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

~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

THE GATES OF AZYR
An Age of Sigmar novella

~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

WAR STORM
An Age of Sigmar anthology

GHAL MARAZ
An Age of Sigmar anthology

HAMMERS OF SIGMAR
An Age of Sigmar anthology

CALL OF ARCHAON
An Age of Sigmar anthology

WARDENS OF THE EVERQUEEN
An Age of Sigmar novel

~ LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

FYRESLAYERS
An Age of Sigmar anthology

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

About the Author

An Extract From ‘Call of Archaon’

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 creation.

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

CHAPTER ONE

Assault on the Mandrake Bastion

‘Forward! For Sigmar, for Azyrheim, and for the Realm Celestial!’ Orius Adamantine roared, as he and the Stormcasts of his Warrior Chamber fought their way up the ashen slopes of the Tephra Crater. They battled through the crumbled barrows of a fallen people, and amongst swirling clouds of ash stirred into being by the burning, acidic rain which pelted down from the ominous sky. Its sizzling droplets left black streaks on the golden war-plate of the Stormcasts. Jagged streaks of azure lightning thrashed in the belly of the clouds, and the storm grew in intensity as the Hammers of Sigmar plunged into the fray.

The Lord-Celestant’s sigmarite runeblade slashed out to cleave a bloodreaver’s head from his shoulders, even as his hammer crushed the skull of another. More enemies surged towards him, hurling themselves down the slope through the burning rain with savage abandon. Crude axes and jagged blades hacked at him, drawing sparks from his golden war-plate.

‘Forward, my Adamantine,’ he shouted, smashing a bloodreaver from his path. ‘Let no foe bar thy path, no mercy stay thy hand – grind them under!’

Liberators advanced up the northern slope of the Tephra Crater, moving through the rocky barrows in tight formation, shields locked against the blood-addled tide that sought to sweep them from their path. They marched in lockstep, never wavering or slowing, but steadily ascending. Behind them came the Judicator retinues, their skybolt bows singing. They launched crackling shafts of energy into the air over the heads of the advancing Liberators to explode amongst the enemy. Rank upon rank of the Bloodbound fell but more pressed forward, clambering over the dead in their eagerness to come to grips with the Stormcasts.

The retinues of the Adamantine fought their way towards the rudimentary palisades that stretched across the curve of the slope. Crafted from volcanic stone, with trees torn from the rim of the crater many miles above, these palisades were larger and sturdier than those Orius’ chamber had brought down on the lower slopes. Tribes of bloodreavers occupied those unsophisticated ramparts, defending them on behalf of the monster who had descended into the crater to drown it in blood.

‘Anhur,’ Orius growled, unable to restrain the sudden surge of anger at the thought of the Khornate warlord as he smashed a bloodreaver to the ground. The Scarlet Lord had made a name for himself as he carved a path of carnage across the Felstone Plains. There were monsters aplenty plaguing Aqshy, but the Scarlet Lord was no simple blood-soaked raider or warmonger. He had purpose, and that made him deadly indeed.

But then, you always were one for plans, Orius thought. A face surfaced from among his scattered memories, the face of a man he’d once served. Angrily, he banished the memory. That man was as dead as the man Orius had been. Only the Scarlet Lord remained.

Twice before they’d fought, in those first red days of war, as the storm broke over Aqshy. He’d been in the vanguard at the assault on the Bale-Furnace, where the Bloodbound forged terrible weapons. Anhur had been amongst those warlords gathered there, to pay homage to the twisted furnace kings in return for weapons and armour. The Scarlet Lord had retreated across the Furnace Lands, taking whatever fell artefacts he’d bargained for with him.

Warrior Chambers from no fewer than three Stormhosts had pursued the warlord to the Hissing Gates and brought him to battle amidst the searing geysers. There, for the first time, Orius had met his enemy face-to-face… A crimson figure, awaiting him beyond the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing… a moment of recognition… He shook his head, thrusting the memories aside. Anhur had beaten the Stormcasts back then, mauling them badly enough that they could not pursue him as he led his warriors across the Felstone Plains.

Why Anhur had come to the Tephra Crater, to Klaxus, Orius did not know, but he would deliver the creature up to the judgement of Sigmar regardless. He drove his shoulder into a barbarian’s sternum, splintering bone and killing the warrior instantly. He swatted the body aside and forged onward, a trail of crushed and broken bloodreavers marking his progress. Retributor retinues waded through the battle in his wake, their heavy lightning hammers striking with all the force of the storm itself. With every blow a resounding clap of thunder shook the air, and crackling sky-magics ripped apart the bodies of the foe.

Working in unison, hammers rising and falling with a brutal rhythm, the Retributors cleared a path for their fellow paladins – the Decimator and Protector retinues who would punch through the Bloodbound lines and lead the assault on the palisades. At Orius’ signal, the Decimators surged forward, plunging past him, deep into the enemy lines. Their thunderaxes reaped a red harvest as severed limbs and decapitated heads were flung skyward.

As the bloodreavers reeled beneath the counter-assault, Orius and the remaining paladins fell in behind the advancing Decimators. The stormstrike glaives of the Protectors wove searing patterns in the air as they shielded the Liberators from attack, and the lightning hammers of the Retributors tore great holes in the enemy battle-line. Soon, the fur- and brass-clad tribesmen were in retreat, staggering back through the swirling clouds of soot and stinging rain.

The Stormcasts did not pause in their advance. Orius signalled to his auxiliary command, indicating that they should press onward. They had to reach the palisade before the enemy regrouped. He knew similar scenes were being played out across the circumference of the crater, on every slope. Warrior Chambers from a dozen different Stormhosts – the Hallowed Knights, the Astral Templars, Celestial Vindicators, and more – were fighting their way up these ash-choked slopes, smashing aside the bastions and stone bulwarks of the enemy in an effort to reach the rim of the Tephra Crater.

