thought you were any good for her,’ Borri said, giving in to the anger. ‘All you’ve done is take her away from me.’

‘Jealous wretch,’ Harek said. ‘I’ve had enough of you!’

The arkanaut captain raised himself and swung around, his cutter scything towards Borri. She ducked back just in time to avoid the blow, and activated her aether-endrin again, quickly rising out of reach of Harek’s blows.

‘You won’t get away that easily,’ he said, reaching for his pistol. Borri didn’t give him the chance. She hurled her aethermatic saw at him. Harek ducked out of the way, his half-drawn pistol falling to the ground, and the saw continued past and struck the altar. The aether-powered blade embedded itself in the ancient stone near the base. Slowly, a great crack rose upwards from where it impacted, splitting the altar in two. The runes on it flared brightly, as if great energy were being released, then blinked out one by one. Slowly, the two great pieces of stone fell, and a piercing shriek emerged. Borri reeled back as images of anger and bloodshed, even more acute than before, flashed through her consciousness.

Humans in furs, bones woven into their hair and beards, beat one of their kind to death with crude wooden clubs. A dark-cloaked aelven assassin slipped between shadows and silently slit her target’s throat. A woman walked in on two people entwined in lust and grabbed the nearest heavy object, beating them both to death as they screamed in terror and agony. In the midst of battle, a duardin with a flaming crest rising above his head swung an immense axe indiscriminately, cutting down friend and foe alike, lost to a blood-rage.

Each vision was more intense than the last, and with them came pain, as Borri experienced not only the violent anger of the perpetrators, but the pained deaths of their victims. Murderer and murdered, all at once. She screamed, rage and agony mixing into a potent brew that flowed through her, robbing her of anything beyond the increasingly violent scenes. It lasted an eternity, until she felt a hand grip the arm of her sky-suit and a voice piercing the haze.

‘Fight it,’ said Mala, and Borri opened her eyes. She was on the ground, her aether-endrin deactivated. Mala, now awake, knelt beside her, and beyond her, Borri saw a scene of carnage that was nearly the match for the visions that had assailed her.

Most of Harek’s arkanauts were dead, their broken and bloodied remains littering the chamber. Those that remained, Harek among them, stood in a ragged line, battling something huge and nightmarish. It stood many times the height of the duardin, towering over even the Stormcast Eternals that circled it, hurling their celestial hammers. It was roughly the shape of a man, but wrong in every aspect. Its limbs were too long, the joints bending at unnatural angles, and its flesh was the colour of rich, arterial blood. It was clad in ornate armour, layered plates of brass marked with the same sigils that had adorned the altar and which covered the walls. The creature carried a great axe, its edges so infernally sharp that Borri thought it might be able to cut the very air.

‘What… what is it?’ she breathed, the sheer terror the beast instilled in her crowding out the anger and pain that had been her consciousness for what felt an eternity.

‘A daemon in thrall to the god of blood,’ intoned a voice from above her. She looked up to see Ferram Drakesbane firing shot after shot at the creature. All were on target, but most dispersed into light before hitting the daemon, as though it were protected by some invisible barrier. Those that reached it punched holes into armour, or penetrated flesh that re-knitted and healed in seconds. ‘It manifested from the ruin of the altar. It is a creature of power, a prince among its vile brood. We must stand together,’ Drakesbane continued. ‘Are you fit to join us, Borri Kraglan?’

‘I did this,’ Borri said, the horror of her actions hitting home. ‘I released it. I…’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Mala said quickly. ‘The thing we were feeling, it was this, getting in our heads, making us angry. It wanted us to fight, to destroy each other.’

‘Mala Steelfist is correct,’ Drakesbane said. ‘But this has given us our chance for victory. Now that it has manifested, it can be defeated and sent back to the hells from which it came.’

Borri stood and checked her weapons. Her rivet gun was holstered by her side, but her saw… It was by the shattered remains of the altar.

‘I’m with you,’ she said.

