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Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library

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

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

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

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

WARCRY
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

GODS & MORTALS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

MYTHS & REVENANTS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

Novels

• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
Josh Reynolds

Book One: HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
Book Two: HALLOWED KNIGHTS: BLACK PYRAMID

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

GLOOMSPITE
Andy Clark

GHOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES
David Annandale

Novellas

CITY OF SECRETS
Nick Horth

THIEVES’ PARADISE
Nick Horth

CODE OF THE SKIES
Graeme Lyon

THE MEASURE OF IRON
Jamie Crisalli

Audio Dramas

• REALMSLAYER: A GOTREK GURNISSON SERIES •
David Guymer
Boxed Set One: REALMSLAYER
Boxed Set Two: REALMSLAYER: BLOOD OF THE OLD WORLD

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

WAR-CLAW
Josh Reynolds

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS
Nick Kyme

THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES
Various authors

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Myths & Revenants’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

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

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

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

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

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Chapter One

The Champion of Khorne towered over Orrum Steelfist.

He was the last of his kind alive in the vaulted treasury, buried deep beneath the vast edifice of the Thrice-Forged Fastness. Orrum and her fellow Kharadron Overlords had been hard-pressed to defeat his fellow warriors, each of them huge and heavily armoured brutes armed with sharp axes and supernatural speed and skill.

This remaining figure was even larger than the others, his armour more ornate, his face bare and his features warped and mutated by the corruptions of Chaos. Short horns sprouted from his forehead, and in place of axe and shield he carried a two-handed sword which seemed to writhe in his grasp. On its long blade, leering daemonic faces moved and shifted, and Orrum thought she could hear them whispering in low and sinister voices.

The champion hadn’t moved while his underlings were fighting the duardin. Orrum knew little about the ways of Chaos worshippers, but she supposed he’d been letting them live or die on their own merit. She wouldn’t expect honour or camaraderie among those who willingly sold their souls to dark powers.

Now, the warrior advanced and struck, quicksilver-fast, sword lashing out to drive through an arkanaut’s armour, spilling guts onto the stone floor. As if impelled into action by this death, the rest of the duardin began to move, slipping into formation as they’d been drilled to do. Pistols fired, bullets driving holes into skull-encrusted armour. Spurting black blood slowed to nothing as the wounds healed infernally quickly. Arkanaut cutters lashed out, parried by the daemonic blade before return strokes took heads from shoulders or sliced grievous wounds through armour and flesh.

Orrum fought alongside two warriors from a different arkanaut company, her training kicking in and allowing her to act as part of a unit with them, keeping pressure on the champion, forcing him back a step even as another pair of Kharadrons came at him from a different angle. He turned and bisected one of the duo, kicking out at the other and pushing him back, before turning almost elegantly. He brought the heavy sword into a low sweep that made Orrum throw herself backwards, dropping her cutter. One of her companions wasn’t as quick, and was slain. The other roared in fury and pressed his attack, a quick swipe breaking the champion’s armour just below his knee, before he too was cut down.

The champion’s attention turned to others, and Orrum reached for her cutter, fingers closing around it as she pulled herself back to her feet. She drew her pistol as the champion swung around again. The Chaos worshipper’s eyes shone a daemonic red, and he raised his sword to strike. Rather than pull back, or try to parry with her cutter, Orrum ran forwards, cocking the pistol as the sword came down. It hit her right shoulder, slicing neatly through armour and flesh, and grinding against bone. Her arm spasmed and she dropped her cutter, biting down the agony and focusing on her chance.

‘Take this, daemon-spawn,’ she muttered, and thrust her pistol into the crack opened by her fellow privateer’s last blow. She fired, and the champion fell to one knee. Orrum stumbled away, looking again for her cutter, or any weapon she could take up to defend herself against the furious assault that was sure to follow.

‘It’s all right, lass. You’ve done your part. Let me finish this varrkhulg off,’ said a voice beside her. Orrum looked up to see a duardin standing over her. The newcomer wore armour more ornate than Orrum and her fellow privateers. Cast in gleaming gold and bronze, the plate covered more of the Kharadron’s rubberised sky-suit than any other that Orrum had seen. On its back was an immense power pack, wheezing pipes connecting to an enormous hammer in one hand. She glanced at the warrior’s helmet. Rather than a snarling, bearded visage, representing the warrior-ancestors of the Kharadron, the face was beardless and placid, modelled after Valaya, the ancestor of hearth and home, but with crossed axes emblazoned upon both bronze cheeks. This could only be Admiral Borri Kraglan, leader of their expedition. Orrum didn’t serve on the admiral’s vessel, and had signed on with the Broken Blades privateer company without ever meeting her ultimate commander.

The admiral gripped her skalfhammer in both hands and nodded.

‘Admiral,’ Orrum said, but Kraglan was already moving.

‘Are you the blood-drinking daemon-fondler who runs this place?’ the admiral shouted at the champion. ‘I’ve been looking for you, and you were hiding down here?’

The champion’s mouth opened, but no reply issued. Looking up, Orrum could see that the Chaos warrior’s tongue was missing.

‘Nothing to say, eh?’ Kraglan said. ‘Maybe I’ll find your tongue in the same place I’m going to stick my hammer.’

The Chaos worshipper charged, raining blows down on Kraglan. The admiral parried them all, standing firm in the face of the blood-soaked rage.

‘Is that the best you’ve got?’ she mocked. ‘My grandmother hits harder than that, and she’s been dead half a century. Even your half-naked boys upstairs gave me more of a challenge than this.’

Kraglan ducked beneath a scything blow and swung her skalfhammer at the champion’s wounded leg, dropping him to one knee again. ‘Your big beastie of a god, fond of blood, isn’t he? Well, you’ve got plenty.’ She raised the hammer, activated the drill which adorned one side of the finely crafted head, and brought it down on the champion’s skull. It burst open, showering the admiral, Orrum and most of the room with blood, brain matter and chips of bone.

Kraglan turned off the drill, dropped the hammer and turned to Orrum. ‘Now we’re going to have to clean this one’s blood off the loot. Didn’t think that one through.’

Orrum pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the pain radiating from her wounded shoulder, and looked around at the carnage. Dozens of duardin were dead or badly wounded. But the treasure…

‘What’s your name, lass?’ Kraglan asked.

‘Orrum Steelfist.’

‘Steelfist? You’re…’

‘Yes, admiral. Harek Steelfist’s daughter.’

‘Oh, aye. Your father and I go way back. I’m surprised he let you sign on with me, to be honest. We don’t quite see eye to eye. Not for a long time now.’

‘He… wasn’t pleased, admiral.’

‘I’m sure he will be when I tell him what you did here, Orrum Steelfist.’ The admiral placed a hand on Orrum’s unhurt shoulder. ‘You were a hero today, lass. And you’ll be getting an extra share of the loot for it, as the Kharadron Code demands. Speaking of which, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?’

Kraglan turned away and started to pace around the vaulted chamber, examining the piles of gold and artefacts that sat against skull-encrusted walls, wiping gore from them as she lifted them. She muttered to herself, pulling items from heaps and setting them to one side or tossing them away to roll across the floor and rest in pools of blood. She looked over her shoulder.

‘Orrum, have a look through. You’re getting first pick here. Make the most of it.’

Orrum stepped towards a large chest in the chamber’s corner, far from the shower of viscera, and started to root through it. It was one of many in the immense space, haphazardly dumped among the towering piles of gold that reached far up towards the vaulted ceiling, whose panels showed scenes of vile, murderous deeds that made Orrum’s stomach turn. The chest contained coins from a variety of long-extinct empires. They would end up melted down and used for other purposes, the worth of the raw metal greater than their historical value. She turned her attention to the more esoteric items, which included weapons, shields and suits of armour built for beings of various shapes and sizes. There was jewellery galore, rings and necklaces and bracelets set with all manner of precious stones. She set some aside. They could be useful in future, if she chose to court a companion.

Other Kharadrons were arriving now and the chamber was becoming full of activity. Some were helping the wounded, others gathering the bodies of the slain, and more than a few were looting the vault. Orrum felt she should be making herself useful, but in the absence of orders, she continued to rummage through the treasure as the admiral had commanded.

She opened a chest which was full of gems of different hues and cuts. She lifted one of them, an emerald roughly the size of her fist, and winced as the wound to her shoulder ached with the effort. The pain was swiftly forgotten as something else caught her eye. Away from the iridescent gleam of the gemstones, there was something in the chest of dull brass. Curious, she tossed away the gem, then reached in and grabbed it, pulling it out and holding it up to examine, ignoring the ache in her shoulder. It was head-sized, perfectly spherical and marked with runes that were clearly duardin in origin.

‘What is that?’

Orrum turned and snapped a salute to Admiral Kraglan, whose gaze was fixed on the brass sphere.

‘I found it in a chest, admiral. It’s duardin, but I don’t know what it might be.’

‘May I see it?’

Orrum handed it over, and the admiral examined it, turning it over in her hands. The magnascope that covered the left eye lens on her helmet whirred and clicked as it focused on the markings. Kraglan was muttering to herself, Orrum realised. Clearly she saw significance in this find. Eventually, the admiral tore her gaze from the sphere and back to Orrum.

‘Do you, Orrum Steelfist, wish to claim this artefact as part of your share of the salvage under the various precepts and tenets of the Kharadron Code?’ The language was formal, and Orrum realised that something was happening here that she might not fully understand. She paused, hesitating.

‘Say yes, lass,’ Kraglan urged. ‘It’ll go well for you.’

‘Yes, admiral, I hereby claim this item.’

Kraglan nodded slowly. Behind her, other Kharadrons had stopped what they were doing, and were watching the traditional negotiation unfold.

‘Under the artycles and codicils of the Kharadron Code, I, as is my right as admiral and commander of this expedition, override your claim and take this item as my own. In compensation, you shall receive…’ She paused, as if calculating. The code gave an admiral considerable leeway in situations like this to determine exactly what an act of valour or sacrifice was worth, and how to compensate stakeholders for seized items. ‘Four additional shares over and above that to which you were already entitled. Do you wish to challenge this counterclaim?’

Orrum was staggered. She wasn’t the only one, judging by the gasps from some of the duardin around. Four additional shares would see her wealthier than any privateer could hope to expect from their first raid. Whatever this sphere was, the admiral wanted it badly. She swallowed, and considered challenging, but thought better of it. Whatever use Kraglan had for the artefact, Orrum could definitely find more use for a mighty haul of treasure. She shook her head.

‘No, admiral. I renounce my claim to the artefact, and accept your generous offer of compensation.’ Her voice caught on the word generous, and she thought she saw Kraglan nod slightly as it did. Around them, there was a susurrus of voices as the gathered Kharadrons joined Orrum in wondering why this unassuming brass sphere was of such value to their admiral.

‘Then our negotiations conclude, Orrum Steelfist. Honour to you and your family.’ Kraglan bowed.

‘And to yours, admiral,’ said Orrum, bowing back, once again trying hard to ignore the pain in her shoulder.

‘Thank you, lass,’ said Kraglan, lowering her voice and gripping Orrum’s arm. ‘I won’t forget this. And if this wee sphere is what I think, and does what I reckon it can do, there might be an even bigger prize in it for you… if I can count on you to join me, come what may.’

Orrum sensed there was more to this moment than there seemed. It felt like what she said here would determine the course of her future, and lead her down paths she could not yet foresee, and into danger she could scarce imagine. And yet, there was only one answer she could give.

‘You have my oath, admiral.’

Kraglan’s grip tightened for a moment, then she let go.

‘You need that shoulder seen to, lass.’ She turned to her second-in-command, Zaff Norgrim, captain of the fleet’s flagship, who was organising a group of sawbones nearby. ‘Zaff, get young Steelfist’s wound patched up, and get to sorting out exactly how much of this her extra shares will come to. There’s more than enough here to cover it. And Orrum here has earned it.’

She stomped off, leaving Orrum wondering once more exactly what that sphere was – or what it contained – that made it more valuable to Borri Kraglan than a vault full of treasure. The answer, she was sure, would be interesting indeed.

Chapter Two

Zaff Norgrim, captain of the Fearless Undertaking, always enjoyed coming home. The sight of Barak-Nar growing closer and closer filled him with contentment. As much as he loved the life of a sky-captain, at home with his family was where he felt happiest. It was a shame, he considered, that the admiral couldn’t say the same.

Some Kharadron lived for their families, treating their raids and expeditions as a job. For some, plying their trade across the skies of the Mortal Realms was their life. Kraglan was one of the latter. Upon her return to Barak-Nar after any mission, no matter how successful or what wealth she returned with, she would soon be itching to go out on another. A few nights in one of the many fine hostelries that Barak-Nar offered would slake her thirst for comfort – and for ale of higher quality than shipboard barrels usually contained – and she would be planning her next expedition. This time would likely be no different. Except…

Zaff looked over to where the admiral stood at the ironclad’s prow, looking out towards the docks of Barak-Nar. She had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the long journey home. A mission of such success – and this one had been spectacular, filling the hold of every ship in the fleet with treasure – would normally see Kraglan in high spirits, laughing and joking with the crew, breaking out the ale for elaborate toasts and patiently taking petitions for particular items from gathered treasure to satisfy the shares of the crew. This time, she seemed lost.

In her hands, Kraglan held a brass sphere. It was one of the items retrieved from the vault beneath the Dreadhold, and the admiral hadn’t let it out of her sight for so much as a moment since returning to the Fearless Undertaking. Zaff didn’t know what it was – his enquiries had gone unanswered, Kraglan just grunting and turning back to the sphere.

Zaff sighed heavily and headed towards the admiral, making his way around the volley cannon emplacement on the foredeck, currently deactivated and devoid of a gunner. No need for active weapons when Barak-Nar was so close.

‘An inspiring view, isn’t it?’ he said after politely clearing his throat to alert the admiral to his passing. ‘I never tire of it.’

Kraglan turned towards him for a moment, then looked back out at the vista. Zaff leaned against the railing next to her and waited, taking in the sight. The sky-port was far enough away that he could see it all, an immense structure of interconnected platforms, domes and docks stretching across a wider area than any city on land, save perhaps the Eternal City in High Azyr. Behind it, twin suns were setting, one a bright gold, the other shining like bronze. Their dimming light shone across the metals of the sky-port, casting long shadows where it hit the higher peaks and turning the whole thing into a work of art worthy of the great duardin masters of old. In a while, they would be replaced by the silvered moon, reflecting the light of the Celestial Realm.

‘Aye,’ said Kraglan at length. ‘She’s a wonder of the realms. They all are. Zilfin, Zon, Thryng, Urbaz, Mhornar. I’ve visited them all, you know.’ She laughed hollowly. ‘Even Barak-Zhaffar, before the cursed grobi took it as their own.’ There was a long silence before she continued. ‘Do you ever think about the lost sky-ports? Zhaffar and the others. Barak-Zhoff…’

Zaff frowned. ‘I prefer to focus on things I can actually do, admiral,’ he said. ‘Killing the enemies in front of me, keeping my family safe, making sure you don’t get yourself killed when you jump into danger head first.’

Kraglan laughed again. ‘Aye, well, I keep you busy right enough, lad. But still. Barak-Zhoff. Think about it, Zaff. Somewhere out there is a sky-port, the equal of this gem before us, lost in the darkness. Tens of thousands of our people, cut off. Imagine it was Barak-Nar. Imagine it was your family, your friends. You’d stop at nothing to find it, wouldn’t you? Follow every lead, use every resource, every clue.’

She held up the brass sphere.

‘Every clue,’ she repeated. ‘No matter where you found it. When we get to the dock, I’m going to need you, Zaff. I need to meet the Admirals Council, and I want you by my side.’

Zaff started to ask why, but Kraglan cut him off.

‘It’s big, my friend. Maybe the biggest thing either of us will ever do. It’s also a huge risk, and I know my reputation. I’m a maverick, always ready to flout the code. You, on the other hand, are solid, Zaff. I need that. I need you in my corner. Tell me you’re with me.’

Zaff turned and looked at the admiral, studying her face. He saw determination, resolve and courage. All the things he admired in the duardin. But there was something else in Kraglan’s eyes, something new and different. Something disturbing. Something that Zaff had a horrible feeling he’d need to protect his old friend from. Slowly, he nodded.

‘Aye, admiral. Whatever you need, I’m with you.’

For better or worse, he added silently.

Harek Steelfist stood on a balcony high above the western docks of Barak-Nar and watched the sky-vessels arrive. He counted each of the ships that docked, checking them off against his mental list of the ones that had left in Kraglan’s expedition. All were back. That was a good sign.

Worry like this was a new sensation for Harek. His only daughter’s first mission as an arkanaut privateer. Her first time in combat. The first time that she might not return to Barak-Nar. He had always worried about Orrum. That, it seemed, was a father’s lot. It had never been like this before.

There was the guilt too, after… Well. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind and looked down at the docks, bustling with activity. He was too high to make out individual duardin, seeing instead a blur of shapes and colours. He slumped against the rail and just watched, silently praying to the ancestors, to Sigmar, to anyone who would listen, that Orrum had returned.

‘Harek.’

The voice from behind him broke his reverie. He had been so lost in his thoughts and prayers that he’d missed their approach. But he knew the voice. Fear flooded him. He turned slowly to see Borri Kraglan, out of her bulky environment suit, clad in simple leathers, her expression unreadable.

‘Borri,’ he said, his voice little more than a dry croak. ‘Orrum. Is she…?’

‘Your lass is fine,’ Kraglan said, and Harek heard nothing more for a moment as the blood that seemed to have stopped flowing in that moment of doubt rushed through him. He slumped back against the balcony railing, more relieved than he thought possible.

Kraglan stepped towards him and put a hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right, Harek?’

‘Yes, I… When I saw you, I thought you’d come to tell me she didn’t make it back.’

‘No. No, not at all. Quite the opposite. She was a hero, Harek. She did you proud. She did herself proud. Took on the master of that place and not only survived, but did him a nasty mischief. Helped me to take the bakraz down.’

‘Was she injured?’

‘Her shoulder. Nothing permanent. It’ll be right as aether in no time.’

‘I was so worried about her. I’ve barely thought of anything else. Especially after what I said when she left. I…’ He trailed off.

‘You didn’t want her signing on with reckless old Borri Kraglan, and said some unkind thing? It’s all right, Harek. I understand. If I had a child, I’d probably want them to be under an admiral with a reputation for playing it safer than I do.’

‘It’s not your reputation that’s the problem, Kraglan. It never was. I’ve seen first-hand the damage your recklessness can do. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you.’ He glowered at Kraglan, memories of a long-ago expedition into darkness beneath the Rusted Wastes flooding his mind.

Kraglan sighed. ‘I remember, Harek. And you know that was… There were other forces at work. And if I could go back and change it…’

‘You can’t. And when you go off the rails, it never seems to be you who pays the price. I know that better than anyone.’ He sighed heavily, and let the anger slip away. ‘That said, I’m glad you brought Orrum back in one piece. And I hope you’ll encourage her to sign on with another admiral next time.’

Kraglan shifted uncomfortably, and Harek felt a sudden suspicion that there was more to his daughter’s part in the expedition than he was being told.

‘What is it, Borri?’

‘Orrum swore an oath, Harek. To join me in what happens if… Well. That’s the other thing I need to talk to you about…’ Kraglan continued talking, but Harek took none of it in. His daughter had sworn an oath. A sacred bond. Like any Kharadron, Orrum’s word was iron. She was bound to Kraglan now. Fury flooded him, and he turned and punched the rail. That fury quickly turned to pain as the rail failed to give way to his hand.

‘Harek, are you–’ Borri asked, astonishment in her voice.

Harek turned back and, struggling to control his anger, interrupted. ‘You let my daughter, my only remaining child, swear an oath to follow you? I would be well within my rights to declare a grudge against you for this, Kraglan. After all the harm you’ve caused my family…’

Kraglan looked abashed. ‘I… I didn’t think, Harek. She fought well, and she found the sphere. I was impressed with her, and wanted her to know it. I won’t hold her to the oath unless she wishes it. I will release her from it, no consequences.’

Harek eyed Kraglan for a long moment. ‘That is acceptable,’ he said at last, then added a grudging ‘Thank you.’ He thought for a moment about what Kraglan had just said, and realised there was a word that stood out. ‘What sphere?’

‘That’s what I was just saying, Harek. I’m here because I need to see the council. As soon as possible. Your lass found something. Something duardin and old. Something I think could be important.’

‘The council isn’t due to meet for another moons-cycle, Kraglan. Can your business wait?’

‘No. I think they’ll want to see this. It could answer a question we’ve had for a long time.’

‘What question?’

‘Barak-Zhoff.’

Harek was startled. He had not expected that. The mystery of Barak-Zhoff was one that had preoccupied the minds of the council for as long as he had sat on it, and longer still. In the distant past, it had been one of the greatest and most influential of the sky-ports, second only to Barak-Nar itself, some said. Until it had vanished. All contact had been lost, and expeditions sent to the last location Barak-Zhoff had been known to occupy had been for naught.

Harek knew a little more than most about the measures that had been taken to try and locate the missing sky-port. The Geldraad, the highest ruling body of Kharadron society, had been convened to address the loss, Barak-Zhoff’s seats being taken by the next-wealthiest sky-port. Barak-Thryng had been admitted to the body with a single delegate to maintain the balance of six represented ports.

They had agreed unanimously to approach as many allies and potential allies as they could for aid, and fleets had been sent to all corners of the realms.

In Aqshy, fyreslayer lodges had been gifted with a thane’s ransom in ur-gold to commune with their sacred flames and seek Grimnir’s wisdom, to no avail.

Envoys to the forests of Ghyran had been turned away by stern forest-spirits, whose menacing words had assured them that the Everqueen could not aid them, even had her mercurial spirit driven her to.

The servants of Malerion, shadow monarch of Ulgu, had seemed willing to help, but their concern had fled like a shadow before light. None among the Kharadron knew what poison had been whispered behind the scenes, but their demeanour altered overnight, and they bade the Kharadron leave with no further help.