They all shared the same purpose, but each chamber had its own objective. To the south, the Hallowed Knights of the Stormforged Chamber fought to breach the enormous basalt gates which straddled the path to the rim-citadel of Ytalan. On the western slope, Lord-Celestant Zephacleas led the Astral Templars of the Beast-Bane Chamber against the howling hordes which guarded an ancient duardin road through the Raxulian lava-tubes. But to Orius and his chamber had fallen the task of clearing the Mandrake Bastion of Klaxus, and scouring that kingdom clean of the Blood God’s taint.

My kingdom, Orius thought, as he stalked forward, at the head of his warriors. While he, like many Stormcasts, could but dimly recall the days of his own mortality before his death and Reforging at Sigmar’s hand, Orius remembered enough. He could still recall the heady musk of the Ashen Jungle after rain, and the way the colossal roots of the immense trees had wound through the walls and streets of Uryx. The jungle and the city were one, and its people comfortable in either. He had been comfortable in either. Klaxus had been his home.

And now, he who had been Oros of Ytalan had returned to save it.

Yet though he remembered some things, others were lost to him. The day of his death, for instance. He remembered war – no, an uprising – as the people thought to throw off the shackles of oppression, but little else. Anhur had been there then, clad in the black armour of Ytalan, as Orius himself had been. He could not even say whose side he had fought on, save that he had fought for the right reasons. Otherwise, Sigmar would not have chosen him.

His reverie was broken by the voice of his Lord-Relictor.

‘This is the third of these filthy bastions in as many days, Orius,’ Moros Calverius said, as he joined his Lord-Celestant at the fore. ‘How many more dung-heaps must we scatter across these slopes?’

Holy lightning crawled across Calverius’ golden mortis armour. It wreathed his limbs and formed a crackling halo about his skull-shaped war-helm. In one hand he gripped the haft of his reliquary staff, and in his other he held a sigmarite hammer, its head marked with the runes of life and death. ‘Not that I mind the exercise, you understand, but I would like to believe we are making some form of progress, even if your strategy does not call for it.’

Orius grunted. There were still many miles between the Adamantine and the Mandrake Bastion, and with every palisade they toppled, the enemy seemed to redouble in strength. But he had expected that – he’d fought the Bloodbound before. He knew that they favoured attack over defense to a monomaniacal degree, and that the only way to break them fully was to blindside them. To that end, he’d dispatched the Angelos retinues of the Adamantine, led by Kratus, the chamber’s Knight-Azyros, to catch the enemy unawares. Kratus would assault what few forces had been left to guard the Mandrake Bastion, even as Orius and the rest of the chamber distracted the bulk of the foe. ‘You disagree with my plan, Lord-Relictor?’

Moros chuckled. ‘No, my Lord-Celestant. Merely making an observation.’ He raised his staff. ‘The palisade draws close. And it appears Tarkus has beaten us there, as ever.’

Orius peered towards the palisade and saw a number of Liberator retinues racing ahead of the rest of the chamber. They followed the gleaming figure of Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, as he chopped himself a red path through the enemy. As they watched, Tarkus raised his battle-horn and blew a bellicose note, exhorting his brethren onwards towards the gates and the palisade.

‘He was ever eager to take the fight to the foe,’ Orius said, annoyed. Tarkus was as brave and fierce as a Gryph-hound, but seemed to lack a single iota of that animal’s common sense. More than once, the Knight-Heraldor had found himself ahead of his brothers, alone amongst the enemy. Yet even so, he persevered. Where his horn sounded, victory soon followed.

‘We should join him, unless we wish to be left behind,’ Moros said.

‘And so we shall. Galerius, to the fore,’ Orius said. The heavily armoured shape of the Knight-Vexillor of the Adamantine pushed his way through the marching Protectors, the battle-standard of the chamber clutched in one gauntlet. ‘Moros, you and your warriors are with me – we shall join Tarkus. Galerius, lead our brethren forward.’

Galerius nodded. He raised the battle-standard of the Adamantine high, so that the celestial energies which crackled about it were visible to the eye of every Stormcast. Liberators moved forward at his signal, shields held at a steep angle as they ascended towards the palisade. Judicators followed them, firing over their heads in an attempt to drive the Bloodbound back. As the bulk of the chamber’s forces continued their steady ascent, Orius and Moros led their Paladins forward, clearing the way as they had before.

The Bloodbound were in full retreat now. All but the canniest of the bloodreaver chieftains had fallen, and those who remained were bodily dragging their warriors away from battle. Even as he fought his way towards them, Orius saw the crude gates rise on ropes of woven scalp-hair and brass chains, pulled up by savage tribesmen at the bellowed command of a bulky, lash-wielding warrior. Bloodreavers flooded out of the gates, howling war-songs as they trampled their own retreating comrades. Brutal duels broke out amid the carnage as chieftains and tribesmen clashed, fighting for survival.

The Decimator retinues waded into the madness, cleaving the combatants apart with broad strokes. Soon, the remaining bloodreavers were streaming back through the gates, their berserk courage broken. Orius picked up speed, running now as the gates began to close. Jagged spears and crude javelins, crafted from bone and wood, pelted from the top of the palisade, splintering against sigmarite armour. The Bloodbound had little liking for such weapons, but they employed them when necessary.

Even as he reached the palisade, the gates thumped down with finality. There were still some bloodreavers left on the slope, but they were isolated and easily picked apart by his warriors as they advanced. Tarkus met him at the palisade, his armour streaked with gore and ash, but his enthusiasm undimmed.