She activated her aether-endrin again and rose into the air. Pulling her rivet gun, she spat white-hot projectiles into the daemon’s chest. Like the Knight-Venator’s arrows, most of them melted into nothingness before hitting home, but some got through and began to pock the thing’s breastplate with holes. Mala rose up and joined her, their combined fire drawing the daemon’s attention. It turned to them, and a sinister snarl crossed its bestial features. It turned, kicking an arkanaut privateer into a wall as it did, and began to cross the chamber towards the two endrinriggers. One of the Prosecutors flew in front of it, and the daemon lashed out with its axe, bisecting the winged warrior. The Stormcast Eternal vanished into a stream of light, which sped upwards and vanished with a crack of thunder.

The daemon advanced, and the two Kharadron split, each moving around it in a different direction, continuing to pepper it with rapid-firing rivets. It swung its axe towards Borri, who pulled back, the blade missing her by mere inches. The daemon turned towards her and swung high. She couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough, and it caught her aether-endrin. Borri quickly pressed the release catch, and she fell to the ground, rolling away as the endrin exploded. The daemon reeled back, roaring with primeval fury. Borri curled into a ball as razor-sharp metal shards peppered the area, then pulled herself up and ran towards the altar, scooping up her abandoned aethermatic saw. Without the power from the aether-endrin, it was just a blade, but gripping it made her feel better.

As the daemon recovered, Borri took the chance to run towards Harek and his handful of remaining privateers.

‘How do we kill it?’ she asked, and Harek shook his head.

‘I don’t know,’ he said irritably. ‘We’re barely scratching it. Even the Stormcasts aren’t making a dent. The only thing that really hurt it was your endrin exploding.’

Borri looked up towards Mala, who was darting around in the air firing rivets at the daemon, the remaining two Prosecutors swooping about her, hurling their thunderous magical hammers.

‘I have an idea,’ Borri said. ‘But it’s desperate.’ She didn’t wait for Harek’s response, but turned and ran towards the daemon. It was distracted by the warriors in the air, so she aimed low, slicing across its leg with her saw as she passed. It looked down, and swung its axe towards the floor, but it was a slow and obvious blow, and Borri dodged it with ease.

‘Mala,’ she shouted, ‘come with me!’

Mala glanced over and flew down as the three Stormcast Eternals redoubled their efforts, hammers and arrows striking the daemon.

‘What’s happening?’ Mala asked.

‘We need to use your aether-endrin,’ Borri said. ‘Set it to overload, turn it into a bomb.’

Mala nodded and lowered herself to the ground. She released the aether-endrin and together they pulled it behind the much reduced line of arkanaut privateers.

‘Buy us some time,’ Mala said, and Harek nodded, ordering his remaining warriors forward to fire at the daemon with their arkanaut pistols.

Desperately, the pair of endrinriggers began to adjust the controls on the device, disabling venting valves and setting the power to beyond the safe maximum.

‘How do we get it over there?’ Mala asked.

‘I’m taking it. I’ll get up-close and make sure the daemon’s as near as possible when it detonates.’

‘How will you get away?’

Borri looked at her, and shook her head.

‘No!’ Mala said. ‘There has to be another way.’

Borri grabbed the aether-endrin, which was starting to emit a high-pitched whine, and ran towards the daemon, shouldering her way past Harek.

‘Watch what you’re… Wait, what are you doing?’ he asked.

‘She’s sacrificing herself to try and stop the damned thing,’ Mala said.

‘Stupid…’ Harek growled and started forward. He grabbed Borri’s shoulder and pulled her back. The aether-endrin fell from her arms and rolled towards the daemon.

‘I thought you’d be happy to see me gone,’ Borri said icily. ‘That’ll keep me out of your partnership.’ Harek glared at her, saying nothing.

‘We have to get the endrin to the daemon somehow,’ Borri said.