Less help still came from those who represented Tyrion and Teclis, twin gods of Hysh. The disappearance, they said, was part of a divine plan beyond the ken of mortal and god alike, and all would be revealed when fate decreed.

The expedition sent to parley with the Mortarchs of dread Nagash never returned.

More hope came later, when Sigmar’s storm broke and the Stormcast Eternals waged the Realmgate Wars, pushing back the forces of Chaos across the realms. When the opportunity arose, an envoy was sent to Sigmar himself, travelling to Azyr through Realmgates opened for the first time in centuries. Those privileged to join the party reported that the God-King had been sympathetic, but had said that Barak-Zhoff had passed beyond sight of the heavens. That, the Geldraad had concluded, was that. The sky-port was declared lost with all hands.

‘Barak-Zhoff? You can’t be serious, Kraglan,’ Harek exclaimed. ‘It’s gone. Even those who once called it home have accepted that.’

‘Imagine it were Barak-Nar, Harek. We’d take any chance, follow any lead, wouldn’t we? Just convene the council. I’ll convince them. And you. I promise.’

Harek looked Kraglan in the eye. She seemed sincere. But he was wary. He had learned long ago to always be wary of Borri Kraglan. They’d known each other for a long time, and Borri had always been the ambitious one. Concerned with leaving a legacy, but too damned headstrong to realise that the best way to do so was to be slow and steady. That’s why Harek was on the Admirals Council now, and Borri never would be. Whatever she had planned with this sphere, the council needed to know. Needed to stop her if necessary.

‘Fine. I’ll do this for you, as you’re releasing my daughter from her foolish oath. But if you don’t convince me that what you’ve found is airtight, there will be consequences. I promise you that.’

‘I promise you, Harek,’ said Kraglan earnestly, ‘I won’t let you down. Not again.’

The antechamber to the Admirals Council was as much a museum to Barak-Nar’s glories as it was a waiting room for those seeking an audience with the council. It was a vast circular room at the top of a high tower, as far above the sky-port’s docks as the throne rooms of ancient duardin kings had been below the highest entrances to their mountain holds. Great windows looked down upon the bustling port, and walking the perimeter, Borri and Zaff were able to see every corner of their home.

The artefacts and exhibits that occupied the space were of even more interest. A frieze around the inner wall, which enclosed the audience chamber, told the history of the City of the First Sunrise, from its founding through its greatest battles. Statues of prominent heroes of the sky-port were dotted around, each with a plaque detailing the acts that saw them commemorated here. Then there were the more esoteric exhibits. The endrin of the first sky-vessel to journey from Barak-Nar to High Azyr and return. The treaty between the port and the fyreslayers of Karak-Krayt, the stone tablet cracked down the middle after the alliance had broken down and the Grimnir worshippers fought against the Kharadron Overlords for a payment of ur-gold from their foes. A prototype for what had eventually become the aethermatic volley guns used on sky-vessels and by privateers across every sky-port.

Borri had walked this chamber countless times, knew every exhibit, from the case of toys designed for beardlings to the display of aelven helmets taken as trophies in a long-ago war. She could close her eyes and recite from memory the words on each plaque. Yet every time she paced this floor, her heart raced as she contemplated the majesty of Barak-Nar, its legacy of innovation, exploration and heroism. She stopped by what was purported to be the first chart ever made showing the aether-currents around the core of the Chamon realmsphere and considered what she was here for. The device she carried, the one the younger Steelfist had found in the Dreadhold, could be as important as anything in these displays. Indeed, if she was right, it might even see her legacy remembered here among the greatest of Barak-Nar’s scions. The thought was intoxicating.

There was a low rumbling as the aether-automated doors to the council chamber ground open. An elderly duardin emerged, his long white beard sweeping the floor as he moved towards Borri. The long staff he carried knocked the ground rhythmically as he walked.

‘The admirals will see you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Their time is limited, and your insistence upon urgency was not well taken. I suggest you state your case with brevity, Admiral Kraglan.’

Borri thanked the steward and, motioning to Zaff to follow, stepped inside.

The council chamber itself was small, its circular area dominated by a table in the shape of a half-circle. Five Kharadrons sat at the table, evenly spaced along its curved length. They were the Admirals Council of Barak-Nar, the five who managed all commerce in the sky-port, approved raids and expeditions, managed disputes and, when the Kharadron Code was broken, dispensed punishment.

Borri took her place in the centre of the room and looked around at the five. She knew them all, to one degree or another. At the far left was Steelfist. The most recent addition to the council, he was also the one of them Borri knew best, though given their past, whether that was a good or bad thing was debatable.

Next to him sat Grakki Greybeard. The eldest member of the council, he was also, surprisingly, the least conservative. It was he, across his centuries on the council, who had strongly pushed the innovation and experimentation for which Barak-Nar had become rightly famous.

In the centre was Bran Torgsson, nominal first among equals on the council. If Greybeard was an iconoclast, then Torgsson was a staunch traditionalist. A believer in the old duardin ways, his default stance was to take the lessons learned over countless generations and apply them to modern life with as few changes as possible. He and Greybeard were considered the far extremes of the council, their three fellow admirals all landing somewhere between the two on most issues.

Next was Draff Krugman. A generally moderate voice, as well as the youngest admiral to take a seat on the council, he was the member Borri knew least. Beside him sat Fargrim Stoutheart, the only member of the council in Barak-Nar’s history not to be born on the sky-port. He was rich enough for that not to matter. He was also, Borri hoped, going to be able to bring his wealth and influence to bear on the matter at hand – especially as he hailed originally from Barak-Zhoff. That might just make all the difference.

Each of the councillors wore robes of office, the colours, cut and design of their garments reflecting the duties and responsibilities each held in ensuring that life on Barak-Nar functioned smoothly. The council met at regular intervals, and these duties kept each of them busy most of the rest of the time. This additional session would not necessarily be welcomed – any disruption to the routines of the councillors risked disrupting the sky-port itself.

Zaff stepped into the chamber behind Borri, and stood to one side of the doorway. The elderly steward entered, closed the doors and banged his staff three times against the floor.

‘Admirals of the Council of Barak-Nar, I present Admiral Borri Kraglan,’ he said.

Borri bowed low and faced Torgsson, who nodded.

‘Admiral Kraglan,’ the councillor said, ‘you return with much to add to your vaults, and the sky-port’s. This council commends you on another successful expedition.’

‘The council commends you,’ repeated each of the councillors, though Steelfist was noticeably slower to do so than the others, his expression dark.

‘Harek Steelfist tells us you have urgent business with the council,’ said Greybeard, leaning forwards as if to get a closer look at Borri. ‘And that you were loath to tell him why, save that it concerns an artefact and Barak-Zhoff. Do you feel like enlightening us now?’

‘Admirals, I apologise for my conduct, but I trust you’ll understand when I show you this.’ Borri brought forth the brass sphere and held it towards them.

A moment passed, silent.

‘I’m no nearer to understanding,’ said Stoutheart. ‘What is it?’

‘Permission to step forward?’ Borri asked, receiving a nod in return.

She placed the artefact on the table in front of Torgsson. It sat there, perfectly balanced in strange defiance of gravity, despite appearing to be perfectly spherical.

‘Hmm, a clever trick,’ said Torgsson. ‘But I assume there’s more to it?’

‘There is, admiral. Take a closer look at the markings on the device.’

Torgsson raised a bushy black eyebrow at Borri’s use of the word ‘device’, and picked it up, turning it over and examining the runic script across it.

‘You found this in the Thrice-Forged Fastness?’ he asked.

‘I did.’

Torgsson passed the sphere to Greybeard, who likewise examined it, before handing it to Steelfist. He and Torgsson exchanged a look, and Borri smiled to herself, glad their interest had clearly been piqued. After each of the admirals had examined the artefact and it sat in front of Torgsson once more, the lead admiral spoke.

‘We are all agreed that the runes bear resemblance to those designating each major Kharadron sky-port?’

‘Aye,’ said Stoutheart. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind. And it’s not new. Those are an archaic form of runic script. I recognise it from some of the ancient writings. It even has the rune for Barak-Zhoff.’ His voice grew thicker as he said the name of his home.

‘Definitely interesting,’ said Krugman. ‘But I don’t see that it’s any more than a curio.’

Borri cleared her throat. ‘I had plenty of time to study it on my journey home. It has a few hidden secrets.’

She reached forwards and pushed down on the top of the sphere. After several seconds, there was a click, and cracks began to appear in the brass surface. They spread down the sphere, evenly spaced along its circumference, and each of the newly revealed segments folded out. More sections slid and folded out from these, joining the whole device back up into a circle around a foot in diameter. Finally, sections of the surface began to rise, forming what was clearly a map. In its centre was a triangular gap, each edge of the triangle measuring a little over an inch.

‘Is that…?’ breathed Krugman, his voice tinged with disbelief.

‘The Chamon realmsphere,’ finished Steelfist. ‘This is incredible endrineering!’

‘It is,’ said Greybeard, ‘but there’s more, isn’t there, Kraglan?’

‘There is. You’ve noticed, I’m sure, the gap in the centre.’

Torgsson sat back and gave Borri an appraising glance that made her sure the prime admiral knew what was coming next. She took a deep breath. This next part was a gamble.

‘I think that it’s designed to fit another artefact. Something that will reveal another layer of secrets.’

‘And do you have any idea where we could find this missing piece?’ asked Stoutheart.

Borri grinned widely, unable to conceal her glee, and pointed to the chamber’s entrance. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just outside those doors.’

The admirals all began to talk at once, until Torgsson raised a hand for silence. ‘Braga,’ he said, addressing the steward who stood beside the door, though his eyes remained fixed on Borri. ‘Among the relics is a display of antique beardling toys. Among them you’ll find a small pyramid marked with runes. Bring it through, please.’

A tense silence fell as the steward complied. Borri looked towards Zaff, whose stony visage betrayed nothing of what he may be thinking or feeling. After a minute, Braga shuffled back in, clutching the small pyramid, which he passed to Torgsson.

The prime admiral turned it over in his hands, considering it.

‘This was long believed to be a plaything or learning tool for beardlings,’ he said. ‘It’s inscribed with runes on all four sides, in the same archaic version as Admiral Kraglan’s sphere. Three are base runes that define core tenets of what eventually became the Kharadron Code. The fourth is the runic form representing Barak-Nar.’ He looked around at the other admirals, who were paying him rapt attention. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’d quite like to see what happens when it’s placed in the map. I think the honour belongs to you, Kraglan.’

Borri stepped forwards and took the pyramid from the prime admiral. With a deep breath, she placed it into the centre of the map, the Barak-Nar rune facing down. After a few seconds, the map began to shift and change, sections rising and falling. The admirals leaned across the table to get a closer look.

‘Grungni’s beard!’ said Steelfist. ‘That’s the area around Barak-Nar.’

‘It is,’ said Greybeard. ‘But it’s rather more remarkable than that. It’s a perfect simulation of the area around us right now. An area we’ve only inhabited for a few decades. Which is but a fraction of the time the pyramid has sat in that display case outside.’

‘How is that possible?’ asked Krugman. ‘Is it somehow sensing where we are? Maybe by the aether-currents?’

‘It wouldn’t need the central artefact for that,’ mused Stoutheart. ‘This must be something else.’

‘It might be communicating with something here in Barak-Nar,’ Torgsson said. ‘There are secrets buried in the depths of this sky-hold that none of us know.’ He turned his attention back to Borri. ‘This is fascinating, Kraglan. I can see why you were keen to bring it to us. There are many ways we can use this to our advantage, I’m sure. You will be rewarded for bringing it to the council’s attention.’

‘With respect, prime admiral, that’s not why I’m here,’ said Borri. ‘I think this device has another application. I believe it can be used to find Barak-Zhoff.’

Chapter Three

Borri spread her arms, grinning at the stunned silence. Stoutheart was the first to recover, his eyes shining with hope.

‘You reckon there must be an artefact out there with Barak-Zhoff’s rune? And a matching whatever-it-is on the sky-port?’

‘Aye,’ said Borri. ‘I do.’

‘But the chances of finding that artefact are tiny!’ shouted Krugman. ‘For all we know, it’s sitting in a display on Barak-Zhoff, like ours was!’

‘Or in a beardling’s toybox, or a refuse pile in a grobi lair,’ added Steelfist.

‘And even if you did find it, we have no idea where Barak-Zhoff might be or what happened to it,’ Krugman continued. ‘To seek it out would be folly.’

‘That’s my home you’re talking about, Krugman,’ said Stoutheart in a low voice. ‘How would you feel if Barak-Nar was lost and we were discussing it?’

‘Exactly the same way. Some risks are too great, the potential rewards too uncertain.’

‘This reward is greater than perhaps any other,’ said Greybeard. ‘Is there any risk that would not be worth taking for it?’

‘You both make strong points.’ Torgsson’s firm, clear voice broke through the argument. ‘This is an intriguing possibility, and one with particularly immense risks and rewards. We all know Admiral Kraglan can be… unconventional, but I don’t believe she would come to us with this unless she had more to say on this matter. Would I be correct?’

‘You would, prime admiral,’ said Borri. ‘The Barak-Zhoff artefact isn’t lost to us. I know where it is. I’ve seen it.’

There was uproar once more. Borri waited for it to calm down, then cleared her throat.

‘That is, I’m fairly certain that I’ve seen it.’ She watched Steelfist carefully as she continued. ‘Many years ago, in the Empyrean Bastion.’ As she expected, Steelfist’s brows beetled and a look of thunder crossed his face as he heard the name. The memories of that fortress were not welcome ones for Steelfist, nor for Borri.

Greybeard leaned forwards. ‘How sure are you, Kraglan? It’s been decades since you were there, surely?’

‘Aye, admiral. Since we aided the Sigmarite Brotherhood.’ She avoided Steelfist’s furious gaze as she spoke. ‘Admiral Steelfist was there as well, and he may recall that I stayed for some time after he left. The Stormcasts had requested our aid in building defences for their fortress. I was an endrinrigger in those days, before I left the guild, and helped to design and implement what they wanted. I spent many moons there, and got to know the place well. They have impressive vaults, filled with all manner of treasures gathered during the Realmgate Wars. I’m a keen student of history, among other things, and went through what they had with great interest.’ She paused, taking a deep breath.

‘And you think you saw the Barak-Zhoff artefact?’ Greybeard prompted.

‘Yes. I remember the rune, and the shape. I recall noticing that it was similar to the one on display here, and thinking nothing more of it. But now that we know more of what that can do…’

‘…you think it might have the same function,’ finished Stoutheart, his eyes shining with excitement. ‘It’s plausible, lass. It’s very plausible.’

‘But no more than plausible,’ cut in Torgsson. ‘I appreciate you giving us this information, Borri, but it’s not enough to act on.’ Borri’s heart sank and she opened her mouth to protest, but the prime admiral raised a hand to silence her. ‘To approach the Sigmarite Brotherhood and request a boon would require making commitments by the code that, in my view, are not worth the potential reward,’ he continued. ‘Without a guarantee that the artefact in the Empyrean Bastion is what you suspect, I will not act.’ He looked at his fellow admirals. ‘When this council next convenes, we shall consider taking this matter, and this map, to the Geldraad. If we do, and the delegates decide to pursue it, an envoy may be sent to the Sigmarite Brotherhood. That is my final word.’

‘I demand a vote!’ thundered Stoutheart, hammering his fist on the table and earning a withering look from Torgsson.‘I disagree with the prime admiral’s reasoning and move that the council votes on the matter.’

‘Does the motion have a second?’ asked Torgsson, venom in his tone.

‘It does,’ said Greybeard. The prime admiral gave him a sideways glance, but the venerable elder was unmoved.

‘Very well,’ said Torgsson. ‘The council shall vote. All in favour of pursuing Admiral Kraglan’s theory?’

‘Aye!’ shouted Stoutheart, striking the table once more.

‘Aye,’ added Greybeard quietly.

‘All against? My vote, clearly, is nay.’

‘Nay,’ echoed Krugman after a moment. All eyes turned to Steelfist, who glanced angrily at Borri.

‘Nay,’ he said quietly. ‘I agree with the prime admiral’s reasoning and course of action.’

‘Then the matter is decided,’ said Torgsson before any more objections could be raised. ‘The artefact recovered by Admiral Kraglan will be taken into the care of the council, and a commensurate payment made. A generous payment. And the matter will be closed until the next session of the council. Dismissed.’

He rose at once, turned, and left the chamber without looking back. Steelfist, Greybeard and Krugman followed. The steward, Braga, was close behind them, stopping only to gather up the artefact. Before leaving, he glanced at Stoutheart, who nodded. Braga pulled the doors closed behind him, leaving Stoutheart, Kraglan and Zaff in the council chamber.

‘Well, that’s that then,’ breathed Borri, crestfallen. She had been so sure that the council would agree, would see the value in the idea, and would send her to treat with the Sigmarite Brotherhood, her history with them a boon. The decision was so short-sighted.

‘Not even close, Kraglan,’ said Stoutheart. Borri looked up at him. The older duardin’s face was purple with barely suppressed rage, and his shoulders quivered. ‘You’re going to the Empyrean Bastion, and you’re taking that map with you. The council be damned.’

It took several weeks to prepare an expedition, and every moment was fraught with peril. Borri, Zaff and Stoutheart met in secret with friends and allies across Barak-Nar. In taverns, deals were struck over foaming flagons of ale. In gambling dens, the clattering of dice covered low voices speaking of defying the council’s will and setting off to the Empyrean Bastion. Everyone they met was carefully chosen, painstakingly vetted, and vouched for by others among their conspiracy. Any complacency could lead to a weak link being forged in the chain of their plan, a link that could damn them.

Slowly, the plan came together. Borri had been pleased to see that many of the captains and crew she had travelled, fought and celebrated alongside over the years were willing to join her. She would have ships, and she would have warriors. The sticking point, she quickly realised, would be the guilds. No expedition could proceed without aether-navigators to guide the fleet. They charted the course, found and manipulated the currents that would lead sky-vessels to their destination quickly, and knew all the intricacies of the major trade routes. Likewise, their journey would be short indeed without representatives of the Endrineers Guild to keep the ships in working condition. At a push, they could live without an endrinmaster, but they needed endrinriggers.

There was no way to approach the guilds for this task. The code made them beholden to the Admirals Council, part of the delicate balance that kept the sky-port’s society functioning.

This was where Stoutheart proved his mettle. He couldn’t join the expedition himself – that would see him expelled from the council in short order, and worse punishment would await him. But he was far from the only former resident of Barak-Zhoff who had made a home on Barak-Nar. Over the years, he had made connections with many of his fellow refugees, and they had joined in enthusiastically with Barak-Nar society. Many had joined the guilds, putting their skills to use in service of their new home. It was these that Stoutheart sought out. Slowly, he assembled teams of endrinriggers willing to abscond and report to Borri. Aether-navigators pledged their abilities, defying the Nav-League to guide the sky-vessels to the fortress of the Sigmarite Brotherhood, and beyond. The pull of their home was greater than that of their calling.

Soon enough, they had everything they needed. There was just one last thing Borri had to take care of, a promise to keep.

The Steelfist home on Barak-Nar was not what might be expected of a family with a seat on the Admirals Council. Space was always at a premium in the confines of the sky-hold – there was a limit, after all, to the size that the city could be and remain aloft on the aether-currents – but in Kharadron society, wealth and power had their privileges. Many members of the council carved out sizeable estates for themselves, usually far above the warrens, and removed from the cloudscrapers that housed the common folk. There had been enough of these over the years, maintained by the descendants of councillors, that a defined upper class had emerged within the sky-port, an elite who, in their own view at least, were where the power lay in Barak-Nar.

Harek Steelfist, to his credit, was not among them. Borri didn’t know if that was stubborn pride left from having risen through the ranks, from privateer to captain, then to admiral and councillor. She suspected that at least part of it was a bloody-minded desire not to give the so-called elites the privilege of sneering at him. But if she was truly honest, Borri felt that Steelfist’s relative asceticism was driven by his enduring grief, and the feeling that with only him and his daughter left, there was no need for a larger home.

It had been many years since Borri had visited Harek’s home. There had been little call to, given the enmity that had grown between them. As she knocked on the heavy metal door, styled like a sky-vessel’s bulkhead, Borri’s guts writhed with a mixture of guilt and tense anticipation.

The door ground open with a squeal, and Borri was face-to-face with Harek. It was the first time they had been in the same place since the council meeting. Judging by the look of loathing on Harek’s face, he had hoped their time apart would be longer lived.

‘What do you want?’ Harek hissed.

‘I made you a promise, Harek,’ said Borri quietly. ‘I might not be travelling to try and find Barak-Zhoff, but I still intend to release your lass from her oath to me.’

The half-lie almost caught in her throat. She was going to release young Orrum from her oath, yes, but she would certainly be seeking the lost sky-port. Lying did not come naturally to her, and certainly not to a fellow Kharadron.

Harek’s expression softened a touch, making it simply stern, rather than murderous. ‘Aye. Aye, I’d appreciate that. She’s inside. I suppose you can come in. But wipe yer damned feet.’

Borri followed him inside. The décor was more traditional than she would have expected. In general, Barak-Nar eschewed the practice of ancestor worship. They revered Grungni, Grimnir, Valaya and the rest as the forebears of the duardin race, but they had long since put superstition aside in favour of solid practicality. Grungni was only as good as the weapons he forged, as the saying went. It was a surprise, then, to see, in a prominent place in the Steelfists’ entrance hall, a shrine to the ancestors. Lit aether-candles cast a glow against the faces of the ancient ones. Harek turned and caught her staring at it.

‘She’s through here,’ he said pointedly, gesturing to another bulkhead-style door.

Borri nodded and approached the door, wondering at the shrine. Was that what the loss of his partner had pushed Steelfist to? The old ways and worship? Another reason, then, for Borri to feel guilty.