‘Unwelcoming lot aren’t they, my lord?’ he called, ignoring the chunks of stone and bone-tipped spears that rained down around him. ‘I’ve half a mind to blow this filthy nest of theirs right over.’

‘If memory serves, you got the last one,’ Moros said. He lashed out with his reliquary, smashing a javelin from the air.

‘And so? Am I not the herald? Is that not my duty, Lord-Relictor?’ Tarkus said. A chunk of volcanic rock bounced off his helm.

Orius waved Moros to silence. ‘It is your duty to announce us, Knight-Heraldor. Blow your horn and let them know we are soon among them.’ He motioned the paladin retinues to the fore. As the Liberators raised their shields over their heads to absorb the rain of rocks, javelins and spears, the heavily armoured Retributors and Decimators ploughed forward. He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Moros, yours is the honour this time. Open the gate, O Master of the Celestial Lightning. Let them know the fury of the power aetheric.’

Moros whirled his staff about and slammed the sigmarite ferrule down against the hard black stones. As he did so, he spoke, fiercely and fast, firing the words as if from a skybolt bow. They shivered on the air as they left his lips, and Orius felt the power of them reverberate through him. The Lord-Relictor was calling upon Sigmar, and such a thing never failed to invigorate those Stormcasts who heard it. The glow about him grew brighter and brighter. With a roar that shook the ground, an immense bolt of lightning punched through the palisade, ripping away the gate and much of the wall besides. Dust filled the air, and the Stormcasts moved immediately to take control of the gap.

Decimators and Retributors widened the smoking hole, smashing aside burning bones and sections of charred stone so that the Liberators could step forward, shields locked. They formed a shield wall before the gap, marching forward slowly so as to make room for the other Stormcasts. The bodies of those Bloodbound unlucky enough to be too close to the gates when Moros shattered them lay scattered all around, and any survivors were quickly dispatched as the Stormcasts moved into the palisade.

As the smoke cleared, Orius saw that the Bloodbound had built their fortress on the plundered remains of hundreds of barrows. Savage altars of brass and iron, spewing red smoke, had been set up beneath primitive stone monoliths. These enormous pillars were covered in the hateful runes of the Ruinous Powers. Standards and daemonic icons had been stabbed into the rocky soil in haphazard fashion, and their number stretched back up the slope as far as the eye could see. Bodies hung from some of these – flayed, burned and broken by the savage tribesmen who even now gathered beneath them. Croaking carrion birds perched on iron crossbeams, pecking at human wreckage or watching silently from atop the monoliths.

‘Thus does the Blood God claim his killing fields,’ Moros murmured. Bloodreavers crept through the forest of icons and hanging bodies, chanting the name of their foul god. Larger shapes moved behind them – not blood warriors, but something else, something worse. Huge mutation-scarred warriors, clad in heavy half-plate the colour of freshly spilled blood, loped forward, smashing aside icons and any bloodreaver too slow to get out of their path.

‘Skullreapers,’ Tarkus muttered. ‘The head hunters of Khorne.’ Then, with a laugh, he added, ‘They must have heard we were here.’

Past the skullreapers, Orius saw a heavy-set figure standing on top of a crumbled barrow, exhorting the bloodreavers forward with gestures and the kiss of an expertly applied lash. He was clad in battered armour marked prominently with the rune of Khorne, and wearing a helm made from the split jaw-bone of some savage beast. His flesh was the colour of a fresh bruise and one hand had been replaced by a cruel trident, anchored in the raw, red stump of his wrist.

‘The fat one – I know his kind. A bloodstoker. He’s lashing the others into a frenzy,’ Moros said. ‘They’ll drive us back through sheer momentum unless we break them now.’ Even as he spoke, the bloodreavers began their charge. They came in a howling wave, closing in on the Adamantine shield wall from all directions.

‘Then break them we shall. Set your standard, Galerius,’ Orius said. ‘We shall take not a single step backward. We smash them or they smash us. There will be no retreat. You will hold here until there is nothing left to hold.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Galerius said, stabbing his standard pole into the rocky ground. ‘Let them come, and break themselves on our shields. None may withstand us.’

The Bloodbound crashed against the shield wall a moment later. Clouds of dust thrown up by their charge washed across Orius and his auxiliary commanders. The rattle of sigmarite meeting brass and iron filled the air.

‘No one seems to have informed our enemies of that,’ Moros said, as he directed his Protectors forward to bolster the shield wall. ‘Then, they seem a fairly primitive lot… Perhaps they simply don’t understand what and who they face.’

‘They understand,’ Orius said, watching as the Liberators locked shields and pressed the enemy back. ‘They know us by now, Moros. See how eagerly they run to us, and how joyfully they accept the gifts we bring.’ He raised his runeblade to point at a howling tribesman. The warrior had managed to clamber over the shields of the Liberators and had fallen behind the shield wall, his body covered in grievous wounds but his fury undimmed. As he struggled to rise, Orius removed his head.

‘Moros, Galerius, hold the line,’ Orius bellowed. ‘Tarkus, with me. Form up. Form up, my brothers – the enemies of all the realms stand before us.’ He gestured with his hammer and the Retributors swung into motion around him as he started forward, Tarkus at his side, leading them forwards. ‘Make a path, brothers,’ he cried, and the shield wall split with a crash of sigmarite. Orius led Tarkus and the others through the gap.

The Retributors struck the bloodreavers like a mailed fist, driving deep into the frenzied bands of tattooed warriors. Bellowing chieftains and clan-champions were broken and cast down by the heavily armoured paladin retinues. Grisly battle standards were shattered and discarded, even as those who sought to defend them were cut down.

‘The fat one is yours, Knight-Heraldor,’ Orius said, swatting a barbarian aside. ‘We shall break them here – you see that they do not get up again.’