‘Allow me,’ came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Drakesbane scooping up the aether-endrin. ‘When I die,’ he said, ‘I will be reforged in Sigmaron. I will return, so my sacrifice will be little compared to yours.’ He nodded to the duardin and took to the air, flying directly into the daemon. The endrin detonated, and Borri shielded her eyes from the blast. For a moment, everything went silent, the explosion so loud that it drowned out all noise. Then she heard a scream of absolute rage. Looking up, she saw the daemon still standing. Its armour had been torn to ragged strips, and its unnatural flesh wasn’t much better, gaping holes revealing a brass mockery of a skeleton and thick cords of muscle where organs would be in a true living creature.

‘Get it!’ Harek bellowed, and all the duardin opened fire. The remaining Prosecutors did likewise. The daemon staggered forward under the onslaught, swinging its axe with wild abandon. Borri jumped back out of the way, but she saw that Harek wasn’t going to be so lucky. The axe swung towards him, and horror filled Borri at what was about to happen.

That horror turned to abject grief as Mala pushed her partner out of the way, and the axe hit her. Its preternaturally sharp edge cut through armour, sky-suit and flesh, and Mala fell, split nearly in two. From the angle at which she lay, and the way she twitched, Borri knew that there was no saving her. She screamed in pain and fury, and on the edge of her perception she heard Harek doing the same. Unthinking of the consequences, she advanced, just as a celestial hammer from a Prosecutor struck the daemon in the leg.

The daemon fell, and Borri raised her aethermatic saw to impale it. Beside her, Harek did the same with his cutter. Both blades were driven deep into the daemon’s chest as it fell onto them, and as they pierced what passed for its heart, it died.

Its bonds to reality cut, the daemon began to collapse in on itself, shrivelling into nothingness. Silence fell in the shrine. Borri turned to Harek, but he was already moving towards Mala. Towards what was no longer Mala.

He knelt beside her corpse and cradled it, great wracking sobs taking him. Borri knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away violently.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t you dare. She’s dead. My partner, the mother of my children, is dead, and it’s your fault.’

‘My…’ Borri didn’t know what to say. The venom in Harek’s voice shocked her. It was worse than it had been at the height of the daemonically induced rage.

‘Blowing the thing up was your plan. You did this. If you hadn’t, she’d still be alive.’

Borri found her voice, and her anger once more. ‘We’d all be dead. It was the only way to hurt it. It would have killed us all.’

‘I wish it had,’ said Harek bitterly. ‘At least then I wouldn’t have to live without Mala.’

He turned and walked away, leaving the body of his partner, Borri’s oldest and best friend, behind.

Borri remembered little of their return to the surface. The months that followed passed in a haze. True to his word, Ferram Drakesbane returned from beyond death, and he grieved with Borri and with Harek, though separately, for the arkanaut captain refused to be in Borri’s presence where it wasn’t entirely necessary.

Priests of Sigmar were brought from Azyr to cleanse the site of any lingering traces of the Khornate taint. With the foundations secure, construction of the Stormkeep continued. Borri buried herself in her work, crafting defences for the fortress that would keep it safe from the many threats that lurked in the Rusted Wastes.

As she worked, Borri considered her future. When this undertaking was complete, she decided, she would resign from the Endrineers. She would never again be able to walk the halls of the academy on Barak-Nar where she and Mala had learned their trade together without feeling the pain of loss. Her skills would be useful to any sky-vessel’s captain seeking crew, and in time she could advance through the ranks to captain her own ship, and maybe even command her own fleet as an arkanaut admiral. She could travel, see the realms.

Perhaps, in time, she would travel far enough to escape her grief.

About the Author

Graeme Lyon is the author of the Age of Sigmar novella Code of the Skies and the Space Marine Battles novella Armour of Faith. He has also written a host of Warhammer 40,000, Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer short stories including ‘The Carnac Campaign: Sky Hunter’, ‘Kor’sarro Khan: Huntmaster’, ‘Black Iron’, ‘The Eighth Victory’, ‘The Sacrifice’ and ‘Bride of Khaine’. He hails from East Kilbride in Scotland.