She knocked on the door and pushed it open. Stepping over the threshold, she took in the room. It was small, containing little more than a cot and a small desk that was piled with books, tablets and papers, and at which sat young Orrum. She turned, and seeing Borri, leapt to her feet, knocking over the chair as she sprang to salute.

‘At ease, privateer,’ Borri said, and Orrum relaxed.

‘Admiral. This is an honour–’

‘No need for that, lass,’ said Borri. ‘I won’t be here long. I need to talk to you about the oath you made to me.’

Orrum’s eyes shone with excitement. She cast a glance behind Borri, to the open door, and quickly stepped over to close it. With a lowered voice, she spoke.

‘Yes, admiral. I’m ready to join your fleet.’

‘That’s why I’m here, Orrum. There is no fleet. No expedition. The council vetoed it. I am here to formally release you from your oath to me.’

Orrum looked confused. ‘But admiral, I know you’re going. Captain Grundin told me to be ready. And I am.’

Borri cursed inwardly. She had recruited Grundin to her cause, foolishly forgetting that Orrum was one of his Broken Blades. Of course he would have approached her.

‘It’s too dangerous, Orrum. What I’m going to do bends the code to its very limits. It might even break it into pieces. Everyone who follows me risks their reputation, their livelihood, their future. I promised your father I wouldn’t make you join me.’

‘And you’re not. I know the risks. Captain Grundin explained them very clearly. And like you, he tried to dissuade me. Because of my father.’

‘Think about it, lass. You’re all he’s got left. I won’t be responsible for robbing him of that. Not after–’

‘It’s not your choice, admiral. It’s mine. I’m an arkanaut privateer, and I choose with whom I stand. I choose to stand with you. I know what the mission is. I know what’s at stake. Grundin was very clear about what we could all gain from this, and what we could lose. And besides that, I want to be part of this. It’s where I belong. I’m already part of it. I found the sphere, didn’t I?’

The passion in the young duardin’s voice took Borri aback. It also reminded her of another young Kharadron, many years before, whose fiery temper and desire to forge her own path helped her make a name for herself. How could she deny Orrum the chance she’d had?

‘All right, lass. I won’t stop you if you join Grundin’s company for this. But I will still release you from your oath, and I want your father to know it. For his sake.’

Orrum nodded and opened the door. Borri followed her into the hall, where Harek waited, arms crossed and stony-faced.

‘Harek Steelfist, bear witness to what passes between us this day,’ said Borri. She bowed and turned to Orrum. ‘Orrum Steelfist, I hereby release you from the oath you swore to me, under the various artycles and footnotes of the Kharadron Code. You are no longer sworn to my service, or beholden to join me on any expedition.’

Silence fell. Harek broke it.

‘Aye, well, that’s that then. Borri… thank you.’ The thanks were grudging, but genuine.

‘I keep my promises, Harek. Whatever you may think of me, you cannae deny that.’

Orrum looked between the two, as if trying to discern what was going unsaid. Guilt gnawed at Borri again that the lass didn’t know the truth. Didn’t know why her father was so embittered. Didn’t know that he was right to be.

She excused herself before the guilt ate her alive.

Chapter Four

They left Barak-Nar by cover of night.

The sky was clouded, shrouding the soft silvery moon from view. Orrum wondered if the God-King of men was blessing their endeavour by limiting the light. If so, she wished Sigmar could have sent something more tangible. The darkness would be of limited help. The City of the First Sunrise was quieter at night, but trade never slept, and nor did the great docks of Barak-Nar. At any hour, there were ships coming and going, and goods being embarked and unloaded.

That could, Captain Grundin had suggested, work to their advantage. As long as Admiral Kraglan’s force stayed in smaller groups and didn’t draw undue attention, they could be on their sky-vessels and powering up before anyone realised what was happening.

Orrum was gripped by excitement. She’d never done anything illicit like this before, and despite knowing the risks, she found it thrilling. She’d never understood why some Kharadrons, in rare cases, chose to abandon the code and turn pirate, or why the likes of the fyreslayers would sell their services to the highest bidder, eschewing loyalty for profits, but now she had an inkling. The freedom was intoxicating.

‘Steelfist, stay in formation.’

Grundin’s bark dragged Orrum from her reverie and she jogged to stay in line with her fellow Broken Blades. They were traversing the approach to the dock where their sky-vessel was at anchor. Its crew were already aboard, as was true for the other ships in Kraglan’s makeshift armada, and making ready under the direction of Captain Barris. Endrins were being primed, and courses plotted by the aether-navigators who had been convinced to join the expedition. All that remained was to get the troops on board.

The arkanaut company reached a security checkpoint, a guard post set up at the approach to the mooring stations where frigates resided while under anchor. The Broken Blade was the only sky-vessel being taken from this particular dock. Over the last few weeks, Admiral Stoutheart had approved transfer requests from several captains, spreading the ships pledged to Kraglan out across multiple docks, ensuring that there would be limited danger of the entire fleet being discovered and stopped if any one ship drew undue attention.

A guard stepped in front of them. He was armoured but bare-headed, an aethershot rifle strapped to his back. In the normal course of events, it would never be drawn unless the sky-port was under attack. No Kharadron would willingly open fire upon another. But then, in theory, no Kharadron would go against the edict of the council in such a blatant way as Kraglan and her confederates…

‘State your business,’ demanded the guard.

‘Captain Grundin, Broken Blades company,’ said Grundin. ‘We took some casualties on our last mission, and I’m taking the new lads and lassies for some training in night conditions. Never know when you’ll be called upon to protect your sky-vessel from some big flying beastie, eh?’

The guard laughed. ‘Aye, we’ve all been there. I remember an expedition into the Ghyrian wildlands when I was on the Honour of Valaya. A fell-drake took an interest in us. Bigger than an ironclad it was, and a persistent so-and-so. Don’t know if it thought we were a rival, or a potential mate, but that was a night to remember either way.’

He laughed again, and Grundin joined him.

‘Sounds like a good story. Maybe I’ll hear the rest of it over an ale some time.’

‘You’re on for that, if you’re buying.’

‘Deal. Now, can we pass through for our training?’

‘Oh aye, go ahead. Quiet night, so if ye fancy a blether after you’re done, I’d appreciate the company.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ grinned Grundin. He turned to the privateers. ‘Company, advance!’

Orrum fell in with the other arkanauts as they jogged towards the Broken Blade. Before long, they were on the ship and waiting for the go signal.

Zaff Norgrim waited on the Fearless Undertaking, his arms resting on the wheel. Everything was ready to go. The crew and endrinriggers were in place, arkanauts and thunderers were stowing their gear below decks… All that was missing was the architect of this little escapade. He checked his aether-chronometer. Dawn was only a short time away. If they didn’t set off soon, they’d risk being caught in the rising suns, making their escape that much harder.

As the minutes passed, Zaff’s anxiety rose. Scenarios flashed through his mind, showcasing all the ways this might have gone wrong. Maybe one of their carefully chosen compatriots had betrayed them. Maybe the council had worked out what they were up to and detained Borri. Maybe troops were marching on the Fearless Undertaking and the rest of the ships now.

He heard a noise at the embarkation ramp and started, pulling his sidearm and pointing it towards the sound.

‘Put that away, you silly fool,’ hissed Borri, and Zaff heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Where have you been?’ he demanded, holstering the pistol. ‘Have you seen the time?’

‘There was one last thing to take care of. The small matter of the map. A wee bit essential, you may agree.’

‘How did you get it? Didn’t the council take it away?’

‘Aye, well, remember that Braga? The council’s steward? He was given it to store safely until it could be taken to the Geldraad.’

‘Aye, I remember him scooping it up.’

‘Turns out he and our friend Stoutheart go way back. And he had family on Barak-Zhoff when it disappeared.’

‘Lucky for us,’ Zaff said.

‘Never underestimate the importance of family to a duardin,’ Borri said. ‘Now, shall we get this show in the air?’

‘How was this allowed to happen?’

Prime Admiral Torgsson’s voice was low and even. Harek was sure he was suppressing prodigious amounts of anger. He knew, because he was feeling the same.

‘How exactly did one of our admirals assemble a fleet, convince crew, warriors and members of the guilds to join her, and abscond with a secured artefact?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ Krugman said. He eyed Stoutheart evenly. ‘Though I have my suspicions.’

‘Something you want to say, Draff?’ Stoutheart asked. ‘This council is for open debate, not snide accusations and aspersions.’

‘Only members of this council, and our closest aides, had access to the artefact,’ Krugman said. ‘And only one of us has a vested interest in Kraglan’s insane plan coming to fruition.’

‘This is not a time for recriminations,’ Torgsson’s voice boomed over the arguing pair. ‘This is a time to decide a course of action.’

‘What action is required?’ asked Greybeard. ‘The deed is done. Punishment can come later, for any who return. If they fail to, and are lost, that would seem punishment enough.’

‘My daughter is on one of those vessels,’ said Harek quietly, voice unheard.

‘We have to do something. We know where they’re going. Send a fleet, get them back. This… this base treachery cannot be allowed to stand!’ Krugman’s furious tone was matched by the colour of his flesh and his bulging eyes.

‘Practically, there are limits to what we can achieve. We won’t catch up with them before they reach the Sigmarite Brotherhood fortress…’ Greybeard kept talking, but Harek didn’t hear it any more. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart, the pumping of blood and a throb in his temples. All he could see was Orrum.

‘My daughter,’ he said again, louder this time. He was dimly aware that Krugman and Stoutheart were shouting again, and that Torgsson had moved between them, stopping the confrontation turning physical. ‘My daughter. She took my daughter!’

Silence fell, and it was a long moment before Harek realised that all eyes had turned to him. He took a breath, and realised he had shouted the last words.

‘My daughter is with them. She left this.’ He handed the piece of parchment he’d found in Orrum’s chamber over to Torgsson, who slowly read it, took it in and nodded.

‘May I read this aloud, Harek?’

Harek nodded.

‘Dearest father. If you’re reading this, you know that I’m no longer on Barak-Nar. And I’m sure you know by now where I’ve gone, and who with. What you may be wondering is why.’ The prime admiral paused and glanced at Harek before continuing. ‘I am the duardin you have raised me to be. I believe in loyalty, in faith, and in following both the dictates of the Kharadron Code, and the dictates of my heart. Where we differ is that when the two come into conflict, I feel I must follow my heart. And my heart is with Admiral Kraglan’s quest. I believe in it. I believe that it will lead us to Barak-Zhoff, and to reuniting lost members of our people with us once more. I was there at the start of this, and I must see it through to its end. I can do no less, not for the admiral, and not for you. Not even for Barak-Nar. Solely for myself. I hope that in time you can understand and forgive me for my actions here. Your daughter, Orrum.’

Silence fell once more. Greybeard broke it.

‘We all knew that Kraglan commanded a great deal of loyalty. And that she was capable of this sort of rash action. We all share the blame for not seeing that this might happen. And yet, if all those following her feel this way, I’m not certain that I can call it a mistake.’

‘I bloody well can!’ thundered Krugman. ‘It’s an outrage! Prime admiral, to let such a flagrant breach of the code go without action would make us appear weak. We are first among the sky-holds, the Steering Hand on the Geldraad. We cannot allow this to stand!’

Torgsson held up his hands for silence. He nodded to himself, as if weighing the arguments. ‘All points are well taken,’ he said at last. ‘And there must be action. We will send a fleet to attempt to intercept Kraglan and her… marauders. To bring them back before this escalates any further. We’ll find an admiral to lead–’

‘I will lead the armada,’ Harek said flatly.

‘No, Harek, that’s not–’

‘I. Will. Lead. The. Armada. I hereby declare a grudge against Borri Kraglan, admiral in the sky-fleet of Barak-Nar. And I claim a Rune of Mark, in accordance with the grudge clause of the code. Will any among you sign and approve it for me?’

‘Yes,’ declared Krugman.

‘A signed Rune of Mark, approved by a member of the council, gives me the right to pursue this matter, to the exclusion of all other statutes of the Kharadron Code,’ Harek said. ‘And I shall do so. Will you support me, prime admiral, or will I have to go through you too?’

The prime admiral shook his head. ‘Very well. If you insist upon this course of action, then the council will approve it. What sky-vessel will you take as your flagship?’

Harek thought. If he took a gunhauler, the higher speed might allow him to catch up to Kraglan’s fleet before they went too far. But it wouldn’t be nearly enough to secure victory if it came to battle against the pirates. An ironclad made the most sense. But then…

‘Ancestor’s Axe,’ he said, and the declaration was greeted by another silence. The ship was among the largest in Barak-Nar’s arsenal, a Krundhal-class battleship many times the tonnage of even an ironclad. They were expensive and rare, and some traditionalists believed they breached the limits of the Seven Points of Prosperity in Artycle 2 of the code.

‘Let it be so,’ Torgsson sighed. ‘Gather whatever ships, crews and companies you require, and depart as soon as you are able.’ He paused, then clapped a hand on Harek’s shoulder. ‘I hope you find your lass, Steelfist. I really do. But even more than that, I hope you don’t lose yourself along the way.’ He lowered his voice so only Harek could hear. ‘Don’t let your history with Kraglan cloud your judgement. I know the price you’ve paid in the past. Don’t let the next cost be your own head.’

Harek nodded once and swept out of the council chamber, consumed by thoughts of vengeance.

The great vista of Chamon spread out before Borri. Barak-Nar was far behind now, and a long journey lay ahead. Borri ran through a mental list of the landmarks that they would pass on their way to the Rusted Wastes. They would first travel east over the Onoglop Swamp, where low-flying sky-vessels had been known to be snatched up by great quicksilver tentacles and dragged into the bubbling depths, never to be seen again. Then a turn south-east, passing over the region of Gazan Zhar, the fire wastes.

The quickest route from there would take them perilously near to Barak-Zon, so a detour would be required around the Patina Peaks, then north-east over the Desolation of Urk. There, at least, they would have some entertainment, watching the orruk tribes who called the area home battle with one another. The Kharadrons would wager with one another over which tribes would prevail, and which warlords would tear the heads from their rivals. It would keep the spirits high on the long voyage. Then would come the Stratis Skull, a great bay that stretched between the desolation and the Rusted Wastes. And there, on the shore, they would find the Empyrean Bastion.

Borri would see her fleet through all the hazards that would stand in their way. Nothing would stop them from reaching their goal. Nothing could.

Borri’s mind wandered to her time spent in that fastness. She had been an endrinrigger in those days, apprenticed to the Endrineers Guild and trained in the arts of maintaining and repairing the technology of the Kharadron Overlords. Her own talents had run towards fortifications, which made her a perfect liaison from the guild to the Sigmarite Brotherhood. The Stormcast Eternals had requested aid in ensuring that their Stormkeep was well defended. Borri had always half suspected that it was more of a political move, a way to cement an alliance between their ranks and Barak-Nar. From everything she’d seen of them, Sigmar’s celestial warriors could more than take care of what was theirs.

It was there that her friendship with Harek Steelfist had been sundered. There that tragedy, brought about by a combination of Borri’s carelessness and the wiles of the servants of Chaos, had robbed Steelfist of what he loved most and driven a wedge between the two duardin. Borri gazed out at the other sky-vessels in the small fleet, her eyes alighting on the Broken Blade. Guilt gnawed at her again as she considered Steelfist’s daughter. She hadn’t lied to Harek. She had released the lass from her oath. She would have liked nothing more than for Orrum to remain on the sky-port, but she couldn’t force the lass to go against her heart. At the same time, she appreciated the loyalty she was being shown. It gave her hope.

Through long weeks of travel, the fleet’s anticipation grew. When the skies were clear and the landscape below free of potential threats, the ships would heave close together and Borri would tour them, laughing and joking with crew and passenger alike, negotiating changes to their contracts in return for promises of valour. Spirits remained high throughout. All who had joined the expedition were united in two things: their belief in what they were doing, and the knowledge that without victory, their return to Barak-Nar would be in disgrace.

When she wasn’t raising mugs of ale and playing dice on ships across the armada, Borri was in her cabin on the Fearless Undertaking, studying the sphere. It had no more secrets left to reveal, she was sure – until the Barak-Zhoff piece was inserted, anyway. And yet she couldn’t leave it alone. Its finding had been such a random act, and the coincidences since that had led to this expedition being a reality – the Barak-Nar piece in the museum, Stoutheart being on the council, Borri having seen the Barak-Zhoff equivalent – all convinced her that there was more to this than chance.

She had never been superstitious. Being raised in Barak-Nar’s science-first culture had seen to that. And yet… it had long been believed that the ancestors influenced the world in subtle ways, moving things like pieces on a game board, arranging fates to fit their designs. What if Borri was one such piece? And Orrum another? What if this was destiny?

Borri was startled from her musings by the sky-vessel’s klaxons blaring. She emerged from her cabin and made her way to the deck.

‘Admiral on deck!’ shouted one of the endrinriggers, and Borri nodded to him.

‘Zaff, what’s the commotion!’ she yelled up to the captain.

‘Land ahoy, admiral!’ replied Zaff. ‘Our destination is in sight.’

Adrenaline surged through Borri, and she shouldered her way through the crowd gathering at the bow. For several days, the only sight had been the seemingly endless expanse of the Stratis Skull, water of a dull grey unbroken by so much as a surfacing fish. Now, in the far distance, she could make out the vague shape of a coastline, and on a large promontory, the Empyrean Bastion, the mighty fortress of the Sigmarite Brotherhood.

Borri tapped the aether-powered magnification lens built into her helmet and it zoomed in on the Stormkeep, the image blurring as the lens adjusted for the distance and the motion of the Fearless Undertaking. She gasped at what she saw.

The Empyrean Bastion was under siege.

Chapter Five

Borri stood on the foredeck of the Fearless Undertaking and looked at the vista of battle spread out before her. The Empyrean Bastion, mighty Stormkeep of the Sigmarite Brotherhood, stretched into the sky like a beacon of Order. It had grown since Borri had been there last. At its heart was a trio of towers, each held aloft at a seemingly impossible angle and topped by a different array of arcane equipment. The towers were connected by criss-crossing walkways, and at their bases they came together into a large structure which, Borri remembered, was filled with great vaulted halls and wide corridors. Inside were sleeping quarters, training halls, feasting chambers… and the treasure vaults.

Outside of the keep was a wide area of land filled with further training arenas and a variety of smaller buildings stretching all the way to the promontory’s edge. The upper storeys of some of these buildings leaned out over the sheer drop in a way that Borri was sure would induce vertigo in anyone not used to traversing the skies. Between the buildings were gardens where it looked like food was grown – an involved undertaking, given the often solid-metal ground of Chamon.

The edges of the promontory protected three sides of the grounds. Along the fourth was an outer wall, ten times the height of a man and as wide as an ironclad was long.

Outside the wall was an army of the dead.

The unliving host numbered in the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. Deadwalkers clawed at the Stormkeep’s walls, their fingers becoming bloodied stumps as they tried and failed to find any chink in the smooth white stone.

Borri was pleased to see that the defences she had helped to design and build so long before were working, too. Many of the deadwalkers that reached the walls were burned to ash when they inadvertently activated the runic magic that protected it.

For each deadwalker that fell, another stumbled forwards, some infernal instinct compelling it to climb the corpse of its fallen compatriot. Lightning-wreathed arrows and quarrels thundered into their ranks from atop the walls, and Stormcast Eternals in white-and-purple armour leaned over the parapets with longbows and crossbows to take opportunistic shots upon their enemies, even as winged beasts of rotting flesh flew above, swooping down to rake the defenders with great claws. Duelling with these were Stormcasts held aloft by wings of light, their blazing weapons tearing great wounds into the beasts even as their filthy talons raked through sigmarite armour.

Among the aerial attackers were larger creatures too, great terrorgheists that could drag handfuls of warriors from the walls with a single blow. Ragged wings surmounted hunched backs of exposed muscle and bone, and the beasts were being held at bay only by fire from the missile-armed Stormcasts.

From her vantage point, Borri could see where the real threat lay. Dotted among the undead crowds were immense siege engines, rickety contraptions of fused bone and rotting wood in the form of great towers with leering maws that would spill forth hordes of the dead onto the fortress ramparts should they reach the walls. Each was pushed by dozens of skeletons, the tireless creatures never pausing in their relentless march towards the fortress. Every moment that the Stormcasts were engaged in defending themselves from the aerial hordes was a moment they weren’t trying to bring down those towers.

If even one reached the walls, the fortress would be breached, the defenders forced to fight on multiple fronts. Not even the mighty Stormcast Eternals could survive against so many foes.

‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Zaff, standing behind her on the deck. Borri turned and looked at him.

‘We need to get inside that keep. We could just send down a small group, ask for what we need, and leave. But I reckon Sigmar’s boys there will be more likely to help us if we give them a wee hand first. So shall we?’

Zaff nodded and turned to start giving orders to raise the flags that would tell the fleet to advance and take up position. Borri looked down again upon the siege and felt a thrill of anticipation as the endrins cycled up and duardin rushed around her, priming weapons and preparing for combat. She loved this. She always had, from her first expedition as a privateer. There was nothing that compared to battle being joined. Every sensation, from the vibration of the deck plates as a sky-vessel fired, to the feel of her skalfhammer smashing an enemy skull, brought her joy.

The Stormkeep drew closer as the Fearless Undertaking moved forwards. The sky-vessel’s forward gunner, a veteran called Ullic who had served on the ship for decades, settled in the seat for the volley cannon, running through checks and making sure it was ready to open fire.

‘Ready for this, Ullic?’ Borri shouted to him. The warrior gave a thumbs up in response.

‘Always, admiral. Looking forward to tearing some of those things apart.’

‘That’s the spirit!’

Borri headed below decks to get her pistol and hammer, and to check on the Fearless Undertaking’s passengers. The ship was host to a company of arkanaut privateers, as well as Sergeant Varrok’s Grundstok Thunderers.