Tarkus laughed harshly and blew a fierce note on his battle-horn, rallying his Liberators to him. He plunged towards the bloodstoker, chopping a path through the enemy. It was the Knight-Heraldor’s pleasure, and his duty, to meet the champions of the foe and break them in Sigmar’s name. Orius turned his attention back to the fray. He caught sight of the brass and bone icons of the skullreapers as they made for the Retributors.

Lightning hammer met daemonblade as the two groups slammed together, scattering lesser warriors in their haste. The crack of lightning and the bellowed prayers of the skullreapers filled Orius’ ears as he ducked a wild blow and rose up to ram his runeblade through the chest of one of the murderous berserkers. He forced the skullreaper back, even as his dying foe hammered at his head and shoulders.

Orius tore his blade free in a spray of gore, and spun, narrowly parrying a blow. He brought his foot up between his attacker’s legs and was rewarded with a shriek of pain. He crushed the skullreaper’s head with a blow from his hammer and turned. He saw one of his Retributors stumble as another skullreaper, larger than the rest, battered at the warrior.

The skullreaper’s jagged blade tore through the blessed sigmarite. The Retributor staggered and sank down as a second blow caught him on the back. His lightning hammer tumbled from his hands as he fell to his knees. The hulking skullreaper howled in triumph as his third blow severed the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

But the warrior’s glee was short-lived. The Retributor’s body evaporated in a searing bolt of azure lightning, which speared upwards. Stormcasts did not die as others – instead, the fallen returned to Azyr, there to be reforged anew by Sigmar. Our duty began with death, thought Orius as he started forward, and it shall not stay our hand.

The skullreaper staggered, roaring in fury, momentarily blinded by the display. Orius charged forward through the fading motes of blue light that marked his warrior’s fall and drove his shoulder into the skullreaper’s gut. The Bloodbound stumbled back and Orius gave him no chance to recover. His hammer snapped out, catching the maddened warrior in his unprotected throat. Cartilage crunched and the skullreaper bent forward, clawing at his throat. Orius’ runeblade descended, and his foe’s head rolled free of his neck.

The Lord-Celestant turned as he heard the crunch of hell-forged iron on stone. Another skullreaper bounded towards him, a huge headsman’s axe clutched in either hand. Orius interposed his runeblade at the last second, halting the axes’ descent in an explosion of sparks. He staggered back, off-balance. The ashy ground crumbled beneath him, slipping away from his feet as he was forced back against one of the barrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tarkus had reached the bloodstoker. The bloated warrior flailed at the Knight-Heraldor with his lash, but Tarkus pressed forward regardless. Orius grunted and shoved the skullreaper back.

The hulking warrior recovered quickly and hewed at Orius. The Lord-Celestant twisted aside, and the jagged axe tore a gouge in the side of the barrow, ripping it open. Stone crumbled, and ash-stained bones spilled across the ground as Orius surged forward. A flurry of blows drove the skullreaper back, and he gnashed broken fangs in frustration. Orius parried a wild slash with his runeblade and smashed his hammer into the Chaos warrior’s knee, buckling the crimson armour and pulping the bone beneath.

The skullreaper bellowed and staggered. Orius put him out of his misery a moment later, cleaving his skull in two. As he pried his blade free, Orius caught sight of the scattered bones. They were grey and crumbling, rendered thin and hollow by the heat rising from within the crater. He wondered, as he turned away, who they had been. Only the poor and unclaimed of Klaxus were buried on these far slopes, their bones tumbled into hollows and covered in dust and loose rocks.

Sleep in peace, whoever you were, he thought. The storm shall pass you by.

The last of the skullreapers had fallen, his head crushed by a lightning hammer. The remaining Retributors strode over their foes with nary a backwards glance as they pursued the retreating bloodreavers, driving them up the slope. Orius glanced around, taking stock. Moros and Galerius were advancing with the rest of the chamber, toppling the monoliths and shattering the standards left behind by the enemy as they ascended the slope. The Retributors and Decimators would see that the foe did not rally. They would drive them up the slope, all the way to the Mandrake Bastion, if need be. The Bloodbound would turn there and make their stand; Orius was counting on it.

If Kratus was successful, the Adamantine could catch the enemy between the hammer and the anvil and smash them utterly, freeing the Stormcasts to enter the crater-city of Uryx. Then would come battle of a different sort. Not a gruelling ascent into the teeth of the enemy, but house-to-house and street-to-street, a war of increments. The sort of war I’ve fought before, he thought. His grip on his weapons tightened, as, for a moment, he was back in Uryx, leading his warriors in a last desperate bid to unseat the priest-kings. He had failed then. Failed his people, failed Klaxus. But he would not fail now.

Tarkus joined him, carrying the bloodstoker’s head by its scalp.

‘Another for the ash-heap,’ he said, indicating the head. ‘If this is the quality of our foe, I wonder why the Hammerhand had such trouble in the Igneous Delta.’

‘Your arrogance will be your undoing. This is only the beginning,’ Orius said, tapping his hammer against Tarkus’ shoulder-plate in a chastising fashion. ‘We have surprise on our side – the eyes of the enemy are elsewhere. It will not last. When we reach the Mandrake Bastion, you will see the true measure of the foe, unless Kratus is successful.’

‘One can but hope.’ The Knight-Heraldor tossed his grisly trophy aside. ‘Kratus will be there to greet us, Lord-Celestant, of that you may have no fear. And Gorgus, as well. The light of Sigmar shall guide us to victory.’ The Knight-Heraldor lifted his battle-horn and blew a single, sterling note.

‘Let his will be done,’ Orius murmured, as far above the crater rim the black clouds split wide and azure lightning hammered down, again and again. Sigmar be with you, he thought. Then, he raised his hammer and roared, ‘Forward!’