An extract from Overlords of the Iron Dragon.

The sorcerer’s face curled back in a leering rictus, exposing the blackened stumps of bone hidden behind his lips. There was something almost batrachian in his visage, bulbous eyes jutting from puffy folds of skin. Unlike the flesh around them, there was no softness in Khoram’s toadlike eyes, only a rapacious hunger as they stared both outwards and inwards.

Possibilities and potentialities, the twistings of doom and fate, the shadows of futures yet unmade. Scenes of glorious victory and visions of annihilating disaster, each waxing and waning like the falling sands of time. The ebb and flow of prophecy was unrelenting and unforgiving. The weak of mind were consumed by the ordeal of divining insight from the tide of omen and portent, driven mad by their inability to confine such knowledge into purely mundane perceptions. The weak of spirit lost themselves in the cosmic expanse of the infinite, flesh and soul obliterated as they surrendered to the cyclopean enormity where past and future united into a single moment that defied the mortal conceit of time. Humanity had been the first and least of the sacrifices Khoram had rendered to his black arts.

The sorcerer was a tall man, his body disfigured by the manifold blessings thrust upon him by his dread god. Grossly mutated, his robes and armour folded awkwardly about his frame. The side of his neck bulged with a hideous feathered growth, pushing his head down towards the opposite shoulder. One hand, the less malformed of his extremities, gripped a long staff. The other hand, ending in elongated, boneless digits, beckoned to the fist-sized sphere of glass that hovered around his head. At his summons, the sphere came to rest, floating just before his eyes.

Wind rippled the sorcerer’s robes, disturbing the feathers of the growth on his neck. The beast upon which he stood shuddered, shifting slightly as it adjusted its flight through the darkling skies, high above the bleak hills of Shadowfar. The sorcerer’s boots were gripped by hairy tendrils that emerged from the creature’s back, melded into its very substance. The flattened, ray-like daemon could no more divorce itself of its rider than it could shed its own organs. Its corporeal form had become subsumed by Khoram, existing as an extension of his own. Through the skies of Chamon it would carry him until such time as it was dismissed and its physical mass dissolved into vapour. There would always be another daemon ready to enter the Mortal Realms to replace it when the sorcerer was in need.

Khoram’s wormy fingers reached out and curled around the scintillating sphere, little ribbons of steam rising where his cobalt-hued skin rested against the glassy surface. Even flesh that had been transformed by the blessings of Mighty Tzeentch wasn’t immune to the corrosive touch of temporal abeyance.

‘Mighty is your power, oh Orb of Zobras,’ Khoram hissed to the gleaming sphere. ‘You are prophecy manifest. Prediction given physical form.’ He felt the heat in his fingers gradually lessen. The sorcerer thought of the great seer who had created the orb. ‘Zobras sacrificed much to achieve you,’ he told the relic. ‘At the height of his power he commanded daemons to forge you from the essence of time and dream. You are the pinnacle of his magic.’

The flattery spilled off Khoram’s tongue, tasting bitter in his mouth. By arduous rite and obscene ritual, the sphere had been soulbound to him, orbiting him like a captive star. To command the orb was never enough, however. It had to be appeased. Zobras had ignored the will of the relic he had created and in the end it had betrayed him when the armies of Chaos laid waste to his theocracy. The prophet’s ruin was a warning, a reminder to remain humble before the Dark Gods.

‘Reveal to me the path of things yet to become,’ Khoram enjoined the orb.

He stared into the sphere, peering into its thousands of facets. Each one bore its own story, its own interpretation of how the future would unfold. Trying to concentrate upon all of them would be futile, an effort that had driven lesser sorcerers mad. Khoram, however, had received one blessing from his god that made all the difference.