As Borri entered the cramped barracks, Varrok snapped to attention with a cry of ‘Admiral on deck!’.

The other thunderers and privateers likewise came to attention, and Borri waved them down. ‘At ease. Just checking in to see that you all know what you’re getting into.’

‘We’re going to make those uzkuli wish they’d stayed dead, admiral!’ shouted one of the privateers, and Borri laughed.

‘That we are, lad. You all know the score with this. We built that keep – and we’re not going to stand by and watch it fall. And after we’re done, I expect to see every one of you back here for the victory brew!’

The gathered duardin cheered, and Borri let her gaze linger on them for a moment before heading back out towards her stateroom. She picked up her hammer and pistol, checking that the latter was loaded, and strapped on her belt, making sure the pouches were filled with additional ammo.

A klaxon sounded, alerting Borri that the ironclad was nearing engagement range. She took a breath, pulled on her helmet and headed back out onto the deck. The privateers and thunderers were arrayed there, the latter braced against the ship’s rail, their heavy weapons readied to join in with the volleys from the Fearless Undertaking’s guns. A trio of endrinriggers waited near Zaff, powering up their back-mounted aether-endrins. When battle was joined, they would fly alongside the ship, providing support against any enemy who might be able to threaten it, as well as performing any emergency repairs that might be required.

Borri nodded to them as she took up position next to Zaff. The captain was at the ship’s wheel, steering her into battle himself, as was his way.

‘Whenever you give the word, admiral,’ he said.

‘The word is given, captain. Signal the attack. Target those siege towers.’

‘Signal the attack!’ echoed Zaff loudly. The sky-vessel’s endrin roared into action. Seconds later, the rest of the fleet followed suit, and battle was joined.

Orrum gripped the rail of the Broken Blade, pistol in her other hand. She looked down at the tide of walking dead, and felt a shiver of fear. She had heard of the unliving creatures that formed the armies of the Lord of Death, and she knew they’d become more prevalent across the realms in the last few years, ever since the magic of Shyish had been unleashed. But to see them and to know that she’d soon be among them was another matter.

She looked closer, seeing the decaying horrors she’d be fighting. Discoloured flesh, in hues ranging from dark bruises to pustulent yellow-greens marked them as something other than human, as did their shambling gait. In many places, hideous wounds that would bring even a duardin low gaped on their bodies. Bones protruded from broken flesh, flaps of dead skin revealed glistening red muscle. They were hideous to look at, and Orrum thanked the ancestors she was in a fully enclosed suit breathing recycled air. At least she wouldn’t have to smell the stench they no doubt gave off.

Her gaze went to the fortress and the battle raging above it. It seemed strange that they weren’t headed towards that, but word on the Broken Blade was that the admiral had ordered the destruction of the grotesque siege towers that were among the deadwalkers to be prioritised.

Captain Barris, the skipper of the Broken Blade, shouted a ready order, and Orrum watched as the crew of the frigate prepared to open fire. She and her fellow privateers were little more than ballast right now, their pistols useless at this range. It would be the sky-vessel’s weapons that would make their mark first. It was strange, to be so close to battle but for the enemy to be just out of reach.

Time seemed to stretch as the Broken Blade flew inexorably towards the undead horde, and a silence fell for Orrum. She looked around, taking in the gunner at the prow, heavy sky-cannon loaded and ready to fire; at the crew manning the aethershot carbines, and those at the aft preparing to drop bombs into the enemy. The spell was broken as Captain Barris gave the order to fire, and the cannon roared. A heavy projectile shot into the nearest siege tower. Wood and bone splintered as the munition tore through it, leaving a hole halfway up the structure, which wobbled and shook before continuing its slow and methodical motion. As the sky-cannon reloaded, the aethershot carbines opened up, sending volleys into the tight-packed horde of skeletons pushing the tower.

Around the Broken Blade, other sky-vessels also bombarded the enemy. The sky-vessel’s sister-frigate, the Loaded Gun, fired its heavy skyhook, the great projectile skewering two deadwalkers and embedding itself in the ground, pulling the ship ahead of the pack as the chain tautened, before the hook came loose from the ground and retracted into the gun, ready to fire again. From its deck, privateers opened fire, targeting the undead pushing another siege tower. A trio of smaller Grundstok gunhaulers sped forwards, keeping pace with the Loaded Gun, drill cannons sending exploding munitions into the base of a tower that detonated inside the structure, scattering skeleton and undead alike in a shower of their own bones and viscera. The tower tottered and slowly toppled. As it fell, deadwalkers poured from it like ale from a tankard, smashing into their brethren below, hundreds of whom were then crushed beneath the immense bulk of the fallen tower.

Greatest of all was the Fearless Undertaking. Admiral Kraglan’s flagship descended majestically. The volley cannon mounted on the ironclad’s prow unleashed hundreds of missiles that shredded undead bodies, opening holes in the enemy ranks that were quickly filled as more deadwalkers surged forwards.

The fleet continued to advance, every ship pouring fire into the enemy, and Orrum gripped her pistol tighter, eagerly awaiting her chance to join in.

‘The fortress!’ The cry came from above, where the frigate’s aether-navigator perched in the crow’s nest, his keen eyes watching for threats to the Broken Blade. Orrum looked to see what had been spotted, and her stomach lurched as she saw some of the armoured warriors who took flight on wings of starlight break off from the battle and move towards them.

If she had been repelled by her first look at the forces of Nagash, the opposite was true of this first time truly seeing the Stormcast Eternals of the God-King Sigmar. They were nothing short of glorious. Each was more than twice the height of a duardin, their armour bone white and gleaming gold, with rich purple offsetting the bright colours. Their spread wings lifted them skywards, and they moved towards the Kharadron armada. As they closed, Orrum saw that they carried long javelins which crackled with lightning, round shields in their other hands. At their head was a warrior whose armour was more ornately decorated, his wings wider and somehow even more beautiful. In place of javelin and shield, he was armed with a bow almost as tall as he was, and a bird the colour of the dawn sky perched on his shoulder.

‘Why are they coming this way?’ muttered Aroch, a new recruit to the arkanaut company. ‘Surely they’re not attacking us?’

‘They’re not,’ breathed Orrum.

The winged Stormcast Eternals ignored the vanguard of the fleet and continued on. They flew past the Broken Blade, so close that Orrum could see the corposant in the air around them. She shivered, feeling the presence of something divine, creatures which contained the essence of Sigmar himself, the once and future God-King of the Mortal Realms.

And then they were gone, continuing towards the Fearless Undertaking and an audience with the admiral.

Borri stood next to the ship’s wheel, leaning on her skalfhammer as the Stormcast Eternals descended. The javelin-armed warriors remained hovering around the Fearless Undertaking, their wings of light allowing them to keep pace with the ironclad. Their leader landed nimbly on the deck in front of Borri. He inclined his head and spoke, his voice deep and warm, and easily heard over the roar of the endrins, the chatter of the volley gun and the rhythmic cracking of the aethershot carbines.

‘Well met, Admiral Borri Kraglan.’

‘Nice to see you again, Ferram Drakesbane. Glad to see you remember me.’

‘I have fallen and been reforged three times since last we met. Yet the memory of you persists where others have fled. You were always a duardin of strong personality. I am not surprised that you have risen in rank. I am also unsurprised that you have come to our aid this day.’

‘Aye, is that so? See it in the stars, did you?’

‘We did. We also saw that which you seek, and which we hold. We will have much to discuss when the battle is won.’

Borri considered this for a moment, excitement rising at this confirmation that she was right about the artefact being here. She pushed that aside.

‘What’s the plan then?’

‘You have begun the work. Taking down the siege towers is key to victory. Our warriors will sally forth to cleanse the horde outside the gates. I would request that you land what troops you have to aid them. Then together, we destroy the infestation.’

‘Sounds solid. Zaff, get the flags changed–’

The Knight-Venator raised a hand. ‘There is no need, my friend. My Prosecutors will relay the orders, if that is acceptable?’

‘By all means,’ said Borri.

Drakesbane took off, his wings spreading and lifting him effortlessly into the air, the blades of light reflecting from the polished metal curves of the airship, sending reflections dancing around them. He turned and sped away towards the other ships in the armada, his Prosecutors following in his wake. Several spread out, each heading towards one of the sky-vessels.

Borri turned to Zaff. ‘You heard the big fella. Point us towards that gate.’

Zaff spun the wheel and the Fearless Undertaking began slowly to turn towards its target.

The armoured angel descended onto the deck of the Broken Blade, and Orrum felt nothing but awe. It touched down, more nimbly than seemed possible for a warrior of such bulk, its wings of light folding back against golden armature. The winged warrior spoke, and the voice was commanding, carrying easily over the din of the guns and the thunder of the endrins.

‘By order of Admiral Borri Kraglan, this sky-vessel is to continue to engage the enemy siege engines, and land warriors to aid my brethren. Together, we will return these unquiet souls to the underworlds from whence they came.’

‘Ready all guns to fire,’ ordered the captain. ‘Prepare grudgesettler bombs for launch. Let’s send those dead things straight back to Shyish!’

The Stormcast Eternal lifted off again, and the deck became a hive of activity once more. Orrum could do little but hold on and check her antique pistol was ready. She did, and holstered it, then drew her cutter and weighed it in her hand. She had used some of her vastly inflated share from the Thrice-Forged Fastness haul to have it personalised. Her name was now etched in runic script on the hilt, and the grip had been adapted to better fit her hand. She’d had one of the gemstones from the vault – a sapphire – embedded in the pommel as well. Most importantly, she’d found a runesmith to give the blade a minor cutting charm. It was nothing fancy. The weapon wouldn’t light enemies on fire or call down lightning, but it gave it more of an edge, which might just help when things got rough.

The Broken Blade, along with the rest of the armada, was closing on the fortress wall. Orrum looked eagerly over the side, watching as the dead things continued their mindless assault on the walls, heedless of the threat from above.

‘Bombs away!’ shouted the captain, and the crew released a pair of grudgesettler bombs from the sky-vessel’s rear, then started toiling to load more into place on the racks. Orrum watched the bombs fall. They missed the nearest siege tower, but where they landed, they detonated, killing deadwalkers in a wide area and throwing up a shower of gore. More bombs rained down from other ships, adding to the devastation.

‘Open fire!’

The roar of guns joined the din from the bomb barrage. The Fearless Undertaking put up a signal flag for the warriors on board the frigates to disembark, and the ships flew closer to the ground.

‘Broken Blades, prepare for landing!’ yelled Grundin, and Orrum braced herself against the rail, ready to leap over when the ship was close enough to the ground. The moment came, and she joined her fellow privateers in plunging into battle.

‘Hold the line!’ Grundin ordered. ‘They’re opening the gates – we’ll have reinforcements soon.’

Orrum cocked her pistol and fired into the nearest deadwalker. The bullet’s impact rocked the undead creature’s head back, and it fell, sending the one behind sprawling. The auto-loader on the pistol readied another shot, and Orrum fired again. This one took a deadwalker in the chest. It staggered, but kept on coming, rotting hands reaching for her. They brushed her helmet, and she struck out with her blade, revulsion fuelling the strike. The creature’s head parted from its body, neck severed by the enchanted steel. Orrum pressed forwards, determined to push the horde back as far as she could.

‘Just hold, Steelfist,’ Grundin said, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her back. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to get in about them once the big men come out of their fort.’

Orrum looked over her shoulder. The gates were grinding open, and she saw the light of the twin suns glinting on the golden trim of armour.

She turned back and continued to kill deadwalkers, blowing out brains with well-aimed pistol shots and hacking off limbs. She fell into a rhythm, fighting back to back with her fellow privateers, trying only to hold the hungering horde at bay. Before long, their objective had been achieved.

The Stormcasts marched.

Borri swung her skalfhammer, the aethermatic generator on her back giving it enough power to batter through three deadwalkers in a single strike, disintegrating ribcages and sending limbs flying to settle in bloody puddles. Another loomed over her, arms outstretched, and Borri dropped the hammer and pulled her pistol from its holster, loosing a volley of shots into the thing’s skull. She ducked beneath another’s grasp and took up the hammer, swinging it up to burst the creature’s skull like a rotten fruit.

Beyond the immediate battle, she could see her fleet continuing to harry the siege towers. As she battered a deadwalker aside and pulped the leg of another, she could see a brace of bombs from the Fearless Undertaking strike one of the towering contraptions, which exploded into a rain of bone shards.

She heard a commotion from behind and turned to see a phalanx of massive warriors in bone-white armour marching from the gate. Each carried a shield taller than a fully armoured Kharadron, and was armed with either a hammer or longsword that crackled with the energy of the storm. They moved in perfect lockstep, a formation ten wide and at least thirty deep. At their head was a warrior with a long halberd in one hand and a lantern in the other. At his side was an animal Borri recognised as a gryph-hound. Like a large dog with a feathered foresection and the beak of a hunting bird, it pawed at the ground, obviously eager to engage the undead enemy.

The lead Stormcast gestured with his halberd and the phalanx split into columns, one marching left and the other right. They planted their shields into the churned earth and met the slow charge of the undead. The halberd-wielder approached Borri.

‘You are Borri Kraglan?’ he asked.

‘Aye, that’s me. And you are?’

‘Arcus. Lord-Castellant of this citadel. I am charged with defending it from harm. You have my thanks for your aid. I hope you’re willing to fight some more?’

Borri got the sense that the Stormcast was grinning behind the implacable visage of his mask. She answered the grin, equally invisible behind her helmet.

‘Point us where you want us, Arcus.’

The Lord-Castellant gestured towards the heart of the phalanx. ‘Somewhere in there is the creature that is guiding this dark horde. A vampire. It must be killed. We need to push through and find it.’

Borri thought for a moment. ‘Will you know it when you see it?’

‘I will.’

‘Then there might be a better way. Fancy a wee trip in my airship?’

Chapter Six

The Fearless Undertaking skimmed low over the undead army. Borri stood at the bow, Lord-Castellant Arcus behind her, scanning the crowd for signs of the vampire leader of the host. His gryph-hound had its clawed front paws up on the rail and was enjoying the wind in its feathers.

Borri hadn’t appreciated quite how vast the army besieging the Empyrean Bastion was.

‘So why is this vampire knocking on your doors?’ she asked.

‘This creature seeks to expand its master’s sphere of influence into this realm. It serves a dread lord of Shyish, who cannot be allowed to gain a foothold in Chamon. We have blocked its efforts at every turn, but it has escaped our retribution each time we try to kill it. Hark, admiral, we are closing on our quarry.’

Borri peered down at the horde, and saw that its composition was changing. The press of deadwalkers had given way to ranks of skeletons riding fleshless steeds. Each wore heavy armour in an ancient style, and they were armed with sturdy blades and shields like coffin lids. There were hundreds of them.

‘That is the beast’s guard. It must be close.’

‘Then let’s draw it out,’ said Borri. She turned to the gunner in the front cannon emplacement. ‘Get some shells in among them, Ullic,’ she ordered.

The cannon opened fire. Moments later, a heavy shell cracked shields, sundered armour and splintered bone. Another shot. More skeletons destroyed. A third, a fourth, and Borri began to see something moving ahead. ‘Keep firing!’ she said.

‘It looks like your arrival has forced our prey to alter its plans, my friend,’ said Arcus, holding his halberd in a guard position. ‘Now we finish the hunt.’

‘I’ve never killed a vampire. Seems like a good time to start.’

‘You will have your chance, Borri Kraglan. They are coming.’

Borri looked out to see a host of winged figures rising from the undead host. Half a dozen large, misshapen creatures whose arms terminated in bat-like wings swooped towards the ironclad. But it was what rose behind them that chilled Borri’s blood. It was massive, easily as large as a frigate, with a long and sinuous body that was missing huge chunks of flesh. Flaps of rotten skin stretched down over bare bone, and a long string of intestines uncoiled from somewhere deep within the beast as it took flight on torn, leathery wings.

Upon the zombie dragon’s back was an armoured humanoid. The full plate it wore was in a deep arterial red, with a pair of golden bat wings rising over a half-helm, beneath which was pallid flesh. In one hand was an ornate shield embossed with a coat of arms, and the other held a long, barbed lance.

‘I take it that’s him?’ Borri asked.

The Stormcast nodded. ‘That is the beast.’

Borri raised her voice. ‘All weapons, fire on the big dragon thing. Get it to come over here so we can have a wee word with the fella on top.’

The aethershot carbines opened fire, peppering the immense undead creature with shots. Most disappeared into its sunken hide, or struck its skeleton, denting bone. Some pinged from the crimson armour of the vampire atop the beast’s back, which snarled, and lowered its lance. The smaller winged creatures circled it, and Arcus pointed towards them.

‘Call the support to deal with the vargheists,’ he rumbled, his voice like a growing thunderhead.

Borri turned to Zaff. ‘You heard him.’

The signal flags were changed, and moments later, the sound of endrins grew and a trio of Grundstok gunhaulers hove into view, a dozen winged Stormcasts with javelins and shields arrayed among them. They sped towards the enemy, cannon and volley shot striking the winged undead alongside javelins that crackled with lightning. Where the javelins struck, a bolt of thunder rocketed from the otherwise clear sky, slamming home in a display of Sigmar’s heavenly might.

First one, then another of the vargheists fell from the air, burned flesh and tattered wings testament to the fury of the assault. More of the creatures rose from the ground to replace them, and the gunhaulers moved off to deal with these new attackers, leaving the Fearless Undertaking facing the zombie dragon and its fearsome rider.

The dragon’s wings swept back, and it gathered speed as it flew towards the ironclad.

‘Brace for impact,’ bellowed Zaff, and Borri gripped the gunner’s seat with one armoured hand. She glanced at Arcus, who stood with one leg up on the bow rail. His halberd was planted tip-first in the deck and he held his immense lantern aloft.

And then the vampire and dragon were there. A wave of pestilential breath issued from the creature’s fleshless skull, and Borri braced for it to hit.

It never did.

Arcus opened the front of his lantern, and light spilled forth. It was pure and bright, and images came unbidden to Borri’s mind. A mountain peak in a distant realm, struck by a single bolt of brilliant white lightning. A city, great and shining in the moonlight. A fortress of gold in the heavens, bathed in the glow of a sphere of purest star metal. A bearded warrior, his visage stern and noble, his aspect that of the night, and the stars, and all that was pure in the Mortal Realms. She breathed, and it was though she tasted the starlight.

The light seemed to have a very different effect on the dragon and its rider. The cloud of pestilential breath vanished like mist in sunlight. The zombie dragon’s headlong flight was arrested as if it had struck a wall. The vampire’s lance splintered, and the mount reared back, wings outstretched. Borri saw a chance.

‘Quick, lad, fire!’ she shouted, and Ullic obeyed, sending a cannonball directly into the vile creature’s exposed underbelly. The projectile rocketed through mouldering flesh and brittle bone, bursting from the dragon’s spine, nearly splitting it in two. It hung there for a moment in mid-air, then began to fall. Impossibly, the vampire leapt from its saddle and, fast as quicksilver, bounded from the neck of its fallen steed and crossed the distance to the sky-vessel, landing in a crouch on the prow. Whatever power the lantern light had, the vampire seemed protected from it, and Arcus cast the lantern aside and pulled his halberd from the deck.

The gryph-hound was the first to charge, leaping towards the vampire, who contemptuously battered it aside with one crimson gauntlet, before drawing a sword from a scabbard at his waist. The gryph-hound fell to the deck, whimpering in pain, but alive. Arcus pointed his halberd at the vampire.

‘Your death this day was foretold, servant of Nagash,’ the Lord-Castellant growled. ‘For that act, it will be neither fast nor merciful.’

The vampire sneered, and struck. Its blows were lightning-fast, but Arcus blocked every one with his halberd. To Borri, it seemed as though demigods were battling before her, faster, stronger and mightier than she could hope to be.

‘Aye, well,’ she muttered to herself, ‘when did that ever stop ye, you old fool?’ She powered on her skalfhammer and circled the vampire, lashing out when she was behind it. The creature spun, deflecting the hammer blow with its blade, and raising its shield to catch Arcus’ decapitating halberd strike.

‘Your efforts will fail,’ it hissed. ‘I cannot be defeated, for I am death, as my master is, and his master, almighty Nagash. I do not tire, I do not slow, and I will feast on your blood, lightning-thing.’ It turned to Borri as it ducked beneath another scything halberd swing and batted aside a skalfhammer blow that would have pulverised a rhinox. ‘You, I shall leave for the crows, duardin. Your blood smells of metal and failure.’

Borri roared and swung the hammer in a low arc. The vampire leapt over it, and Borri continued the swing, turning three hundred and sixty degrees and pulling the hammer up. It took the vampire by surprise as it landed, striking it in its breastplate and lifting it from the ground again. Arcus took advantage of the momentary opportunity, and swung his halberd one more time, separating the vampire’s head from its shoulders. The head soared over the ship’s rail. Borri ran to the side and watched it fall, turning to dust before it hit the ground. After a moment, a shockwave seemed to pass through the undead horde. Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the endrins of the Fearless Undertaking. Borri wondered what would happen next. Would the creature’s death break the enemy horde, returning them to true death?

The forces of Order weren’t that lucky. The magic of death infused all the Mortal Realms, and kept the enemy going – but as Borri watched, she could see that their coordination had faltered. Where before they had acted with a single purpose, guided by their infernal master, now they simply continued to do what they had been last ordered to. They would be easy prey now.

Borri turned back to Arcus, who was on one knee, stroking his gryph-hound’s feathered head. The valiant creature was standing again, sniffing and pawing at the ashes that were all that remained of the vampire, as if disappointed that it couldn’t exact its revenge on its attacker.

‘Zaff,’ she said, ‘signal all ships to press the attack. Let’s finish these beasts.’