As one, the Adamantine swung once more into motion, as inexorable and inexhaustible as the storm itself.

The stones of the Sulphur Citadel had begun to sweat blood. The stink of it mingled with the bitter stench of the vast sulphuric lake for which the citadel was named, and above which it rose like a gnarled fist of stone. It blighted the air and burnt the flesh of the warriors who climbed the immense porphyry steps of the temple-bastion towards the great gilded dome at the citadel’s summit.

The Sulphur Citadel was composed of hundreds of flat slabs of yellow stone, each larger than the last, rising in a slumped pile from the pale, steaming waters of the lake. These gigantic slabs were encrusted with thick battlements, looming turrets, and immense statues hollowed and shaped from the very stone. The uppermost levels had been carved into a many-pillared palace, from which the priest-kings of Klaxus had ruled.

Now, that palace was home only to monsters and madmen. The blood, and the wind which carried its charnel stink, was a sign. A call to arms. They came in silence, save for the rattle of the panoply of war. Flayed standards, torn raw and dripping from the bodies of captives and enemies, rustled softly in the stinking breeze, and red armour, creased by axe and sword, clattered as they climbed the steps.

Eighty-eight warriors, chosen from among eighty-eight thousand who had followed the Scarlet Lord into Uryx through the Ashen Jungle, ascended the wide steps to the upper bastion as the red sun sank past the horizon, and the pale, orange moon rose to replace it. Some still bled from the wounds which they had taken to earn their place here, while others clutched gory weapons, still wet with the blood of their fellows. Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, and neither did they. The bitter wind rose up from the sulphur lake and whipped amongst them as they splashed through the blood cascading down the steps of the citadel.

A war-wind, thought the Scarlet Lord as he ascended the steps at the head of his Gorechosen. It was a familiar thing, though in no way comforting. It was the stink of slaughter, of spilled blood and burning bone; a smell that he who had once been Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, had grown far too fond of. He had been assured by the god he now served that carnage was the coin by which victory was bought. But gods are not to be trusted, only obeyed, he thought. An important lesson, and one best learned quickly and soon by those who bartered their souls to the Ruinous Powers.

He had seen the truth of it on the killing fields of the Furnace Lands as he shed his old life and was born anew from the cauldron of war. Once, he had hoped to fight for his people, but they had turned on him. Now he fought for another – one more demanding than any mortal, but also more appreciative. The gods were not selfish with their gifts.

Then, some gifts are more useful than others, he thought. He had seen other men become beasts, reduced to slavering horrors as the hand of Khorne passed over them. Whatever their form, they battled in Khorne’s name, and that was all the Blood God truly required.

But not all battles were equal. Not all wars were worthy of the name.

He had learned that much, as he carved out his path to glory. Khorne favoured the bold, even in defeat. But victory… ah. Anhur had fought too long and too hard to countenance defeat. He had left a trail of fire and death behind him, but he would accomplish more than simple slaughter before he was finished.

Anhur stopped when he reached the top of the steps, and turned to gaze out over the city he had brought to ruin. Uryx was a labyrinthine maze of walls, palaces and plazas, built within the bosom of the Ashen Jungle, and up along the vast sweep of the crater’s inner slope, to the far northern rim, where the Mandrake Bastion rose wild. The city was a sickle moon of stone and wood, spreading like a stain along the rock face. Untold millions had lived, worked and died here. Generation upon generation had shaped jungle and crater-cliff into something more, something greater… Uryx of the Nine Hundred Pillars, greatest of all the crater-cities, mighty in war, wise in rule – the jewel of Klaxus.

Yes, Uryx had once been the greatest city of Klaxus, supreme among the kingdoms of the crater. Now, thanks to him, it was nothing. He looked down, at the eighty-eight Bloodbound who had followed him across the Bridge of Smoke and up the weeping steps of the Sulphur Citadel, and something in him whispered, Is it as you imagined, Prince of Ytalan? Is this the day you dreamt of, in your long exile?

No, he thought. Once, he had hoped to rule here, wisely and well. But the city was ashes, as were his hopes. Only a single dread purpose remained.

It was something of a relief, frankly.

Behind him, the great stone doors to the palace rose up, taller even than the brimstone gargants of the Flamefields. They were flanked by two immense statues, wrought in the shape of the loathsome toad-dragons which had once claimed the Sulphur Lake for their own, in the centuries before men had come to rule the Ashen Jungles of the Tephra Crater. It had been his ancestors who had slain the beasts and raised up a citadel over their bones.

‘Uryx of the Nine Hundred Pillars,’ he rumbled, as he spread his arms. ‘And not a single one left standing.’ Shrouded in daemonic iron, Anhur made for an imposing figure, even among the barbarous ranks of his followers. His war-plate was the colour of dried blood, as were the frayed silks he wore beneath it. His helm and tattered chainmail were as black as the single-bladed axe he carried easily in one hand. Great flat horns rose from the sides of his helm, and met above his head to form the crooked rune of the Blood God. His free hand rested on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his side.

‘Eight days,’ he said, more softly. ‘Was that all it took?’

Are you disappointed that it took so long… or that it did not take longer? the voice in his head murmured in reply. Is it all that you dreamt it would be, Anhur of Klaxus?

Anhur ignored the voice, stifling it with an ease born of experience. Now was not the time for doubt, only courage. He looked up and saw something vast cross the sky, blotting out the very stars as it passed – a monstrous form, made from smoke and screams and the light of the mad moon, reflected in the blades of the Bloodbound. Clad in baroque armour, his visage that of a snarling war hound, Khorne strode the red road through the burning skies of Aqshy, seeking war, the Allslaughter in his hand and his legions following.