‘There! There!’ The words sounded from the feathered growth on Khoram’s neck. A tiny face peered out from the midst of the feathers, clusters of black eyes fixated upon the orb’s planes. ‘There!’ the homunculus repeated.

Khoram diverted his attention from the images his parasitic daemon had rejected. He depended upon the creature’s guidance to lead him to the most propitious of the visions. A connoisseur of lies, the tretchlet unerringly sniffed out the truth for its master.

The sorcerer’s eyes gleamed as his familiar drew his attention to the image playing out within one of the facets. The moment he focused upon the image and his mind digested the scene, the other surfaces around it changed. Now they exhibited a new array of futures, possibilities derived from the initial prediction. Again, Khoram felt the tretchlet guiding him to the most truthful of the prophecies. Mustering his resolve, he tore his gaze away from the orb. It was unwise to peer too far ahead at one time. Therein lay the route of obsession and the madness of infinity.

Looking away from the orb, Khoram gazed out across the cloud-swept skies. Ugly fogs of scintillating amber cascaded through the atmosphere, thrown aloft by the forests of spytepine that infested the hills far below. Buzzing swarms of tiny blot-midges flocked to the amber, greedily glutting themselves on the shimmering motes of hardened sap. Those that fed too lustily became weighted down by their feast, crashing onto the slopes below, their carcasses fertilising the very trees that provoked their downfall. The flux of Change in action, from benefactor to exploiter, from predator to prey. The role played one moment was but a mask that could swiftly be torn away, either by expedience or by the whims of fate.

Khoram’s left hand closed tighter about the whorled runestaff he held. Glancing down at the daemon upon which he stood, the sorcerer drove the spiked butt of the implement into one of the scarred grooves that circled the creature’s forward edge. The disc-shaped thing snarled in irritation as the goad jabbed at it. Wormy tendrils tried to writhe up from underneath the daemon’s body, but their reach was incapable of threatening the mortal on its back. The creature let out another snarl, the shudder of its annoyance shivering through its substance up into Khoram’s feet. The circular daemon floated upwards, racing towards the height to which its master directed it.

The roar of battle crashed upon the sorcerer’s ears. The skies below him were filled with conflict. Savage warriors draped in kilts of sapphire and malachite soared through the air on daemonic chargers similar to the one Khoram rode. Fiery chariots harnessed to still larger daemons careened across the atmosphere, trailing plumes of smoke and flame in their wake. Bird-faced half-men glided about the fray, borne aloft upon shrieking daemon-steeds and loosing arrows of bone from bows cut from the tendons of gargants.

The warhost of men and monsters spiralled around a clutch of fantastical craft. Great ships soared over Shadowfar, supported by metal cupolas suspended above their decks. From prow and stern, each ship directed an array of weaponry against their tormentors. Beams of golden light streaked out at masked warriors, punching through their flesh as they solidified into bullets just before reaching their targets. Harpoons rocketed away from cylindrical launchers fixed to the decks, the spears impaling howling beastmen, leaving them dangling against the keel until the chains fitted to the projectile were reeled back in.

From the decks, from armoured baskets fastened to the cupolas and the sides of the hulls themselves, the crew of the sky-vessels directed a determined defence. Pistols belched shot into the very faces of the attackers, larger snub-nosed weapons spewed blasts that shredded the wings of beastmen and scoured the hides of daemons. Axes and pikes were employed to deadly effect, hacking through the beaked faces of the monstrous raiders or plucking warriors from the backs of their steeds to send them plummeting to the earth far below.

‘How unfit for the storm are our foes,’ Khoram mused, the tretchlet gibbering in agreement. The crews of the sky-vessels were utterly unlike their vicious foes. They were shorter and stockier, broadly and stolidly built. Most wore bulky armour of heavy metal plates, their faces locked inside helms with glowering masks and golden beards. ‘They lack the grace and agility of those born to the skies. Brutes of rock and stone that seek to conquer the tempest with their puerile inventions.’