The battle was over. Orrum didn’t know what had happened in the skies – the fight there had been too distant to make out while she was fighting for her life against an overwhelming undead horde – but something of import had clearly happened. The deadwalkers had slowed, the light fading from their eyes, unnatural vitality replaced by a shambling lack of coordination. It had taken many long hours after that, but by the efforts of the Kharadrons and Stormcast Eternals, the horde had finally been broken. Around her, Kharadrons now relaxed, shoulders slumping, weapons returning to holsters. The battle had been hard, the tireless nature of the dead allowing no respite and no moment of weakness.

Orrum looked around at the Stormcast Eternals who had fought alongside the duardin. The towering figures were breaking up into groups and starting to gather rotten deadwalker corpses into piles. They worked tirelessly, as though they hadn’t just fought a long battle against an overwhelming foe. A shadow passed overhead, and Orrum looked up to see the Fearless Undertaking drifting slowly downwards.

It halted mere feet above the ground, and a Stormcast Eternal in particularly ornate armour and robes jumped lightly from the prow to the ground, followed by a four-legged creature with a long tail and a beak. The latter stalked off and started sniffing at corpses. A gangramp was lowered from the ironclad, and Admiral Kraglan marched down, skalfhammer over one shoulder. From her gait, Orrum suspected she was in a good mood. She was followed by Captain Norgrim, who gestured to Captain Grundin. The Broken Blades’ leader joined the group.

Orrum sidled closer, trying to hear what they were saying. It seemed to be a briefing on the losses the Kharadron had suffered – blessedly few, from the sounds of it. Two of the gunhaulers had suffered damage in the aerial battle, and the Stormcasts indicated that they would be able to help provide materials for repairs.

Then the conversation turned to their reason for being there. Orrum listened carefully.

‘Your winged friend said you knew why we’re here, Arcus,’ Kraglan was saying.

‘We do. Our Lord-Ordinator has seen your quest in the stars, admiral. There are omens, if one has the knowledge and skill to seek them. That is part of this fortress’ function.’ Arcus gestured up to the arcane machinery that crowned the tall towers of the Stormkeep. ‘If it is your will, we shall provide you with that which you seek. But I would urge you not to ask for it.’

‘Why in the realms wouldn’t we want it?’ Norgrim asked.

‘That I cannot say, Captain Norgrim,’ the Stormcast intoned. ‘We have been granted only the knowledge that this mission is one best left unfulfilled.’

The massive warrior paused, and looked upwards. Orrum’s eyes followed his gaze, and she saw one of the winged Stormcasts descend, the one with the great bow. The bird that sat on his shoulder cawed and flew off towards the gryph-hound. The Stormcast landed and joined the conversation. As Drakesbane spoke, there was a note of doubt in his voice.

‘You are my friend, admiral, and have been for many years. I would hope that you trust my judgement, even if you do not trust the Lord-Castellant’s. I agree that you should end your efforts here and return to Barak-Nar.’

There was no way for Orrum to see the admiral’s expression beneath her helmet, or to know what she was thinking. But the Stormcasts’ words chilled her, and she was sure Kraglan would feel the same.

‘I don’t take your warning lightly, Arcus, or yours, Drakesbane. I value your friendship… But I’ve risked everything for this. I can’t return to Barak-Nar now. Not without following it through to the end. Whatever the cost.’

The group stood silent for a moment, until the gryph-hound that had leapt from the ironclad returned to them, sniffing each of the Kharadrons in turn and trying to nip Grundin’s armoured boot while the winged Stormcast’s bird flew above their heads in slow circles.

‘Very well, Borri Kraglan,’ Arcus said. ‘Come with me and claim that which you seek.’

As he turned to walk away, Borri nodded to Grundin. ‘Get the lads cleaned up and oversee the start of repairs, then join us.’ She raised her voice. ‘Bring young Steelfist too. She’s listening in anyway. And besides, she was there when this all started. She deserves to see what happens next.’

Orrum blushed at being caught out, very glad that her crimson face was hidden beneath her helmet. She forgot her embarrassment when the winged Stormcast turned on his heel and turned his gaze on her, flickering electricity visible through the eyeholes in his bone-white mask.

‘Steelfist?’ he said sharply. ‘Are you the progeny of Harek and Mala Steelfist, young duardin?’

‘I… I am, my lord,’ Orrum stammered.

The Stormcast glanced at Borri, and Orrum had the sudden sense of a rising thunderhead. ‘The child of Steelfist follows you on your quest, Borri Kraglan? That is most unexpected.’ The Stormcast knelt before Orrum. ‘I am Drakesbane. I know your father, young one. I knew your mother. And I know you. Your destiny, I have been told, is written in the stars, but it is yours to forge. You will be torn between two desires. You will do that which is right, and which is required, though it will tear your heart in two.’ He rose, brushing dust from his robes, and walked away, beckoning for Borri to follow him. She did.

Orrum approached Captain Norgrim. ‘What was that?’ she asked.

The captain eyed her carefully. ‘The Stormcast Eternals, it is said, can see the future in the stars. It is a blessing from their God-King. There are those among their number who divine the portents and read the movement of the heavens. They can use this knowledge to turn the tide of battle in their favour… and to help guide those who have a destiny. You, my lass, seem to be among those star-touched few. Grungni help you.’

‘He said I’ll make a decision. Did he mean… soon? Or… how will I know?’

Norgrim’s voice softened, and he put a hand on Orrum’s shoulder.

‘There’s no way to tell. Prophecy is always a tricky thing. There are tales of those who try to understand it, even to cheat it. But it always catches them out. All you can do is carry on, and follow your heart, and let your future unfold as it’s going to.’

Orrum wasn’t comforted. A feeling had formed in the pit of her stomach, that doom was coming her way, and that nothing she could do would avoid it.

Borri followed Arcus and Drakesbane through the corridors of the Stormkeep. The winged warrior had been silent since they had entered, though Borri sensed his anger.

‘What you said to young Steelfist there…’ she started.

The Stormcast stopped walking and spun towards her, lightning blazing from his faceplate. ‘When I knew you before, Borri Kraglan, you were rash and impulsive. You followed your heart, not your head, and tragedy followed in the wake of your actions. Tragedy that left that young duardin’s family sundered. And now she has been drawn into another foolhardy action that you have begun. I know not if it is fate’s hand at work, or simply your reckless determination to have your own way, but by your actions, you have started a chain of events that will bring Orrum Steelfist yet more pain.’

‘I didn’t want her to follow me,’ Borri protested, but the words sounded weak. ‘It was her choice.’

‘A leader chooses their followers, whether actively or not. You could have stopped her.’

Arcus joined in. ‘And yet… If the portents were read correctly, her place on your quest is not chance. And it will lead to what must occur. But the pain it will bring to her, and to you… I do not know how either of you will bear it. And yet bear it you must.’

‘You keep talking about what’s going to happen. A clue would be nice. I… I would like to know if I’ve done the right thing. If I’ll find Barak-Zhoff.’

‘The right thing?’ raged Drakesbane. ‘What would be the right thing, Borri Kraglan? When the God-King closed the Gates of Azyr and left the Mortal Realms to fall to Chaos, was that the right thing? When he plucked mortals from the realms, leaving their homes and families to be destroyed, was that the right thing? When he took us, and broke us, and reforged us into something no longer human, was that the right thing? None of these acts were right. None of them were a moral good. And yet they were what had to be done. What the universe demanded. By the God-King’s actions, though millions suffered under the yoke of the Dark Gods, there is hope and light once more. So tell me, Borri Kraglan, what is the right thing? Is it that which eventually achieves the result you hope, though it lays waste to lives in the meantime? Or is it having the good sense to step away from something before it is too late?’

Lightning crackled and thunder rolled as the Knight-Venator vented his fury. Borri stood her ground.

‘I did exactly what I felt I had to, Drakesbane. When the universe hands you a chance to solve a mystery, you don’t throw it away.’

‘Perhaps not,’ sighed Arcus, stepping between the two. ‘But you must accept the consequences that will come of your actions. And you must not try to know the story’s end before it is written. Yes, our Lord-Ordinators have seen much in the stars. They have seen you in captivity in a desolate hole, dead to a falling blade or locked in a metal prison. They have seen a mountain take to the air, and seen it fall. They have seen… much. All of this may come to pass, or none of it. It is for you and those who would follow you to determine which path the future will take.’

‘Did they see a path where we abandon the quest now and return to Barak-Nar?’

Arcus turned away silently. It was Drakesbane who answered, and when he spoke, his voice was bitter.

‘No.’

Orrum and Captain Norgrim met the admiral and the Lord-Castellant in an audience chamber within the fortress. In his hand, the Stormcast held a small bronze pyramid. It looked ludicrously tiny in his immense armoured gauntlet.

‘Is that it?’ breathed Norgrim.

‘Aye,’ said Kraglan dourly. ‘Do ye have the map?’

Norgrim nodded, and opened a sack that was hanging over his shoulder, carefully withdrawing the bulky brass sphere that Orrum had last seen in the Chaos Dreadhold’s treasure vault. He passed it to Borri, who sat it down and pressed something on it. Orrum gasped as it folded out into a three-dimensional map of the Chamon realmsphere.

The Stormcast, Arcus, knelt and studied it.

‘This is remarkable,’ he said. ‘There is Azyrite magic in this, as well as the great artifice for which the duardin have long been known. And also… something else. Something darker. I know not if that is from the device itself, or from the destiny that awaits it. Such things are not easily understood.’ He looked at Kraglan. ‘You are determined to do this, Kraglan? You have this one last chance to alter your course.’

Borri looked at Norgrim, then at Orrum, the latter look lasting rather longer than Orrum was comfortable with. At last, she nodded. ‘Aye. We’ve begun to follow this wind. Let’s see it through.’

The Lord-Castellant handed the admiral the pyramid, and she slotted it into an indentation in the map’s centre. Slowly, the elements rose and fell, the layout of the map changing and shifting. When it settled, it showed an area of tall peaks and deep valleys, and at its heart, the rune for Barak-Zhoff shone from the pyramid.

‘It worked,’ breathed Captain Norgrim. ‘Ancestors be damned, part of me wasn’t sure it would.’

‘Is that… Is that where Barak-Zhoff is?’ asked Orrum. ‘There, in those mountains?’

‘So it would seem, lass,’ Kraglan said. ‘Now, shall we figure out our way there?’

It was a week after the battle’s end that the sky-fleet set out from the Empyrean Bastion. Gunhaulers had been repaired, supplies restocked, and the fallen from Admiral Kraglan’s fleet had been given the last rites according to the observances of their people. The Sigmarite Brotherhood had tirelessly cleared the dead from the battlefield, burning corpse and bone alike in pyres that sent smoke high into the sky. The Kharadrons had left early in the morning, as the suns had risen, their course set for the distant Copperfang Peaks, the area of Chamon indicated by their map.

Arcus had made no more attempts to stay Kraglan’s hand or change her course. She had chosen her destiny. Fate was now set. But Arcus knew that his role in events was not yet over. There was one more part he had to play.

Another four days passed before it came. The last pyres were burning out, thick black smoke drifting in the winds. Night was falling. As the crackling of the fires died, another sound made itself heard. The sound of endrins. From out of the gathering darkness came the running lights of another fleet of sky-vessels, this one larger by far than that which Kraglan commanded. A dozen gunhaulers made up the vanguard, with half that number of heavily armed frigates and a pair of brutal ironclads behind them. Last of all came something that even Arcus, accustomed as he was to seeing the most bizarre and mind-bending sights in the Mortal Realms, found impressive. It was a sky-vessel so immense that it dwarfed even the mighty ironclads. It was held aloft by a brace of aether-endrins, and the arms of the propellors that guided its flight were each as long as a Stormcast Eternal was tall.

The massive war-vessel slowly descended, and a sturdy metal ladder emerged from a portal on its side. It lowered in sections to the ground, and a single duardin climbed down it. Arcus awaited him beneath the shadow of the great wall that defended the Stormkeep.

‘Well met, Harek Steelfist,’ he said when the figure drew close. At his side, Drakesbane remained silent. ‘Does your fleet require refuelling or resupply?’

‘My lords,’ said Steelfist, bowing low. ‘No. We have all that we need. I come on another matter most urgent–’

‘Borri Kraglan has been and gone,’ Drakesbane said. ‘She met her goal here, and continued on her quest to seek the lost sky-port of Barak-Zhoff.’

Harek muttered something in the duardin tongue that Arcus was sure wouldn’t translate easily, if he cared to try.

‘How long ago did they leave?’ Harek asked.

‘Four full days ago,’ Arcus said.

‘Where?’

‘I will tell you, if that is your wish. But I will offer you the same choice I gave your fellow admiral. Turn back now, before the path you walk narrows and you cannot step from it. Think of your daughter–’

‘I am thinking of my daughter!’ roared Steelfist. ‘I’m thinking of the danger that… that oathbreaker has put her in by bringing her on this foolhardy expedition. I’m thinking of her lost and alone, or dead.’

‘I understand, Harek,’ said Drakesbane. The anger with which the Knight-Venator had faced Kraglan had long since fled, replaced with the same weary sadness that Arcus felt. ‘But remember that fate works in ways we cannot hope to understand. If you continue, your daughter will live. But the pain she will face may make that life less bearable than if you stop now.’

‘I can’t, Drakesbane. I can’t let Borri Kraglan rob me of someone else I love.’

The Knight-Venator gathered his words carefully. ‘When she was here, I spoke to Kraglan of what occurred those years ago. I spoke… unkindly to her of the way she acted, and the consequences of that. But I spoke false. As do you now. You know, Harek Steelfist, as do I, that the death of your wife was not Kraglan’s doing.’ Steelfist started to speak, but Drakesbane raised one hand, silencing him. ‘You will not be swayed. I know. But think on what I have said. Do not allow your heart to be consumed by bitterness. There is still time to release yourself from your pain and hope that it alters the destiny that is written in the stars. Your destination is in the Copperfang Peaks. Go now. Seek your fate.’

Steelfist nodded, turned and walked back to his huge sky-vessel. Arcus and Drakesbane watched until he was back on the ship, the ladder retracted and the vessel in flight once more.

‘Goodbye, Harek Steelfist,’ Arcus said quietly to the night. ‘May your ancestors embrace you.’

Chapter Seven

The Fearless Undertaking soared high above the majestic Copperfang Peaks. The mountains were a sight to behold, Borri had never travelled this far from Chamon’s stable core, and here, where magic was wilder, she could taste it in the air.

The practice of wielding magic was not common to the Kharadron Overlords, nor any of their duardin brethren. It was said that in the World-That-Was, the forefathers of their race had made the choice to eschew the shaping of the eight magical winds, and instead focus on capturing them in runes, using them to enhance weapons and armour, and to power ancient engineering that allowed them to carve out an empire in the mountains of that ill-fated and long-lost land.

The fyreslayers had taken runic magic to new heights, using the substance known as ur-gold, which they believed to be the broken remnants of the ancestor Grimnir, to bring themselves closer to the fire of Aqshy, turning them over time into creatures that were less than wholly duardin, and yet something more, recrafted in the image of the fiery hero they worshipped as a god.

Other duardin had settled in many realms. Some took to High Azyr, and became Sigmar’s smiths, working under the supervision of Grungni himself to craft miracles of magic and technology that would have made the mountain folk of the lost world fall to their knees in awe. Borri didn’t know how they had evolved in other realms, or even if they had survived there. Each realm was unto a world in its scope, and none could say, save perhaps the God-King himself, what wonders lay hidden beneath peaks in the wild places of verdant Ghyran, savage Ghur or even grim Shyish.

In Chamon, however, the duardin had come closest to the life they heard about in the ancient tales. Great holds were built into mountains, or entire ranges. Cities stretched deep beneath the realm, populated by a thriving race that had worked with men, aelves, ogors and other peoples to build a civilisation of engineers and craftsmen that had never been equalled in all of history.

And, she thought bitterly, never would be again. The shadow of the Dark Gods had been cast over the realms, and Chaos had come. Slowly, over generations, the Ruinous Powers turned weak and power-hungry folk to their worship, whispering of glory and gold and dominion over their fellows. And as time passed, the darkness grew. The pantheon of gods Sigmar Heldenhammer had assembled to protect the realms fell apart, and as it did, the folk of the realms withered. The sylvaneth and the aelves were the first to forsake the old alliances, retreating to their lands of life, light and shadow to defend themselves from the forces of Chaos that spread across all the realms.

The duardin proved more resistant to the gods’ lures than men. Where the great cities and civilisations of mankind had fallen to treachery, it was a more devious foe yet who had brought ruin to the great underground empires of Chamon. The skaven, ratkin servants of Chaos, had long coveted the city-holds, but had been kept at bay by subtle runic magic and duardin steel. Finally, under relentless assault from above and below, the wards failed and one by one, the holds fell. Yet a few far-sighted souls had seen the fall coming, and planned salvation. They had laboured hard to create floating cities that could be raised far into the clouds and hidden from the rampaging Chaos hordes.

Thus were the Kharadron Overlords born.

Here, in these very mountains, had Barak-Zhoff been raised skywards. Here, Borri hoped, it would be found once again and returned to the fold.

And yet… there was nothing.

The fleet had arrived three days before and split up to search among the vertiginous peaks. The wild magic had shaped the mountains in ways that defied logic. Some were upside down, wide at their summits and tapering to next to nothing at their bases. Some looked alive, as if towering creatures, great titans, had frozen, mid-stride. Some stretched so high into the sky that even an ironclad could not fly high enough to see their summits. Some among the crews muttered that if they got out and climbed, they would reach High Azyr.

The region indicated by the map was immense, but Barak-Zhoff’s sheer size would make it visible from a great distance. For three days, Borri had sought to keep spirits high, assuring captains and crew alike that just past the next peak, they would reach their goal. A mountaintop mist would recede, and before them would be the glory of the sky-port. But even she was now ready to admit that if Barak-Zhoff were here, they would have found it by now.

‘Admiral?’ Zaff’s voice broke Borri’s reverie. ‘The captains are here.’

Borri turned from her place at the bow and surveyed the assembled duardin. Most of the sky-vessels had come together again in the last few hours, all but the gunhauler Crimson Talon. Five ship skippers had come, along with the captains of the three arkanaut companies. None of them seemed happy.

Captain Braca of the gunhauler Fortune’s Fool was the first to speak, his characteristic bluntness letting him ask the question on all their minds.

‘Are we in the wrong place?’ he asked simply. ‘Was the map wrong? Did you read it wrongly?’

Borri shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. We studied the details carefully and compared them to our charts, and those held by the Stormcasts. It should be here.’

‘Could the device just be broken?’ asked Grundin of the Broken Blades.

‘It’s possible,’ answered Frakki, who commanded the Loaded Gun. ‘We don’t really know anything about it, do we?’

‘We know that it works,’ said Zaff, and Borri was quietly thankful for his support. ‘It definitely led us here. I’ll vouch for that. That we can’t find the sky-port suggests that maybe it can’t be found.’

‘Then this whole expedition, following you in defiance of the council, has been for nothing,’ said Barris, the Broken Blade’s skipper. Bitterness filled his voice, and a couple of the other captains echoed his sentiment.

‘Aye,’ said Frakki. ‘It’s time to consider giving this up as a lost cause. We should return to Barak-Nar and face the council.’

‘They’ll clap us in chains,’ Braca snorted. ‘I say we go to another sky-port instead. One of the smaller ones that’s not on the Geldraad. Barak-Shunti maybe. They’re always going to be in need of good captains and solid crews, and they’re far enough from Barak-Nar that we should be able to live in peace.’

‘And never see home again?’ Frakki shouted. ‘Some of us have families!’

‘And we knew when we set off that we might never see them again,’ snapped Barris. ‘More fool us for following Kraglan on this damned stupid endeavour.’

‘That’s Admiral Kraglan,’ Zaff said sternly, and Barris looked at him mutinously.

‘Is it, though?’ he said. ‘She has no standing with Barak-Nar any more. Her actions have seen to that. And now she can’t provide the riches she promised, what’s she worth? Less than nothing.’

Borri cursed herself for a fool. She’d known that this would be a possibility if it proved difficult to find Barak-Zhoff. She hadn’t realised quite how quickly some of the captains and crew would embrace potential mutiny. She should have seen it coming sooner.

‘It may be time for someone else to take command of the fleet,’ Barris continued.

Borri thought frantically. ‘Then we vote,’ she said. ‘In accordance with the code, we vote on who should command the armada. Each stakeholder gets a vote, captains and specialists get more, as befits their status.’

‘The code,’ sneered Barris. ‘You weren’t so concerned about the code when you were convincing us to abandon our home.’

‘That’s enough, Barris,’ said Zaff. ‘The code may have been bent, but it hasn’t been broken, and we won’t start here.’ The other captains muttered their agreement. ‘Admiral Kraglan has proposed a vote, and once the Crimson Talon returns, the matter will be put to all stakeholders. And all will abide by the duly voted decision.’

The captains dispersed to take the news to their ships, leaving Zaff and a relieved Borri.

‘We’re in dangerous skies here, admiral,’ Zaff said. ‘If the vote goes against you, there’s no telling what could happen. To both of us.’

‘I know. But something will happen. I feel it, Zaff. We’ll get something.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Zaff heavily. ‘I really hope you’re right.’

Some hours later, the Crimson Talon returned to the fleet. The gunhauler came in fast and had barely slowed before its captain, Targrim Thorrn, was leaping onto the deck of the Fearless Undertaking.

‘I need to see the admiral,’ he said, excitement colouring his voice. ‘We’ve found something!’

‘A duardin hold?’ Borri said carefully. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, admiral,’ Thorrn replied patiently, for what must have been the tenth time, eyes roving around the admiral’s small cabin. ‘We were passing over a peak south-west of here, and Klari – she’s always had keen eyes, that one – spotted a statue. We went lower and it was definitely duardin, and framing a road. An actual, paved road. We followed it as far as we could before it became too narrow, and in the distance, there was an entrance, just like in the paintings on Barak-Nar.’