For a moment, Anhur thought that the Blood God had seen him, and he tightened his grip on his axe. He could not say whether it was fear or eagerness which seized him. The moment passed, and he looked down at his Gorechosen – those champions who had proven themselves worthy to fight at his side – and wondered whether any of them had seen the god, as he had. He caught the eye of the hulking skullgrinder, Volundr, and the fearsome warrior-smith nodded. The smouldering anvil he bore turned slowly on its barbed chain as he pulled the links tight, and the weapons of those warriors arrayed behind him glowed briefly.

‘Smell that?’ said Apademak the Hungry, another of the Gorechosen. ‘It’s a butcher’s breeze.’ The looming slaughterpriest stretched his long, scarred arms out, as if to grasp and pull the stench to him. ‘An auspicious omen. Khorne smiles upon us, brothers.’

‘Were you ever in doubt, Hungry One?’ Hroth Shieldbreaker asked. The exalted deathbringer was wide where Apademak was tall, and hairy where the other was smooth. A long beard, plaited with bone and gristle, hung down onto his barrel chest. Weapons of all sizes and shapes dangled from his war-harness, and he fondled them as he spoke. ‘He has blessed us with victories aplenty – even the Bloodwrath himself would have been hard-pressed to breach the crater-bastions of Vaxtl, but we did that in a fortnight.’

‘Aye, brother. Doubt is for the weak. Khorne calls us to the feast, Hroth, and to the feast we must go,’ Apademak said. His smile was a slash of red, his teeth stained the colour of spilled blood. ‘Klaxus is ours, my brothers,’ he said, more loudly. He turned and raised his axe, and a murmur of assent swept through the ranks of the Bloodbound.

‘No, Apademak,’ Anhur said. ‘Klaxus is mine. Even as all of the kingdoms of the Tephra Crater are mine. They are my offering to the Blood God.’ He lifted his axe so that the light of the moon limned the black edge of its wide blade. ‘By this axe, I rule. Do not forget or I shall add your skull to my tally, slaughterpriest.’

‘I meant no offence, my lord,’ Apademak said, with a mocking bow. ‘Take my skull, if it pleases you. I ask only that you mount it upon your shield, so that even in death I might face your foes and ward you from harm.’

Anhur extended his axe and slid the flat of the blade beneath Apademak’s chin. He raised the warrior’s face, and said, ‘Obsequiousness does not suit you, Hungry One.’

Apademak grinned. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

Anhur snorted and stepped back. He looked up. The sky had grown darker. Black clouds pulsed with silent lightning, and the air had grown harsh and clean.

‘A storm, my lord,’ Berstuk, the wildest of his Gorechosen, said. ‘It brings with it the clamour of war. Why do we tarry here, when there is blood to be spilled elsewhere?’ He struck the blood-slick steps with the brass ferrule of his portal of skulls. ‘The enemy is at hand – let us meet him!’ The bloodsecrator was a murderous engine, driven by thought of battles yet to come. His chest-plate was covered in skulls culled from the ranks of the defenders of Vaxtl, Ytalan and Klaxus – heroes and champions all, who had fallen to his ensorcelled axe.

‘We do not tarry, skull-bearer. And our battle is not over. Indeed, it has barely even begun,’ Anhur said. A sudden urgency gripped him, as distant thunder rumbled. The enemy – the true enemy – were near at hand.

Quickly, he led his warriors into the pillared corridors of the Sulphur Citadel. His Gorechosen followed in his wake, leading the rest of his warriors in silent procession, shattered bones crunching beneath their feet. They could feel it as well as he – it was in the air, and the slabbed, bleeding stones they walked upon; it clung to the gore-stained statues which lined the path to the palace’s heart, and bristled in every shadow.

The weirdling pressure grew stronger as Anhur led his warriors into the massive central chamber, where the Klaxian priest-kings had once sat in judgement of heretics and criminals. Now it was an abattoir. Hundreds of bodies were stacked like cordwood in great heaps, and flayed skins hung like tattered banners from the pillars. Skulls had been nailed to every imaginable surface, or else piled high in macabre pyramids. Flies hummed through the air, winding among the pillars in great, serpentine clouds.

As Anhur led his warriors towards the centre of the chamber, bulky shapes revealed themselves, moving purposefully to intercept them. The warriors were bloated mockeries of men, with sagging folds of rotting flesh squeezed into corroded armour. They carried pockmarked blades dripping with pus and stank worse than any battlefield. The blightkings stopped as Anhur raised his axe, and with many a wheeze and groan, sank to their knees.

He strode through the kneeling ranks of the pox-warriors. The chamber floor dipped, descending into a wide, shallow crater. A carpet of stitched flesh covered the bottom of the depression, hiding the intricately carved map of the Tephra Crater and its diverse kingdoms which stretched from rim to rim. Every inch of flayed skin was marked by bloody runes and sigils which caused his pulse to quicken. The flesh-shroud had been crafted from the skins of the last defenders of the citadel, and now it squirmed with potent magic.

But it was what hung above the flesh-shroud that occupied his full attention. Eight immense plates of polished obsidian hovered above the centre of the chamber, suspended in the air by sorcery, rotating with ponderous, machine-like precision. The plates were each as large as the palace doors, but as thin as silk and framed with etched brass, marked with the runes of Khorne. Their slow dance was almost hypnotic, and as each spun in its turn, Anhur thought he could see dim forms and faces pressed to the oil-black surface.

The plates had been shaped by the twisted artisans of the Bale-Furnace, and they had dubbed them the Black Rift. Given their purpose, Anhur thought it as good a name as any. The Furnace-Kings, with all the terrible artifice of their kind, had shaved and chipped the obsidian into polished smoothness, and crafted the brass frames which banded each.

It had taken months to transport the plates across the Felstone Plains from the obsidian fields of the Igneous Delta and then up the crater wall before descending into the jungles within; more than once, they had almost lost them to misadventure or enemy action. The loss of even one would have been disastrous.