The sorcerer shook his head. ‘The duardin are a meddlesome breed. Whatever the peculiarities of their creed they invariably demand great effort to dispose of. More effort than some are willing to expend.’

As the thought came to him, Khoram gazed back into the orb. Responding to his mind, the facets shimmered and displayed a new array of images. Each facet displayed the same Chaos warrior standing upon the back of a daemonic disc. He presented a gruesome aspect, his baroque armour still dripping with the sacrificial blood used to anoint it before the fighting. Dismembered fingers dipped in wax were plastered about his gorget like hideous candles. Veiled by the smoke rising from the smouldering fingers his horned helm was an indistinct suggestion of shape and motion. Only the nine eyes that stared from the jumble of visors scattered across the helm’s face exhibited any clarity, shining through the smoke like angry embers.

‘Tamuzz is in a particularly wrathful humour,’ Khoram told his homunculus.

As he watched, an armoured duardin defending the bow of one of the ships jabbed at the warlord’s daemon-steed with a pike, ripping into its mottled hide. Tamuzz brought the fiery blade of the glaive he bore crunching down into the duardin’s head. Even as the enchanted blade bit through iron helm and bony skull Tamuzz pressed the attack, not relenting until he had cleft the enemy from pate to palate.

‘Losing so many of his followers in the fighting has upset him,’ Khoram stated. ‘For all the blessings Mighty Tzeentch has seen fit to bestow on him, Tamuzz still reckons power in tired old conceits of mortal rule and domination.’

Seen in the facets of the orb, Tamuzz ripped his glaive free and sent the body of the slaughtered duardin hurtling over the side of the ship. The warlord sought another foe, but even as he did Khoram sent a tendril of magic rippling through the orb to reach into Tamuzz’s mind. ‘Come to me,’ Khoram hissed, his homunculus echoing the words in a greasy titter. ‘Come to me.’ He was careful to invest the summons with more suggestion than command. Too overt a touch would rouse Tamuzz’s resistance and Khoram knew from past experience that the warlord’s will was strong enough to defy his magic if he was aware of its influence. ‘Set the thought in his head, let Tamuzz think it is of his own volition and there is little he will not do,’ Khoram boasted to his tretchlet. The daemonic parasite whined, reminding his master that his boast wasn’t entirely true.

The dark spectre of the warlord came speeding away from the battle, a thin slick of ichor seeping from the injured daemon that supported him, leaving a greasy smear in his wake.

‘My slaves perish, curseling,’ Tamuzz hissed at Khoram as he soared towards the sorcerer.

‘Mighty Tzeentch demands payment,’ Khoram replied. ‘The Changer does not favour slaves…’

Tamuzz shook the massive glaive he bore, the arcane energies bound within it causing a flicker of power to coruscate along the blade. ‘Spare me your philosophy. You promised me the sky-vessels. Bring them down.’

Khoram cocked his head to one side, staring past Tamuzz to watch the battle over the warlord’s shoulder. He saw one of the warlord’s adepts pitch from the back of his daemon-steed when a duardin shot him in the face. ‘They will fall,’ Khoram said. ‘But they will fall when it is propitious to a greater purpose. The purpose to which we both strive.’

The flash of arcane energy faded from the warlord’s glaive. The smouldering eyes lost their lustre, almost seeming to pull the veiling smoke tighter around them. ‘I have not forgotten,’ Tamuzz replied.

‘Then let us do what is needed of us,’ Khoram said. He waved his snaky fingers away towards the horizon. ‘We must harry them still further away from Shadowfar. The next valley. That is where their doom will come.’ The sorcerer nodded at the orb circling him. ‘Such is the prophecy that guides us.’

‘I will lose more warriors,’ Tamuzz objected, some of the edge creeping back into his tone.

‘You will gain more, glorious Tamuzz,’ Khoram insisted. ‘Through me, you will be at the right hand of Power.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in the Age of Sigmar anthology Oaths & Conquests in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Dave Gallagher.

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