‘An ancient hold,’ Borri mused. ‘This could be even more valuable than finding Barak-Zhoff. Just imagine what we could find down there.’

‘It’ll certainly give the captains something to focus on besides mutiny,’ said Zaff in a deadpan tone.

‘Mutiny…?’ Thorrn looked confused. Zaff quickly filled him in on the situation, and the captain shook his head ruefully. ‘My vote’s for you, admiral, if it comes to it, and those of my crew. But Captain Norgrim is right. This find should placate even Barris.’

Borri clapped her hands together. ‘In that case, let’s prepare an expedition. It’s time to take a trip into duardin history.’

Borri led the party of Kharadron Overlords along a steep path that wound down from the place where the fleet had made anchor. They had tried to navigate closer, but the way was too narrow at points for the frigates and ironclad, and none had seen a closer point where all six ships could stay together. The roadway was ancient and overgrown, nestled between two cliff edges, but clearly duardin in design and build. Immense stone slabs fitted together with barely a crack. Most of the flora that the arkanauts hacked away with their blades came from the roadsides, not from between the slabs.

Long, iridescent vines as thick as Borri was stout blocked the path at irregular intervals. They sprouted leaves with a silvery sheen, and when pierced, they thrashed around like a wounded animal. After the first encounter with them, the Kharadrons had decided to clamber over them or go around if there was an obvious way to do so.

The progress was slow and painstaking. The first sign that they were approaching something was that the undergrowth halted. Clear road ahead bolstered their spirits and they moved on at a faster pace. After a time, the reason for the cessation of flora became clear. The road narrowed further, and the horizon neared. Before long, the Kharadrons found themselves turning a corner and their path changed. Cliffs continued to loom on one side, but now they had a sheer drop on the other.

Borri paused the party for a rest, sending Garti and his skywardens ahead to scout the next stretch of road, their aether-endrins allowing them to travel above the path and see further, as well as avoid the risk of falling to a lonely death, dashed on the mountainside below.

Before long they found their goal.

Turning another corner, the Kharadrons were met with a vision that was nothing short of majestic. Great stone columns that stretched far into the sky lined the road. Atop them were representations of duardin clad in archaic armour and clutching axes, maces and other hand weapons. They must have been centuries old, if not millennia, but all the detail in the bronze was as clear as it might have been the day they were forged.

‘Ancestors…’ breathed Orrum from behind, and Borri felt a pang of guilt. She had tried to convince Grundin to leave Orrum behind, but the captain had argued that there was no reason to single her out, and Borri had acquiesced to his judgement, unwilling to push her luck any further when mutiny was still in the air.

At the end of the road was a gateway. At least, in aspect, it resembled a gateway. That name, though, was scarcely worthy of it. It dwarfed even the great Memorial of Triumph on Barak-Nar, on which was inscribed the name of every privateer ever to return with treasure. The marble doors, inscribed with duardin text and embossed with scenes from duardin history, were the largest single slabs of the stone Borri had ever seen, bigger than she had imagined possible. She couldn’t begin to visualise how such monolithic pieces had been carved from the rock and lifted into place.

‘What wonders await here?’ she asked, half to herself. There was no response, every other member of the expedition equally awestruck by the sight before them.

Up-close, the gates were entirely impossible to take in. Their sheer scale simply defied rational thought. Instead, Borri turned her focus to the base of the gateway, looking for smaller doors through which they could enter. She ordered the party to spread out and search, and after a time, there were shouts of success. To the side of one of the immense marble slabs was a door twice the width of a duardin, and four times the height. Immense by any normal standards, Borri mused, but utterly insignificant and easily overlooked against the main gates.

The door opened surprisingly easily, pushed inwards by the strength of half an arkanaut company. With a thrill of the unknown coursing through her, Borri led her warriors into the darkness of the ancient hold.

They navigated by the luminators built into their armour, the overlapping lights picking out details of incredible decorations wherever they landed, and casting shadows that caused nervous privateers to jump when another duardin stepped in front of a light.

For hours, they followed a winding passageway through the hold. Borri had assigned Orrum to start putting together a rough map, marking a tablet with the route they took, and noting turnings that they could double back to and explore should they reach a dead end.

There were no signs of life. Borri hadn’t really expected any. Had the hold been occupied, there would have been sentries and challenges long before the gate ever came in sight. The entire place was long-abandoned.

As they pushed on into the darkness, the Kharadrons began to think they saw movement. Shadows flickered on the edges of their vision before disappearing. There were sounds, too, from much deeper, too distant to make out as anything beyond a vague impression.

They moved further down the hold, from the entrance tunnels to much wider thoroughfares that Borri thought may have been a centre for commerce in days long gone. Orrum’s map was sprawling now, showing dozens of sub-passages and branching tunnels.

‘Look at the way it’s all laid out,’ Orrum said in a quiet voice, studying the makeshift plans. ‘It looks random, but the way the tunnels curve suggests they loop back on one another. They’re designed for defence as well as to allow lots of folk to move around. You could march a whole regiment through one of the side tunnels and come out at the rear of an attacking enemy. And unless they knew the layout as well they’d have no way of stopping you.’

There were also now signs of what had happened here. What had once been a duardin hold had become, at some point, a skaven warren.

The ratmen were, by nature, scavengers. They didn’t build, they stole. They would alter and extend that which they looted, using their profane science and Chaos-touched magic to turn that which had once been used for good into tools of evil. When it came to the places they infested, they simply used them as they saw fit and left them to fester. This place had festered.

The deeper the Kharadrons went, the more signs they saw of skaven inhabitation. Chambers had been stripped of anything of value to the ratmen, while that which they saw no use in was simply despoiled. The hold had once been home to generations of fine duardin artwork, displayed on finely woven tapestries, in painted frescoes, across tiled stone floors and more. The tapestries were smeared with excrement and other foul substances. The frescoes and tiles were cracked and broken, pieces removed and defiled with hideous runes.

For a time, it seemed that the ratmen, like the duardin before them, were a thing of the past.

Eventually, the passageway they were in widened further and the ceiling rose. Playing her light about, Borri saw the remnants of finery. Shattered crystal and twisted metal from what had once been chandeliers the size of gunhaulers were spread across the enormous floor. The remains of rotted and filth-smeared tapestries hung from the high ceiling. This vaulted corridor stretched far past the limit of the luminators, and the duardin proceeded warily.

Captain Grundin, taking point with the Broken Blades, held up a hand, and the procession stopped. Grundin came down the column to talk to Borri.

‘There’s definitely movement ahead, admiral. I’ve thought so for a few minutes, but now I’m sure. We’re not alone here.’

Borri called up Garti, whose skywardens were at the rear of the duardin, using the elevated position afforded by their aether-endrins to watch for any threats from behind. He floated over towards them and lowered to the ground.

‘Aye, there’s definitely something following us as well. I don’t know what, but in the mountains, I’d wager it’ll be one of two things. Grots or skaven. Given what we’ve seen here, probably the latter.’

‘Neither’s a good option,’ Grundin said, glowering. ‘We don’t have the numbers to deal with a massed assault. And there aren’t any Stormcast Eternals to help this time.’

‘Then we can either turn back and hope they let us leave, or press on and see what happens,’ Borri said. ‘Your thoughts?’

‘Press on,’ Garti said firmly. ‘Turning back will be a sign of weakness to them, and they’ll strike anyway. Might as well be heading towards something.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Grundin. ‘And from the look of this place, it is heading somewhere important.’

They went back to their places in the column, and the Kharadrons continued onwards.

Minutes later, the enemy attacked.

Borri had her volley pistol drawn, as did the privateers around her. Their progress was slower now, warier than it had been before. Every duardin was alert for movement.

A shape fell from the ceiling, a sharp blade pointed at the admiral’s neck. A single shot rang out, and the figure squealed, shot out of mid-air. Black skaven blood sprayed across Borri, and the blade dropped to the ground with a loud clatter beside the ratman assassin’s body. Borri looked around. Orrum stood with her ornate pistol raised, smoke gently rising from the barrel. Borri nodded to her, in the moment before all hell broke loose.

As if a dam had burst, a tide of enemies appeared around them. They came from the shadows before them, poured from side tunnels, and assaulted from the rear, a chittering horde of rat-like figures armed with long spears and crooked blades.

As she looked closer, Borri could see that these ratmen were more technologically advanced than she might have expected. Many of their weapons had crude generators strapped to them, making their blades spark with energy. Several of them wore heavy armour with equipment on their hunched backs that reminded Borri of the miniature endrin in her own suit. Thick cables connected this technology to ranged weapons that were sure to be a danger.

‘Skaven!’ Grundin shouted, and battle was joined.

Borri shouldered her way through a trio of privateers and pointed her pistol into the tide of vermin, holding down the trigger. The volley pistol spun up and peppered the ratmen with shots, dropping a brace of them. When the pistol clicked empty and the reloader began its work, Borri gripped her skalfhammer and waited for the skaven to reach her. In moments, she was surrounded by them, grateful that her armour and sky-suit protected her from smelling the reek of their filthy, blood-matted fur and stinking meat-breath. She swung the hammer, bowling a handful of them away, and bellowed, ‘Don’t let them through! Close up! Skywardens, take out the ranged troops.’

The duardin formed a loose circle, hundreds of clanrats pushing at it. But the children of Grungni would not break under the pressure of some filthy rats. Cutters swung, cleaving limbs, tails, snouts. Black skaven blood splattered their armour and bodies began to pile up. Not a single Kharadron panicked or fell back. They fought bravely, making each blow and shot count. They watched one another’s flanks, stepping in with a thrust or parry at the right moment to deny an opportunistic skaven a kill. Above them floated the skywardens, vulcaniser pistols and the rapid fire from an aethermatic volley gun duelling with the ranged weapon-armed skaven. The trusty aether weaponry was proving a match for the makeshift skaven armour. Borri had never been so proud of warriors under her command.

And yet, they could not last forever. A few privateers had already fallen, rusty skaven blades piercing vulnerable areas of their suits and leaving them in pools of blood. With each death, the Kharadron defence shrank, the ring closing. Borri thought frantically.

‘Grundin!’ she yelled. After a few moments, the captain carefully left his place in the line, the privateers to either side of him closing ranks to fill the momentary gap.

‘Admiral,’ he said tersely. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We need to break through and keep moving forwards,’ Borri said as she struck down another skaven with her skalfhammer, pulverising its rat-like skull. ‘Any ideas?’

Grundin thought for a moment. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘There might be something. We need Garti’s skywardens.’

‘Make it happen, captain.’

As Grundin went to signal the skywarden custodian, Borri continued to fight. Each swing of her aethermatically assisted hammer ended the life of another mewling rat, but she felt no joy in it. This wasn’t battle, not really. There was no strategy here, no art to it, no objective other than to survive.

But survive she would.

After a few minutes, Grundin returned. ‘We’re set, admiral. Ready to go on your order.’

‘Do it,’ Borri grunted.

Grundin stepped into the centre of the ring of Kharadrons and began bellowing. ‘Forwards by company! Onwards. Thunderers in support! Advance!’

With well-drilled efficiency, the arkanaut companies came together to form blocks, each unit supporting the others. Sergeant Varrok’s heavy weapons, plus the aerial shots from the skywardens, ensured that the teeming hordes of skaven didn’t overwhelm them as they reformed. The three arkanaut blocks formed a line, and began to move. Each step forwards was hard-won, pistols and blades reaping skaven lives as they advanced. Borri followed with the Grundstok Thunderers, firing volleys into the skaven who tried to rush the privateers from behind.

Above them, the skywardens pulled devices from their belts and threw them into the masses of ratmen that followed. After a few moments, huge explosions threw dozens of filthy bodies into the air, and the skaven advance began to slow. As Garti’s warriors moved towards the head of the Kharadron group, Borri saw Grundin’s plan. The skywardens tossed more charges ahead of the duardin, their timers set short. They detonated, and dozens more vermin were brutally massacred.

Individually, a skaven was a coward. In groups, they found courage in each other. But with such losses, even the weight of numbers that they enjoyed here wasn’t enough to make their bravery hold. The skaven lines broke, and they began to flee. The Kharadrons picked up speed, continuing to fire into the fleeing ratmen as they pushed forwards.

Eventually, the skaven fled quicker than the duardin could match, disappearing into side passages, scurrying up walls and into hidey-holes and vanishing. The guns fell silent.

‘Hold!’ shouted Grundin, and the Kharadron group slowed to a halt.

‘Time for a quick breather,’ Borri agreed. ‘You all deserve it.’ She scanned the warriors remaining, looking for Orrum, and let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding when she saw the lass alive.

The Kharadron Overlords marched on after a brief respite. The wide passageway was taking them inexorably towards a destination – though Borri couldn’t say what that destination would be. What she could say was that what the skaven had done to the place horrified her. Crude scaffolds had been erected along the walls, and on them was evidence of vile technomagical experiments. The entire passageway – and many beyond, it seemed likely – had been turned into workshops. In some places, there was evidence of weapons manufacture, in others vats bubbled with liquids that glowed the green of warpstone. Worst of all were the remnants of experiments on living beings. Cages contained twisted and broken skaven who had been fitted with crude augmentations of every kind Borri could imagine, and some that she would never have been able to bring to mind.

They stopped often to destroy the worst of what they saw. On several occasions, Borri saw Orrum looking closely at what seemed to be crude plans appended with skaven scratch-marks, and making notes in a small journal.

The Kharadrons remained on edge, awaiting the resurgence of the skaven, bolstered again by numbers or driven back towards the duardin by whatever leaders were among them. But none came.

Finally, they reached an end to their journey. Great archways loomed before them, through which they glimpsed a vision of opulence turned to ruin.

It was a throne room, or had been once. An immense stone seat dominated the chamber, situated atop a high, stepped dais from which the king of this hold would have looked down upon his subjects. The rest of the chamber was caked with filth, furnishings and fixtures alike, despoiled by the skaven. Even the throne was defiled, a bundle of mouldering rags dumped where the duardin king would once have reigned.

The treasure was here. The throne room contained what must have been a goodly portion of the wealth of this long-dead kingdom, piled as high as the throne and covering most of the floor. It made the haul from the Thrice-Forged Fastness look like nothing. But more than that, it was being used. It had been ordered, and much of it was clearly the focus of more arcane experimentation. There were no living skaven in the chamber that Borri could see, but bubbling vats of molten metal, recently dead test subjects and piles of ancient tomes next to more skaven scratchings were evidence enough that their efforts were ongoing, which boded ill for the duardin.

The Kharadrons spread out, weapons ready. Borri half-registered Orrum starting to look through the piles of books.

‘Welcome to my kingdom, metal beard-things,’ came a high, thin voice from the throne, drawing Borri’s attention from the treasure. ‘I welcome you to witness the triumph of Arch-Warlock Snikrit of the Clans Skryre!’

Borri responded by pulling her pistol from its holster and unloading a full volley into what had seemed a heap of rags on the throne. The shots vanished into nothing a foot from the throne. Upon it, the filthy cloth was cast off to reveal a skaven who stood to his full height and laughed maniacally.

‘You would kill-kill me with dull duardin weapons, beard-thing? That is impossible. None can end the reign of Snikrit the Magnificent! Snikrit the Mighty! Snikrit, who will rise and bring ruin to all the realms! Archaon himself will squirt the musk of fear at the sound of my name! You are no threat to me.’

Borri studied the skaven carefully. Technology – or magic, or a combination of the two – that could protect the ratkin leader from weapons fire was something to be wary of. The warlock was clad in a suit of heavily ornamented armour made of a dark substance that glowed with an intense green light. Borri was sure it contained warpstone, the raw stuff of Chaos given solid form. From her previous encounters with the skaven, she knew that they coveted the substance and used it to power all manner of devious and deadly contraptions.

Angular scratch-runes marked the armour, which seemed to consist of overlapping plates and bulked the skaven out considerably. Beneath it were filthy robes smeared with all manner of excremental stains. A tall crest rose above the skaven’s armoured head, attached to what looked like a back-mounted generator not dissimilar to Borri’s own. Cables connected the generator to devices attached to the armour, and to an oversized gauntlet on the skaven’s left hand; three long claws framed some sort of projectile launcher that Borri really didn’t want to see in action. A tall, wickedly bladed halberd rested against the pitted stone of the throne. As the skaven leered down at her, Borri found herself oddly entranced by the warlock’s flicking tail, which was also covered in segmented plate and resembled an insect’s appendage more than a rat’s. As she looked closer, she saw that each segment was marked with duardin runes. The armour had been made from that taken from the inhabitants of the hold. Fury filled her.

‘You dare to stand on that throne?’ she seethed, shaking with rage. ‘You defile this ancient and proud kingdom with your presence, and you take what belongs to my people and pervert it to your own goals? You Chaos filth!’

Around Borri, the other duardin continued to spread out through the chamber, the company captains subtly issuing orders in signal-code to take up defensive positions for the inevitable ambush. Having walked into the lair of this insane ratman, they weren’t going to escape without a fight.

The skaven laughed, a disturbing, reedy sound.

‘Nothing belong to duardin! All belong to the skaven. We take your poor excuse for weapons and make them better-kill. Like this!’

Snikrit aimed his projectile weapon at a privateer and fired. A beam of dark energy tinged with green struck the Kharadron and consumed him utterly. The poor soul didn’t even have time to scream before he ceased to exist.

Borri started forwards and the skaven turned the weapon on her.

‘Stop, beard-thing, or you will be next.’ The skaven leaned forwards slyly. ‘Or maybe you won’t. You are leader, yes? Maybe I kill all your friends and make you watch. Make you beg for their lives. Foolish duardin, caring for each other. Weakness! All weakness!’

‘What do you want?’ Borri demanded. ‘Why don’t you just kill us?’

‘You are here now, beard-thing. It is fate. Here, in this city of your people, you will witness the apotheosis of Snikrit! Never before has any skaven done what I manage, and you are here to see it happen. The Horned Rat himself blesses me!’

A chill passed through Borri at Snikrit’s words. She had no idea what the skaven was talking about, but if he was on the cusp of achieving something, it was clear that wouldn’t be good.

She grinned through the anger. ‘That’s a lofty goal, especially with Sigmar back and his Stormcast Eternals all over the place. What’s a mangy wee rat like you going to do that could even scratch the paint on their pretty armour?’

Snikrit laughed again. The high-pitched whooping was starting to get on Borri’s nerves. Her fingers twitched. She longed to power up her hammer and test whatever mystic shield the skaven was using against good duardin steel and technology, but she needed to know more.

‘Snikrit’s fortress will be the mightiest bastion in the skies. No one will stand against my power. Not storm-things, not beard-things, not even the Everchosen. Snikrit will be lord of all he surveys, and I will survey all!’

‘What fortress is that, then?’

‘This one, foolish duardin. It will take to the skies and Snikrit will be all-powerful!’

Borri gazed at the skaven, loathing and contempt fighting for supremacy within her.

‘You are aware,’ she said slowly, ‘that this hold is built into a mountain?’

‘Yes-yes.’ The skaven waved its clawed weapon arm contemptuously. ‘That is why we bled for this, that is why we had to toil-work. Snikrit will tear your mountain to pieces, and the pieces will be his bastion.’

‘That’s impossible!’

‘No-no. Possible. Magic, it takes, and skaven ingenuity. And that which foolish beard-things left here. Secrets from long ago, how to use aether to make things fly. How to build endrins. All improved! Warpstone and cunning make it better! Make the whole mountain fly! Only a warlock of prodigious skill and almighty power could do it. Only Snikrit!’

Borri’s mind raced with the possibilities. If what the skaven said was true, this hold may have been one of those from which a sky-port was launched long ago.

‘I’m a fool,’ she said aloud. ‘The signal. Whatever artefact responded to the magical signal from the map must be here, buried somewhere in this place. But if this is where Barak-Zhoff came from…’

Her gaze turned towards the books. Orrum was still leafing through them, tearing out pages and making frantic notes in her journal. Good. The lass had sound instincts.

Snikrit leaned forwards and studied Borri with beady eyes.

‘You see the majesty of Snikrit’s plans, beard-thing. You see how the doom of the realms rises. And it rises now!’

The chamber began to shake. From deep below came a sound like the largest aethermatic endrins Borri had ever heard. Snikrit was still talking, but his voice was drowned out by the noise. Whatever was happening, being inside the mountain when it did seemed like a bad idea.

She turned and began to move, motioning to Grundin and the other captains to do the same. Following her lead, the Kharadrons ran from the chamber, Orrum leaving last, stuffing her journal back into a pouch. Out in the passageway, thin trickles of stone dust fell from the ceiling and the entire mountain seemed to be rumbling. Great cracking sounds could be heard even over the endrins.

The duardin followed the passageway back as fast as their legs could carry them, the skywardens overhead warning of approaching enemies. Marching up the wide passageway towards the Kharadron Overlords was a fresh phalanx of skaven. On either side of their hundreds-strong formation were towering beasts. Each had the familiar skaven aspect of a walking rat, but they stood many times taller. Their bodies were lumpen and misshapen, and they had crude machinery grafted to faces, shoulders and chests. Thick armour covered vulnerable flesh, and in place of their clawed hands were a variety of vicious-looking weapons – gatling cannons and other devices Borri couldn’t even guess at the function of.

Borri thought quickly. There was no way to win against the enemies arrayed here. To try would be valiant, but futile. And escape was impossible. Even if they dared to try and dart into one of the side passages, they couldn’t be sure they would find the way out, and there was no way to know what further enemies awaited them.

It looked like the end of the journey had come.

Chapter Eight

Orrum watched the approaching skaven with a mixture of dismay and determination. She was going to die. They all were. Panic threatened to grip her, and she tried to swallow it down. There was no point in succumbing to fear. If she was going to die, she wanted to die standing, weapons in hand and taking as many of the enemy with her as she could.

She couldn’t hear Captain Grundin or her fellow privateers over the abominable noise of whatever was happening deep below them in the bowels of the hold, but she knew they would be thinking the same. No self-respecting duardin would allow themselves to be stabbed in the back by a skaven. They’d go down fighting.