Anhur looked around. It was here that the Klaxian noble families had made their final stand, and it was here that he had butchered them, beneath the great gilded ceiling. He gazed up at it, past the obsidian plates. The inner curve of the dome was shaped like a vast, inhuman countenance, bearded and stern. It was duardin work, he recalled, gifted to the first king of Klaxus in those dim, distant days before the coming of Chaos, and shaped like the face of…

‘Sigmar,’ he said, thinking of the lightning he’d seen thrashing about in the clouds.

‘Aye, and a great one for glowering he is,’ a voice said. Anhur laughed harshly. A lean shape, hooded and robed, wearing rusty scraps of armour, joined him in his examination of the dome. ‘He’s been doing it since I started the ritual,’ the hooded shape continued.

Before Anhur could reply, the obsidian began to pick up speed, the plates turning more sharply. The runes etched into their frames began to glow white hot, and the air grew thick and cloying. Anhur could smell rotting meat and brimstone, sour blood and burning bone. The obsidian began to wobble and tilt and there were pinpricks of red within the starless dark. The flesh-shroud began to undulate as if in pain, the stretched and flayed faces of the dead twisting in silent screams.

The blood which stained the stones of the chamber began to bubble, as if something stirred beneath it. Half-formed shapes heaved and splashed, pushing up from below the dried gore, striving towards the light. Brass talons and black horns breached the surface, but only for a moment. A litany of frustrated howls nearly deafened Anhur before fading to nothing, as the blood grew still and calm once more.

‘Pay them no heed, my lord. At the moment, they are not worth the effort,’ the lean figure said as it turned from the slowly spinning facets of obsidian. He threw back his hood, exposing mouldering, cadaverous features. One eye bulged from its socket, a glittering, faceted orb, like that of one of the flies which swarmed about the chamber.

‘Soon, then?’ Anhur said. ‘Will it be soon, Pazak?’

‘It will happen as the gods will, and not a moment sooner,’ Pazak of the Faceted Eye said. The sorcerer looked at Anhur and sniffed. ‘Glaring at me won’t make it happen any faster.’

Anhur’s hand fell to the sword, sheathed on his hip. ‘Careful, Pazak. I spared you once. I shall not do so again if you continue to test my patience.’

Pazak looked at the sword and then at Anhur. ‘And if I thought you would actually draw that sword, I might fear such a threat,’ the sorcerer said. ‘But you have never done so. Even when pressed, you refuse to draw it.’

‘And so? What business is it of yours which weapons I employ?’ Anhur hefted his axe. ‘Shall I test my axe, then? It served to still your tongue well enough in the Alkali Basin, as I recall. Should I finish what I started that day and remove your head in its entirety, rather than simply scratching your throat?’

Pazak threw up his hands in surrender. ‘Forgive me, my lord. It was a silly question, I know. Curiosity has ever been the greatest of my vices,’ he said. Anhur laughed.

‘I doubt that,’ he said. He looked around. ‘Did you know, in all my years here, I never once saw this place for myself. This citadel was barred to all save the priest-kings of Klaxus and their retainers.’

‘And for good reason,’ Pazak said. ‘One can only imagine the havoc you might have caused, had you and your allies gained access to this place and its secrets.’ The sorcerer cocked his head. ‘Then, given that you fled one step ahead of the headsman, I suppose that you caused quite a stir regardless.’

‘I led a rebellion, Pazak,’ Anhur said, watching the facets.

‘A ruckus, then.’ Pazak gave a wheezing laugh. ‘All for the best, I suppose. Victory was achieved, in the end.’

‘We have not won yet.’ Anhur looked at the sorcerer. ‘The storm is on our doorstep, even as we speak.’ Anhur lifted his axe and pointed it at Pazak. ‘We must welcome it,’ he said, and smiled, thinking of the glories to come. Come storm-walkers, come lightning-men, come dogs of Azyr… Come and meet thy doom.

Kratus the Silent dropped through the clouds towards the Mandrake Bastion on wings of crackling lightning. He dived through the storm, piercing it like an arrow from on high. The root-encrusted walls of the crater-city of Uryx grew larger, spreading beneath the Knight-Azyros as he shot downwards, faster than the speed of thought, his starblade in one hand and his celestial beacon in the other. Clad in azure and gold, his brother Stormcasts fell with him through the curtain of rain, their gleaming wings folded so as to lend them greater speed in their descent.

As he dived, Kratus could see the vast sweep of the inner slope of the northern edge of the Tephra Crater, upon which much of Uryx nestled. The great rocky slope was shrouded by immense, ash-born trees for miles in either direction, as the city nestled within the jungle’s embrace, riding the curve of the crater wall down into the sprawl of jungle below. Uryx was still in its death-throes. Smoke boiled up out of the city as great fires raged unchecked, and even at this height, he could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying.

The Mandrake Bastion waited below, growing larger and larger the closer he drew. The enormous battlement of stone and living roots, each wider than three men, jutted up from and rose over the smaller walls of the city. The bastion was the gateway to Klaxus and Uryx from the north, and it had repelled mighty orruk hordes and even the black-armoured warriors of the Vulcanus Empire in the centuries before the coming of Chaos. It might even have been able to hold back the forces of the Adamantine as they fought their way up the slope. A slim chance, but a chance all the same. Thus, the Mandrake Bastion must fall.

To Kratus the bastion looked as if giant hands had woven the roots together, and then stabbed immense blocks of stone between them or laid them across the top. The roots rose upwards, conglomerating into a dozen monstrous effigies, each as tall as a watchtower and twice as wide. The effigies stood balanced on the rim of the crater, towering over the outer slopes, misshapen faces slack as if in slumber. But appearances, Kratus knew, could be deceiving. He swept his starblade out, signalling to the Prosecutors on his right. They peeled off, hurtling towards the closest one.