Without orders being needed, the Kharadrons arranged themselves into a defensive formation. The Grundstok Thunderers and the skywardens took up positions on the flanks, where their heavier weapons could try and take down some of the larger mutants before their devastating weapons and brutal strength could be brought to bear. It would be a drop in the ocean, but every additional moment the duardin lived to fight on was a small victory.

The skaven phalanx approached at a steady pace, and Orrum knelt, allowing the duardin behind her a clearer shot. She braced her pistol with both hands and prepared to fire.

Admiral Kraglan stood at the front of the formation, hammer raised above her head. As the skaven drew closer, she brought the hammer down and stepped back into the line. The Kharadrons opened fire. A fusillade of pistol shots hit the skaven phalanx, and their first rank fell. The warriors behind stepped over their fallen comrades and continued to advance. Another volley killed dozens more. It made barely a dent in the seemingly numberless horde, and they would have time for maybe two more rounds of fire before the skaven were upon them.

On the flanks, the larger war-beasts proved a trickier proposition. Varrok’s thunderers were focusing their fire on the ones closest to them, but it was taking all their efforts to bring down each creature, and the remaining ones were advancing too fast to have a chance to defeat them all. On the other flank, the skywardens fared even more poorly. Garti had directed his unit’s volley gunner to target the handlers who goaded the stormfiends forwards, but it was to little avail. They were being swept along in the vermintide, and nothing would prevent them from reaching the duardin lines in moments.

From the corner of her vision, Orrum could see an eerie green glow coming from the cannons that replaced the arms of the nearest monstrous brute. She didn’t know what manner the attack from them would take, but she was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. She swallowed, and focused on remaining in the rhythm of firing into the mass of furred bodies approaching. Each shot downed a skaven. There were plenty more to take their places.

The stormfiends marched closer, and the lead beast stopped, raising its augmented arms. The green glow built, and Orrum braced herself. A burst of emerald flame issued from each of the barrels and bathed the duardin lines.

The heat was intense, causing Orrum to break out in a sweat. She was on the outer edge of the blast, yet the warpfire superheated the outer layers of her armour. The rubberised undersuit that protected most of her body bubbled and began to melt.

Other privateers were consumed by the inferno, briefly becoming columns of green-tinged fire before falling, never to rise again, smouldering corpses fused to rubber and metal.

Then the projected flames stopped. Orrum readied herself for a second blast, but it never came. She looked up in surprise as the giant rat-creature stumbled, swayed and fell forwards.

She looked around for the source of this unexpected salvation, and saw something incredible in the distance. A group of endrinriggers, the mechanics of the sky-fleets, were held aloft by their aether-endrins above the enemy horde, peppering the stormfiends with red-hot rivets from compact pistols.

‘Where did they come from?’ she asked no one, the words unheard over the constant noise. The question, nevertheless, was soon answered, as the skaven line faltered and the cohesion of the phalanx began to break. Something was attacking them from behind. Orrum looked to the admiral, who was indicating that the Kharadrons should attack. Drawing her rune-enhanced cutter and checking her pistol hadn’t been damaged by the flames – a misfire now could take her arm off – Orrum Steelfist charged.

Harek Steelfist led the charge into the rear of the skaven lines. His skalfhammer swung, his strength enhanced by the aethermatic energy given by his backpack, and the desire to rescue his daughter, if she still lived.

The Ancestor’s Axe and its support vessels had arrived in the Copperfang Peaks hours before, and quickly located the errant fleet. Surrounding Kraglan’s vessels, Harek had issued them an ultimatum – stand down or be destroyed. They had complied, thankfully. The Rune of Mark exempted Harek and his crews from the code for the duration of this mission, but none of them wanted to fire upon their fellow Kharadrons.

A meeting with the captains of the sky-vessels had revealed that Kraglan had led her ground forces into an ancient duardin hold further down the mountain. Harek had been intrigued by the discovery, though his scorn at the failure of Kraglan to find Barak-Zhoff had initially overcome that. Harek had immediately assembled a landing party to go after them. They’d taken a winding pathway down the mountain, following a trail that had been recently cleared, presumably by Kraglan’s warriors. Soon after their arrival in the hold, it had begun to shake, and an almighty noise had drowned out all other sounds. The duardin had doubled their efforts, following the widest corridors and throughways, the likeliest route that their fellows would have taken.

And then they saw the enemy. A formation of skaven larger than any Harek had ever witnessed was marching relentlessly away from them, flanked by hideous war-beasts. They could only be attacking Kraglan and her allies. Harek didn’t hesitate. He signalled for his skywardens and endrinriggers to push forwards over the horde and give aid to the no doubt beleaguered Kharadrons, while he led the arkanauts and thunderers into the rear of the clanrats.

It was a massacre. Focused on their target, and with the sound and shaking robbing them of their senses, the skaven never saw them coming. The Kharadron force scythed through them, killing dozens before the ratmen could even hope to react. As they began to realise what was happening, the skaven tried to turn, breaking their formation and causing chaos within their ranks. Harek and his warriors took full advantage of it, and they were soon joined by Kraglan’s arkanauts, catching the vermin between two furious and vengeful Kharadron Overlords forces.

The skaven didn’t stand a chance.

Orrum slumped against a pillar, utterly spent. She was in agony, her skin blistering from the heat of the warpflame attack. She was lucky, though. Fully a third of the Broken Blades had fallen to the flames, and more as they surged into the skaven lines. There had been more than enough skaven to make the battle difficult and dangerous, and many duardin would never return to Barak-Nar.

The battle over, the forces had quickly returned to the hold’s entrance, stepping out into bright daylight. They were exhausted, the stress of battle and the danger they had been in draining them. They had to get back to the ships. The noise and shaking was no better out here, and it was clear something terrible was happening to the mountain hold. The ground beneath them was cracking, eerie green light spilling out. Steam vented from some of them, making the landscape itself a danger.

A shadow passed over Orrum, and she looked up. Standing over her was her father. Wordlessly, Harek Steelfist swept his daughter up into a hug. It seemed to last forever, and Orrum found that she was weeping.

Her father broke the hug.

‘I’m so glad you’re alive,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ Orrum replied. It was wholly inadequate, but all words seemed to be. Her father seemed to understand. He nodded and indicated that Orrum should get moving. A column of Kharadrons was moving back up the path, towards where the sky-vessels were moored.

The procession rushed onwards, fighting against their own exhaustion and the increasingly unstable surface underfoot. Finally, they reached the spot where the fleet had made anchor, and the noise at last receded to the point where they could just about hear each other talk.

The six vessels Borri had brought had been joined by many more ships, including a war-vessel so large that it seemed to cast a shadow over half the mountain. The forces began to split up to return to their respective ships, but when she tried to rejoin the remnants of the Broken Blades, Orrum found herself stopped by a firm grip on her shoulder. She turned to see her father shaking his head.

‘You’re coming with me on the Ancestor’s Axe,’ he said. ‘And so are you, Borri Kraglan.’ Harek turned to face the admiral, who had been passing behind him on the way back to her ironclad. ‘By the authority of the Admirals Council of Barak-Nar and in accordance with the Rune of Mark I bear, you are hereby arrested for treason.’

Borri was marched aboard the Ancestor’s Axe by a guard of stoic Grundstok Thunderers. She remained silent. Nothing she could say now would make any difference. And it didn’t matter anyway. All that was important was stopping the mad skaven warlock’s plan. The guards followed Steelfist, who was talking with his daughter as they hurried to the deck. Soon enough they stood at the gigantic warship’s prow.

One by one, the sky-vessels pulled away from the mountain, speeding off to a hopefully safe distance. The Ancestor’s Axe was the last to leave, reversing slowly away, giving Borri a good view of what was going on below. To her horror, the mountain was split by an immense crack, green warpfire billowing out from the growing fissure, consuming vegetation and scorching the ancient stone black. Entire cliff faces sheared away under the pressure and fell into the abyss below. Impossibly, new cliffs seemed to be appearing, dragged out of the chasm as if by some terrible magic.

‘No,’ she breathed. It was so much worse than that. The skaven had been telling the truth.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the mountain was rising.

Harek Steelfist turned to Borri. ‘You fool. What have you done?’

Borri bit back a laugh. ‘You think this is my doing, Steelfist? You think I have the power to make a mountain fly?’

Harek shook his head. ‘No. No, of course not. What happened down there? Do you have any idea what caused this?’

‘The skaven,’ Borri said, grimacing. ‘They’re using duardin technology and their own magic to do… this. This place, Harek, I think it’s where Barak-Zhoff launched from, long ago. The secrets in there… They’ve been defiled, twisted to hideous ends.’

‘We have to leave,’ Harek said firmly. ‘Get to the nearest sky-port and warn them about this abomination.’

‘We can’t just leave it!’ Borri was aghast. ‘Who knows what damage it could do.’

‘Damage? How exactly is it going to cause damage?’ Harek demanded. ‘Is it going to land on things very hard? It’s a mountain.’

‘No, it’s not.’ Borri and Harek both turned to look at Orrum. ‘It’s not just a mountain. It’s a duardin hold. It was built to be defended. Hidden in the surface of that mountain will be dozens, or hundreds, or maybe thousands of ports that can be opened to allow the inhabitants to fire on any attackers. If the skaven have access to them – and we have to assume that they do – they probably have weapons waiting to fire.’

‘The lass is right,’ Borri said. ‘You saw the weapons on those creatures down there. That thing probably has dozens, hundreds, like that and worse. We have to stop them.’

Harek sighed. ‘What can we do? We’ve twenty-seven ships against a floating duardin hold. We don’t even know what we can do to damage it.’

‘Anything we can,’ said Borri darkly.

Orrum’s prediction proved horribly correct. As the mountain rose into the sky, ancient hatches and ports scraped open in the rock, and all manner of horrors emerged. The activation of the perverted endrins and the raising of the hold was obviously their cue to prepare for battle. Borri activated her magnification lens and saw massive arcane cannons being wheeled into view by teams of hundreds of skaven. More monstrous mutants with weapons embedded in their stomachs and replacing their arms stood in their hundreds in yawning entrances, guns readying to fire.

From hidden launch bays, bizarre contraptions took flight. Some had the aspect of ancient duardin gyrocopters, but brutally altered with skaven technology, while others were clearly attempts to replicate that idea, but using warpstone and mad science. They began to head towards the Kharadron fleet, even as the mountain-hold itself turned its many, many guns in their direction and ever so painstakingly slowly, began to move. Great hatches opened on one flank, pulsing flares of sickly green fire emerging as their foul endrins pushed the incredible mass of the hold into flight.

Harek went into action, issuing orders for signal flags to be raised and the fleet to take defensive positions. Crew began to prepare weapons and warriors still weary from the battles in the depths of the hold prepared to repel boarders, should it come to that.

Orrum had obtained a long magnascope from one of the crew and was watching the flying mountain closely.

The various vessels of Steelfist’s armada began to come about and ready themselves for the coming battle. But the six ships that had come here under Borri’s command seemed to be following different orders. They grouped together defensively, keeping clear of the formation being established by the larger fleet.

‘Damn it, what are they up to?’ Harek growled. ‘Why aren’t they falling in line, Kraglan?’

‘Because you don’t command them, Harek,’ said Borri quietly. ‘They flew here under my flag. You may have brought me here, but I’m still their admiral.’

‘You’ve brought them to ruin and probably death, you fool. They can’t possibly still be following you.’

‘They are,’ Orrum said, still studying the hold through the magnascope. ‘You detaining the admiral ensured their loyalty to her.’

Harek gazed at her askance. ‘What are you talking about, lass? Surely they see that she’s a criminal?’

Orrum turned and leaned the long magnascope against the deck. ‘If she’s a criminal, so are they. And so am I. You don’t understand, father. You’ve lived your life entirely by the code. You’ve never innovated, pushed boundaries, done something because it needs to be done. And it’s worked for you. It’s got you what you want. On the council, influential. But not one of the crew on your ships here has the loyalty to you that we have to Admiral Kraglan. You’re an admiral. She’s a leader.’

‘She’s a traitor!’ bellowed Harek. ‘She’s a killer!’

‘No one died here who wasn’t willing to lay down their life for the sake of what we might achieve,’ Orrum said.

‘He wasn’t talking about today, lass,’ Borri said quietly. Both Steelfists turned to her. ‘Were you, Harek? You were talking about the Rusted Wastes.’

‘Yes, damn you. I was talking about the day you killed my wife.’

The magnascope dropped to the deck with a dull thud and rolled away as Orrum stared at first her father, then Borri.

‘What are you talking about, father?’ she asked slowly.

‘It’s my fault your mother died, Orrum,’ Borri said. ‘I was there, along with your father, and by my actions, she ended up falling beneath the blade of a fell creature. If I hadn’t been rash and impulsive, it might not have happened.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened,’ the elder Steelfist said. ‘You as good as killed her.’

‘I accepted that a long time ago, Harek,’ said Borri. ‘I also accepted that if I hadn’t acted as I did, we might have all died. I’m not saying that I don’t feel guilty for depriving your lass of a mother, and for robbing you of the woman you loved. But there was more at stake. And also…’ She trailed off, not sure if she should say what was also on her mind.

‘Also what?’ Orrum demanded. ‘What else do I need to know, admiral?’

‘That it should have been me,’ Harek answered. ‘The blow that killed her was meant for me. She took it to save my life. I’m as much to blame as anyone. If I’d been faster and got out of the way, or–’

Harek broke off into choking sobs. Orrum looked levelly at both admirals. When she spoke, her voice was clear and even.

‘I wasn’t there,’ she said. ‘And I’m learning of this in less than ideal circumstances. And if we make it through this alive, I want the whole story, from both of you. You have spent decades hating each other for whatever happened. Is that what she would have wanted? Stop being fools and work together. Be heroes, like she was.’

Borri could say nothing. The guilt she had felt for decades threatened to rise up and consume her. And then it vanished like mist before the winds of Orrum’s words. She looked at Harek.

‘The lass is right, Harek. We’re too old to keep fighting over this. It’s time to let it go.’

To her own surprise as much as anyone’s, Borri grasped Harek Steelfist in a hug. The other admiral didn’t object. For long moments, they stood like that, and then Borri pulled away.

‘We can finish this later,’ she said. ‘And we will. But first, I need to get back to the Fearless Undertaking. We need to make this fleet work together. Orrum, you were studying that monstrosity. You saw the plans. I saw you taking notes. Any ideas?’

The young Steelfist nodded eagerly. ‘The endrins, whatever it is they’re made of. They seem to be built into the lower section of the hold, and from the glow, I’d guess they’re using warpstone as a power source, along with aether.’

‘That’ll be volatile,’ Harek said, pulling himself together and coming back to the present. ‘We need to take advantage of that.’

‘There seem to be vents all around the circumference ejecting… something. They’ll be a weak point. If we can hit them with enough firepower, we might be able to force a breach and fire directly on an endrin. Overloading or destroying it could maybe cause a chain reaction…’ Orrum waved her hands helplessly. ‘I don’t know. It’s all I can think of.’

‘How much firepower?’

‘Everything we have, and a lot of luck.’

‘It’s our best shot,’ Borri said. ‘The gunhaulers can keep the rats off us while we get the bigger ships in for the kill. Harek?’

The admiral nodded. ‘It’s all we’ve got. But we’re going to need every ship. Kraglan, if the crews on those vessels will only follow you, we need to get you back to them. But you’re still coming back to Barak-Nar for tribunal when this is over. If any of us survive.’

Borri nodded. ‘Aye. Aye, I am.’

Harek sighed. ‘I don’t see how we can get you there in the midst of battle though.’

‘I have an idea,’ Borri said. ‘Do you have any spare aether-endrins?’

Chapter Nine

Borri patted the head of her skalfhammer. She hated to leave it behind, but with her backpack-mounted power generator replaced with aether-endrins, the hammer was an impediment, taking more strength and concentration to carry and swing than she could muster. Instead, she had claimed a skypike from the armoury on the Ancestor’s Axe and was refamiliarising herself with the weapon.

‘It’s been a few decades since I last used one of these,’ she said to the endrinrigger who was helping to gear her up. ‘But the old instincts come back quickly enough. At least I hope so, because I’m about to fly through that with just aether-endrins between me and a long fall.’

The skaven flying machines were in among the fleet now. They were ramshackle contraptions, a good number of them falling to pieces as the aether-currents grabbed them, never mind being blown apart by cannon and volley gun fire from the sky-vessels. But they had numbers on their side, and they were faster and smaller than the bulky Kharadron ships.

‘On the plus side, if one of those things gets you, it probably won’t be the fall that kills you,’ the young duardin said brightly.

‘Aye, very helpful,’ said Borri icily.

‘That’s you all ready to go, admiral,’ the endrinrigger told her. Borri checked her pistol, gripped the skypike and headed back out onto deck.

As the bulkhead pushed open, the noise of engines, the wind and weapons fire hit her. But above it all was the sound of an argument. The two Steelfists were bellowing at each other on the foredeck. Orrum was equipped with aether-endrins, the same as Borri.

‘Absolutely not! You are staying here where you’re safe!’

‘We’re all in danger unless we can work to get those ironclads and frigates together. The admiral needs to get to her ship. She’ll have a better chance with someone watching her back!’

‘But why you?’

‘I started this with Admiral Kraglan, and I’m finishing it with her. And…’

The arguing father and daughter heard Borri’s approach and looked up.

‘Tell him, lass,’ Borri said softly.

‘When we were at the Stormcast fortress,’ Orrum began, ‘the Lord-Castellant told me something. He said I would make a choice between two desires. That I would do what was right, and that it would tear my heart in two. I want to stay with you, father.’

Harek slumped back, clearly relieved.

‘But I can’t,’ Orrum continued quietly. ‘Leaving you now is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve taken this journey and I need to see it through to the end, no matter what. I have to go. I have to.’

The elder Steelfist was quiet. Finally, he nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you do.’

He embraced his daughter, and took one long look at her before Orrum hurried off to grab her weapons.

Harek turned to Borri, who looked guilt-stricken.

‘I know, Harek. Look after her or–’

‘No.’ The word cut through Borri’s bluster. ‘That’s not what I need to say, Borri. When I was chasing you, I stopped at the Empyrean Bastion. I spoke to Arcus. He told me to let go of the past. And I will. But I need you to promise that no matter what happens, you will make sure my daughter survives this. Get her home. Don’t do anything that will endanger her. Do you understand me?’

‘I do, Harek. I do. I swear to you, on my honour and on the Kharadron Code, that Orrum will return to Barak-Nar safely, and that when we get back there, I will atone for my actions in whatever way the council deems fit.’

Borri raised her arm, and Harek gripped the wrist in a warrior’s handshake. Then the two parted for the last time.

Borri and Orrum stood on the rail of the Ancestor’s Axe. With one glance back at Harek, who stood ramrod-straight, staring back at them, they jumped. Borri’s stomach lurched as gravity took her and she went into freefall, and then her aether-endrins fired and she rose rapidly, with a commensurate reversal of the feeling in her guts as her body reacted.

And then they were flying through the carnage of aerial battle. Around them, gunhaulers fired volleys of shots at nimble skaven flyers. The rickety contraptions were everywhere, firing blasts of green energy powered by warpstone that left searing trails across Borri’s vision, or peppering the hulls of gunhaulers with streams of gatling fire.

Larger, slower skaven ships were dotted among the fighters. They were long, flat barges held aloft by crude versions of aether-endrins, and packed onto them were regiments of skaven warriors, and groups of stormfiends. The gunhaulers were prioritising these, trying to destroy the attacking forces before they could land on any of the Kharadron ships and overwhelm the crew.

Above Borri, a trio of the smaller craft sped up, pointing straight at one of the small Kharadron vessels. The three skaven ships impacted against the gunhauler in succession, exploding into emerald warpflame. Borri cursed the skaven and how little they valued their own lives. When the smoke cleared, the gunhauler was listing, an immense hole in its hull. Another group of skaven sky-vessels swooped in, crude gatling fire and warpflame-wreathed projectiles hammering at the breach. The barrage was too much for the gunhauler. The aether-fuel tanks detonated and a pair of fireballs blossomed, one at the sky-vessel’s heart and the other where the endrin had been moments before. The ship vanished in fire, taking precious duardin lives with it.

The shockwave from the blast buffeted Borri, and she had to pull hard to the side to compensate. She went too far and nearly collided with the propeller of a skaven craft. As she twisted to avoid the thrashing blades, she thrust her skypike down, skewering the pilot. The flying ship went out of control, spiralling off and colliding with another, destroying them both in an explosion that filled the air with oily black smoke.

Borri turned to ensure Orrum was still with her, and saw the lass put a pinpoint pistol shot into the snout of a skaven gunner who was training a long-barrelled jezzail on Borri. She nodded her thanks and urged her endrin onwards, pushing it to its limits.

As they sped through the battle, avoiding weapons fire and taking opportunistic shots, the pair saw the scale of what they needed to achieve. The skaven were endless, the Kharadron vessels few, and growing fewer. And the great mountain-hold grew ever closer, the burning glow of the warpstone-aether mix that held it aloft venting from near its base, painting the air around it a sickly green.

They came at last to the corner of the engagement where the Fearless Undertaking and its fellow sky-vessels had taken up a defensive position. The ships were trying to focus fire and take down attacking skaven craft as efficiently as possible, but the six of them couldn’t hope to hold back the tide. As Borri gunned her endrins to increase speed, she saw the first skaven assault craft getting close enough to disgorge their verminous cargo. The ever-cunning ratmen had softened the Kharadron defences, and meant to seize as many ships as they could now to add to their motley armada. Borri would be damned before she let any vessel of Barak-Nar fall into the paws of the hideous creatures.

A host of clanrats leaped onto the Loaded Gun. A few of them missed their landing and clawed frantically on the hull for support before falling, disappearing from sight as gravity led them to a grisly demise. The ones who made it were met by determined crew and arkanaut privateers, and battle was joined. Borri wanted to land and help them, but she needed to reach the Fearless Undertaking. It was so close.

Before she could make it, another crude skaven transport broke through the furious volley of fire. It was burning and falling, but before it dipped below the level of the ironclad’s deck, a pair of hulking stormfiends threw themselves from the flame-wreathed ship and landed on the Kharadron vessel.

Borri sped forwards, watching helplessly as Zaff fired shot after shot into one of the stormfiends, standing his ground as the creature approached, a great drill whirring on the stump of its arm. The mutant thrust, and the drill impaled the ironclad’s captain, tearing him apart in a shower of blood and viscera.

Borri screamed in rage and grief as her flight took her above the Fearless Undertaking. She cut her endrins, and let her momentum bring her swiftly down towards the deck. She aimed her borrowed skypike down, and with immense force, drove it through the back of the stormfiend’s neck, down through its chest. She landed heavily and rolled on the deck, armour and sky-suit slick with Zaff’s blood. The creature roared and fell to its knees, and Borri came up with pistol in hand and emptied the entire magazine into the rat-beast’s skull, obliterating what passed for a brain. With a squeal, it fell back and was still.

‘Vengeance,’ she breathed, looking around. Orrum had landed too, and drawn her cutter, joining the arkanauts and thunderers defending the ironclad in taking on the second stormfiend. They danced around the lumbering beast, which tried to club them with its cannons, too close to fire effectively. Eventually, the number of cuts and blows and bullets that it took brought it down. It staggered backwards and toppled over the rail, disappearing from sight.

Borri turned her attention to the crew.

‘All right, lads. We’ve lost the captain, but we’ll mourn him later. I need signal flags raised to indicate the advance. We’re moving in to support Steelfist’s fleet. I’ll take the wheel.’

The ironclad’s crew moved into action, carrying out the orders, signalling the six ships in the small armada to head into what might be the most important battle any of them would ever fight… or the last.

Harek Steelfist watched from the deck of the Ancestor’s Axe as the ironclads and frigates of his fleet converged. Gunhaulers weaved around them, concentrating their fire on the attacking fighters and transports. Slowly, the great warship turned to bring its guns to bear, and Harek gave the order to signal all ships to focus fire on the same spot as his gunners. Finally, the ship entered weapons range, and the barrage began. Sky-cannons and volley guns spat shots towards one of the vents on the immense floating fortress.

And the stolen hold returned fire.

Warp lightning cannons sent zigzagging blasts of coruscating energy into the warship’s hull. Gatling guns peppered ships with fire. Mortars hurled glass globes that shattered against the deck, spreading poison gas that was ineffective against sealed Kharadron flying suits. As Harek watched, one of the endrinriggers was engulfed in the poison wind, and stumbled. Harek saw a tear in the duardin’s rubberised suit, and started forwards, but there was nothing he could do. The effect of the poison wind was instant and devastating. The unlucky duardin slumped to the ground, coughing up his organs.

Crew rushed to and fro, making sure there was plenty of ammunition for the guns as they continued to pour fire into the fortress. Other ships had joined in now, ironclads sending punishing volleys of cannonballs and swifter frigates moving closer. A pair of them fired skyhooks, latching on to the rock face around the vent and pulling chunks away, revealing more of the warpstone glow.

Kraglan’s ships had reached them now and joined in the bombardment. The breach was expanding, as wide as a gunhauler, then almost the size of a frigate, and continuing to grow.

‘Torpedoes!’ growled Harek, and the signal went out. Powerful guided projectiles packed with explosive charges surged away from the ironclads. The Ancestor’s Axe fired a brace, and together the volley sped towards the breach. Harek held his breath as they impacted one after another, the detonations brutalising the rock face further, but failing to ignite the endrins that were venting warp-aether.

Enemy fire continued to pound against Harek’s flagship, but many of the gunners on the fortress had turned their attention to more vulnerable targets. A pair of frigates were on fire, warp lightning having detonated their endrins, sending them towards inevitable destruction. One of the ironclads had had its main deck cleared of crew by a scything volley of fire. It seemed that before his death, the captain had sent it sailing towards the breach. More and more skaven concentrated fire on it as it advanced, and finally it exploded, secondary detonations from the ammunition and aether stores popping fruitlessly as the vessel turned into a fireball agonisingly close to the glowing hole in the rocky surface. If it had only gone a little further before exploding, it might have been enough.

‘Again,’ Harek demanded, and another round of torpedoes fired, to the same result. ‘It’s not working,’ he said aloud. ‘The torpedoes aren’t powerful enough. There’s not enough time to do the job with them alone. And we have nothing else. Except…’

A calm passed over him. He knew what he had to do. And he knew that he was going to do it. It was the only way.

‘New orders!’ he bellowed. ‘Signal to the fleet to concentrate fire on the emplacements.’ The signal crew sent the command and awaited further orders. Harek took a deep breath. ‘Endrin room,’ he said, ‘full power. We’re going in.’

‘The weapons?’ Borri shouted. ‘Was he not listening? This is the only way. We need to keep firing at the breach, all of us.’

She and Orrum stood braced at the Fearless Undertaking’s hull, watching as the Kharadron fleet fruitlessly fired shot after shot against the fortress, taking punishing attacks from its many guns. As the ironclad shuddered under another barrage, Borri realised it might not be such a bad idea to reduce the weight of fire. She pulled on the wheel, bringing the ironclad up to focus on the almost impossibly large cliff face, and ordered the cannon to continue firing.

The other frigates and ironclads did the same, blasting chunks of the hold apart. Ancient archways collapsed, crushing gunners and destroying weapons. Ammunition and warpstone-powered weapons exploded, and soon it seemed that half the mountain was aflame. Still, they continued firing. So focused was Borri on punishing the skaven that she didn’t notice the Ancestor’s Axe changing course and slowly gaining speed.

‘Admiral?’ Orrum said, and Borri turned.

‘Aye, lass?’

‘What’s the flagship doing? What is my father doing?’

They watched for a moment as the massive battleship completed its turn, prow now pointed directly into the yawning breach in the rock.

Panic entered Orrum’s voice. ‘He’s going to ram it! He’s going to kill himself and destroy his ship! He can’t. He…’

Borri closed her eyes, remembering again the words of Arcus of the Sigmarite Brotherhood. It would tear Orrum’s heart in two.

‘He’s doing what he has to, lass,’ Borri said quietly.

‘No!’ Orrum shouted. ‘No, no, he can’t. You can’t let him. You have to do something. He’ll have an escape plan – an aether-endrin like we used, or an emergency dirigible. We need to be there to pick him up. Come on!’

‘No, Orrum. There’s no escape. If they leave the ship, the skaven can board and turn it around, and then they’ll have that in their arsenal as well. This is your father doing what he must. And I’ll do the same and honour his last request to me. To keep you safe. To make sure that you get back to Barak-Nar. To make sure that the best thing he ever did remains in this realm. He loves you, lass. This is the last way he has of showing it.’

The Ancestor’s Axe sped on. All the guns on the mountain targeted it now, trying desperately to end its headlong flight. Armour was disintegrated by lightning arcs, and concentrated gatling gun fire caused a breach in one of the massive endrins that kept the battleship aloft. Its acceleration slowed, but momentum carried it on.

The Fearless Undertaking and the other remaining ships continued to fire on the skaven weapons. A pinpoint strike with a skyhook pulled away the rock beneath a phalanx of warp lightning cannons, and the infernal devices fell, consuming a phalanx of stormfiends who were gathered below in an almighty explosion.

It was a drop in the ocean, but it was enough. The battleship was going to reach its target. Borri motioned to a crew member to take over the wheel, and ordered the retreat be signalled to the fleet. As the ironclad slowly turned, the move echoed by the remaining ships, Borri took Orrum by the shoulder and guided her aft. There they stood and looked towards the mountain. Part of Borri wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She owed it to Harek Steelfist to watch his greatest triumph, and his heroic demise.

The navigator’s aim was true. The prow of the Ancestor’s Axe hit the breach near its centre, and drove onwards. Endrins powered by warpstone detonated as the battleship’s massive bulk broke against them. A series of explosions began, and as it pushed deeper, like a spear into an open wound, the Kharadron vessel was consumed by the green-tinged flames that ensued. And then, in a blinding conflagration, the Ancestor’s Axe died.

Beside her, Orrum howled in grief, but Borri kept watching. The explosion was immense, and its effects dramatic. More and more tainted endrins were caught in it, and a chain reaction began. It built, the result now inevitable, and it ended the only way it could. The raw energy of vast quantities of warpstone – Chaos given physical form, enhanced and channelled through the power of aether – caused the ancient peak, and the bastion of duardin civilisation it held, to die. The immense explosion engulfed the lower reaches of the mountain and sent a shockwave through the entire peak. Rock sundered, split and fell from the sky, taking ancient secrets with it – and also the enemy who had claimed them. Borri had to look away as the flare from the detonation grew, but she had the impression of a great rift consuming the mountain, of clawing hands and leering faces with too many mouths and eyes. And then it was gone.

The battle was over. The skaven were destroyed.

Victory. But at a cost too high to bear.

Of the twenty-seven sky-vessels that had engaged the skaven in the Copperfang Peaks, a mere dozen returned to Barak-Nar. They arrived as Borri’s ships had left, in the night, to no fanfare, no bustling crowds, no acclaim.

When she disembarked from the Fearless Undertaking, Borri was met by a contingent of guards, who took her into custody to await tribunal.

This time, Admiral Kraglan returned with no bulging holds full of valuable trinkets and precious metals. She came with no tales of heroic victory and great deeds. She returned with tragedy. She returned a criminal. And she would face her punishment, but she had done her final duty. She had returned with Orrum Steelfist.

The girl had said barely a word on the weeks-long journey home. She had secreted herself away in a cabin, scribbling in a logbook she’d acquired somewhere in the diminished fleet. Borri had left her. It was for the best. She didn’t know what she could have said anyway.

It was on Borri’s third day of incarceration that Orrum visited her. The girl stood silently for a while, then handed Borri her logbook.

‘What’s this, lass?’ she asked.

‘Notes, admiral,’ Orrum said. ‘Translations of some texts I found in the ancient hold. I took them while you were occupied with the skaven leader. I thought you might find them interesting.’

Borri flicked through the logbook’s pages. It looked like part of a chronicle, telling the tale of the hold. It spoke of experiments with the new-found aether. Of collaboration with engineers across a vast empire that encompassed all of Chamon. Of the increase in attacks by Chaos forces. Of the creation of a new kind of home for the duardin. One that could rise above the clouds.

Borri reached the end and felt a grin forming. She read it again.

‘You’re sure?’ she asked Orrum. ‘That’s definitely what it said?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Borri leaned back in her chair, thinking. Her hunch had been accurate. She read aloud from the logbook.

‘Today we finally see our salvation rise. Today we leave one home behind and take to the skies. Today, Chamon sees the birth of Barak-Zhoff.’ She looked up at Orrum, who was still standing, gazing at her with a gleam in her eye that Borri was sure reflected her own. ‘Sit down, lass. Our quest isn’t over yet. Barak-Zhoff is still out there somewhere. Here, you might just have the next step towards finding it.’

Orrum sat, and together they started to form a plan.

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 ‘The Sea Taketh’ by David Guymer,
from the Age of Sigmar anthology Myths & Revenants.

‘Oh, ware the day the fishing folk come,

To no barrier will they concede,

Their lures will entice both the strong and the frail,

And lo will the good fishes bleed…’

‘What is that ditty she sings?’

Ingdrin Jonsson had no idea at what age humans considered their offspring to be competent adults, as per Artycle Nine of the Kharadron Code, but the girl was as winsome and waifish a thing as he could imagine, and so addressed his question to the father.

‘Tis an old song, Master Jonsson,’ Tharril bellowed, his words timed to the rhythm of his oars and the crash of spray across his back. ‘Her ma sang it to her, as my ma sang it to me.’

‘It gives me the creeps.’

‘Any honest song should.’

Jonsson clung grimly to the port gunwale as freezing saltwater sprayed his face. It was not like plying skyborne currents. His dusky beard stuck to his skin and to his light sky-captain’s leathers. He could taste the ocean on his breath. Holding fiercely to the slimy wood, he peered back into their star-speckled wake. The surface of the ocean bulged and receded, as though something vast and primordial breathed. Where waves crested, they caught starlight. Where waves sank, they folded under, taking that captive light back with them to the depths. The oceans were realms within the realms, forgotten by time, history and gods. Ancient magic dwelled there, unformed, untouched by hands mortal or divine since the formation of the aetheric cloud itself. With every precipitating crash against the hull, he was reminded of its elementalism. With every tug of current on the keel, Jonsson conceded a little more that he had placed his fate in the hands of a dark and unruly god.

‘They crave what’s within, ’neath flesh and ’neath bone,

Sparing only the young…’

Tharril was effectively enthroned in the wooden prow of the boat, an oar in each hand, controlling the boom of the lateen sail with a pedal-like noose of rope about his left foot. Beneath the bench there was a massive warhammer, and in his lap, a spear. Tharril and his folk were fishermen, but there were plenty of fish around Blackfire Bight that would consider a single-sail like this one small prey. Jonsson too was armed, a skyhook on a strap across his shoulder and a privateer pistol loaded in his holster.

Thalia, the girl (Jonsson had also heard her father call her ‘spratling’ or oft times just ‘sprat’), sat against the starboard gunwale, across the centreline from Jonsson. A plaid net lay in sodden folds over her knees as she sang her ballad, extricating wriggling fish as long as her arm or longer. Silver, nightshade-blue and bone-white shimmered under starlight as they flapped and squirmed, only to disappear into buckets of cold brine. Jonsson watched as she pulled another fighter from the net. Smaller, this one, its tail barely reaching her elbow with her hand clamped expertly about its gills. She tossed it over the side.

The ocean accepted its return with a faint splash.

‘And when they grow old and grandchildren forget,

That will be the day when the fishing folk come.’

Jonsson wondered if he was paying Tharril and his girl too much to sail him out there, if they were just going to pursue a normal day’s take along the way.

‘Why do you throw back the small ones?’

‘They are young,’ she replied.

‘But why?’

She shrugged. ‘You just do.’

With a grunt, as disturbed as much by the company of the odd girl as by her brute of a father, Jonsson pried his fingers from the gunwale and leant forwards. His chest of equipment had been stowed inboard.

With exaggerated care because his hands were numbed with cold and shrivelled by salt spray, he worked the combination lock and lifted the lid. Unrolling the now-wet fleece packing, he assembled his zephyrscope and arktant.

Bringing the rubber eyepiece to his eye, he trained it on the twinkling dot of Sigendil. The night sky might vary from realm to realm, and even within a realm, and with the movements of Ulgu-Hysh within the aetheric cloud, but the beacon star of Azyr was a fixed point in every sky. With one eye on the High Star, he manipulated the sliders on his arktant to account for the position of the local constellations.

‘Can you hold this thing steady?’

‘Ha!’ Tharril barked, rowing.

‘Bokak,’ Jonsson swore, as a sideswipe wave spoiled his measurements.

‘What are you doing?’ Thalia asked.

‘Taking a position, girl.’

‘Why?’

‘Because!’

‘I thought Kharadron lived in the sky.’

Jonsson sighed. ‘Aye, girl, we do, seeking our fortunes on the aether winds.’ He leant across the open chest and winked. ‘But every now and again, some careless soul drops something.’

‘You are looking for treasure?’

‘It won’t look for itself.’

The girl sniffed, with the iron rectitude of the very small. ‘No one takes from the sea.’

‘Good. It’ll still be there then.’

‘No one takes from the sea.’

‘What about these?’ Jonsson nodded towards the nets and buckets full of splashing fish.

‘That’s what the sea gives.’

Her deathly earnestness brought a snippet of a smile to Jonsson’s face. ‘A sour face like that aboard an aether-ship is almost always a sign of something trapped in the ear. Very serious if left untended.’ He reached out as though to tug on her ear, but then pulled his hand back with a flourish at the last moment, presenting her with a copper comet and a toothy grin.

She frowned.

‘Hah!’ said Jonsson, slapping his thigh. ‘Would you see that? Somebody raised this girl right.’ He passed one hand over the other, the copper coin disappearing. Then he unfurled the palm of the crossed hand to reveal a larger, golden coin. The girl’s eyes lit up, as if in reflection. ‘A quarter-share, from the aether mints of Barak-Thryng, girl. Legal tender under any of the six great admiralties.’

‘Take the coin, spratling,’ grunted Tharril. ‘Afore he makes it disappear again.’

Jonsson winked as the girl scraped it off his palm.

‘What’s that?’ she said.

Jonsson followed her gaze down.

‘Now that,’ he said, patting the hard object that lay safe beneath the second layer of fleecing, ‘is something that will really amaze you.’

Jonsson’s heavy boots thudded to the ocean floor. His legs bowed, his shoulders bunching, the monstrous pressure of the sea bottom crushing down on the weak points of his armour. The rigid plates of the deep-sea-adapted arkanaut suit creaked like a metal pipe being squeezed by a gargant.

‘Oh, ware the day the fishing folk come.’

He turned on the spot, ponderous as an armoured beetle. His headlamp sent a speckled beam into the pulverising blackness. Bubbles issuing from the seams in his armour and the rings of his air hose – a mile of collapsible metal flexing from the back of his helmet towards the surface – cut up his light. Every one was a tiny mirror held up in the completeness of the dark.

‘Ingdrin Jonsson isn’t afraid of the deep!’

He lowered his skyhook warily.

Almost nothing lived at these depths.

He knew of the merwynn and the kelpdarr, fiercely isolationist and protective of their territories, but even they rarely plumbed beyond the sunlit layer. The great beasts that preyed on such folk, lurkinarth and kalypsar and the like, prowled the richer waters of the coastal regions and shipping lanes accordingly. The ocean floor was a desert.

Spiny encrustations of rose-coloured coral glittered everywhere his lamps passed.

There was nothing here.

Bracing himself against the awesome weight of water on his shoulders, he thumped down to one knee. Bubbles and silt puffed up around the armoured joint, but the cloud stayed compact and low. With his beams angled tight to the opalescent reef around him, he ran his gauntlet over its surface. He had never seen a mineral like it. His light seemed to be trapped by the structure of it, spreading outwards through veins of denser crystal. Piece by piece, the reef lit up, and street by colonnaded street, the turrets and spires of a drowned city was lifted out of darkness.

‘Tromm…’ he breathed, bubbles squirming through the gaps in his mask.

The structures were of coral and lime, as if grown out of the reef itself, the lustre of nacre gleaming from monuments and domes. There were high towers. Great bridges. Palaces. Walls. Statues of what looked like aelves stood sentry over squares and gardens, armoured in opulence in pearl and shells and mounted upon monstrous piscine steeds. For all its obvious former glory, however, the place was a ruin. Pallid, light-shy vegetation strangled the life from the great works, the camouflaged wings of bottom-feeding rays rifling through the debris that littered the grand avenues.

‘Aighmar.’ Jonsson stared over the coral-lit city with something like reverence. ‘Lost city of the Deepkin aelves. I found it.’

‘Their lures will entice both the strong and the frail.’

Jonsson gripped his skyhook and looked back. His helmet could not freely rotate about his shoulders. It took a moment.

‘And lo will the good fishes bleed.’

Behind him again.

‘Who’s there?’

He plodded around another half-circle, bubbles exploding from his helmet’s seals as he cried out in alarm. While his attention had been fixed on the lambent city of the aelves, the blunt nose of something gigantic had emerged from one of the larger hollows in the reef. Jonsson did not see much. A dull flash of cartilaginous teeth. A silvery ripple of gills. Then there was an explosion in the water, spined fins seething, monstrous grey muscle writhing, and the beast was surging from its lair towards him.

He reacted on a hair-trigger. It saved his life.

In a storm of bubbles, the heavily adapted aether-endrin bolted onto his shoulders pushed him up and back. Shudders ran through the water as the beast’s jaws crashed shut on the effervescence where he had just been.

Jonsson got a horribly good look.

The beast was as long as a short-range gunhauler, grey as battle-damaged iron. Its eyes were glassy yellow knotholes of alien hunger.

With a powerful stroke of the tail, it twisted into Jonsson’s bubble trail, dorsal blade-fin carving the water as it closed the distance, fast. Jonsson swung his skyhook between them and fired. The harpoon launched in silence, a red cloud billowing from the side of the monster’s snout.

The beast thrashed in pain and fury, almost ripping the skyhook, still tethered to the harpoon by a taut length of steel chain. Jonsson pulled the release bolt before the gun was ripped out of his hands and the chain twanged off towards the wounded creature. Jonsson drew his pistol from its thigh holster. He had no expectation that it would fire under water, but it was all he had left.

The monster jerked about the middle, gnashing at the chain that its own movements flicked tauntingly over its head, missed, and drove its head through a coral wall. The reef crumbled around it, blood fountaining as the coral worked the harpoon embedded in the beast’s snout like a well pump, and something in its animal mind said ‘enough’.

It swam away, churning a thin river of red with its tail.

Jonsson let out a relieved breath.

That had been an allopex.

‘You have the best bad luck of any duardin born, Ingdrin Jonsson,’ he told himself.

He had never heard of an allopex hunting alone, and a school of them could bring down a krakigon.

‘They crave what’s within, ’neath flesh and ’neath bone.’

With a snarl, he swung his pistol towards the source of the voice, twisting his head prematurely so that he was looking into the back of his helmet. He almost laughed when he realised. It was the air hose. That girl, Thalia, must have been sat near the inlet, singing. He gave the base of the hose a rap as his boots sank inexorably back towards the ocean floor. ‘Nothing to fret over,’ he said loudly, hoping that his voice would carry back up. ‘Just like I promised.’

But when he started towards the ruins of Aighmar, he did so quickly.

There was blood in the water.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Rafael Teruel.

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