Kratus angled himself towards another, and his remaining Prosecutors followed suit. They could not take the whole bastion, but they could take its heart, just above the main gatehouse. There were thousands of Bloodbound stationed throughout the vast winding length of the bastion, but there was only one gate. What forces occupied the remainder of the fortress would be trapped when it was taken, easy pickings for the rest of the chamber when they arrived, regardless of their numbers.

Scuttling masses expanded and divided, becoming hundreds of individual warriors, clad in barbaric raiment and clutching crude weapons. As lightning ripped the sky wide and thunder shook the air, some of them looked up into the stinging rain. Eyes widened, mouths opened in warning, but too late. The warrior-heralds of Sigmar had arrived, bearing messages of violence and retribution. Kratus led his warriors in a steep dive, blazing wings unfolding at the last moment, carrying them low and fast over the bastion in a blur of shining sigmarite.

The Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers, hurling them with meteoric force as they sped along the rampart. The hammers were wrought from the energy of the storm itself, and they struck with its fury, rending stone, wood and flesh alike. They tore chunks out of the bastion and the gatehouses, and obliterated the head of one of the massive effigies.

Kratus swept past a burly chieftain, clad in a reptilian pelt and wearing a brass muzzle over his face. His starblade licked out, and the chieftain tumbled in his wake, headless. The Stormcasts swooped upwards. Javelins and spears clattered uselessly behind them.

Celestial hammers thundered down the length of the bastion, as the second group of Prosecutors began their own assault. Kratus signalled for his warriors to make another pass. As he did so, he saw a bulky, armoured figure stagger out of one of the gatehouses. No chieftain this, but a deathbringer, clad in the crimson armour of one of the Blood God’s chosen. The deathbringer bellowed inarticulately and grabbed one of the milling bloodreavers. He swung an axe out, gesticulating towards one of the effigies.

Kratus and his warriors began their second pass, lower this time. The bastion rampart was wide enough for twenty men to march shoulder to shoulder along its length, and the bloodreavers charged howling to meet them. Others moved towards the effigy, bearing heavy iron spears. Each spear was so long that it required three of the Bloodbound to lift it. Kratus sped towards them, but knew he would not reach them in time.

The immense wooden figure twitched and heaved as the bloodreavers stabbed it with the heavy spears. Dark rivulets of sap ran down its tangled frame, pooling like tar on the bastion. A foul smell filled the air, and the great eyelids snapped open, revealing milky orbs. The mandrake twisted on its roots, vast head turning one way and then another as if seeking something. It moaned as the iron spears dug into its form, drawing forth streams of sap.

A moment later, the living tower opened its enormous mouth and began to scream. A Prosecutor fell from the air, clutching at his head, as the noise washed over the bastion. Kratus lunged past him, and crashed in among the bloodreavers as they pelted forward. Another Prosecutor fell, blood streaming from the slits in his war-mask. The mandrake stretched up, head tilted back, and wailed. Kratus felt as if his teeth would shiver from his jaw and his bones would crack in his flesh, and he flung himself skyward.

The surviving Prosecutors followed him. The bloodreavers fell swiftly upon those who had been downed by the mandrake’s scream, hacking and slashing at them in a frenzy. Blue bolts of lightning speared upwards, hurtling past Kratus and vanishing into the roiling clouds above. More bolts sped upwards from further down the bastion, and he knew that a second mandrake had been woken.

The living towers were foul things – terrifying, but pitiable. Grown by the priest-kings of Klaxus in ages past, they knew only pain, and their screams would boil the brain of any unlucky enough to be the focus of their ire. Such was the terrible power which had shattered the Black-Iron Reavers of Vulcanus and the Ashdwell orruks. Even Stormcasts were not immune, it seemed. Kratus shook his head, trying to clear it.

Below, the mandrake twisted in its confinement, searching for them, mouth opening and closing. Its eyes rolled in their cavernous sockets and it gave a thunderous grunt. As one, the Prosecutors hurled their hammers and the enormous face vanished in an explosion of sap. Even as its smoking bulk lurched and hung dripping, the Prosecutors were dropping downwards again, ready to finish what they had begun.

Kratus gave no orders this time; none were necessary. The Prosecutors knew their business and went about it with ruthless efficiency. Weapons wreathed in lightning struck out left and right, smashing bloodreavers to the ground. The bastion cracked and trembled as hammers hurled from on high smashed home, sending bodies, rock and roots into the air. Enough of the bastion would be left standing for their purposes, but not by much.

The Knight-Azyros dropped to the rampart, cracking the ancient stones. He rose from his crouch, his starblade singing out to behead a bloodreaver. As they drew close, he realised that the Bloodbound were horribly mutilated – each one had only raw, stitched wounds where his ears should have been, and their eyelids had been removed, leaving their eyeballs exposed and staring. It was no wonder that the mandrake’s scream hadn’t harmed them. They howled as the dust of his arrival cleared and flung themselves at him.

Kratus wove through their ranks with his starblade flashing. Bloodreavers shrieked in agony as the sword pierced armour and flesh. Kratus turned, smashing the screaming mortal wreckage aside and locked blades with a howling blood warrior. The armoured berserker strained against him, raging incoherently. Kratus slammed the gilded bulk of his celestial beacon into the warrior’s belly, driving him back a step. Before the Bloodbound could recover, Kratus thrust the tip of his starblade through the berserker’s eye and into his frenzied brain. He jerked his weapon loose and turned as the foe came in a rush.

Beyond the armoured tribesmen he could see the smoking shell of the mandrake begin to twitch and rise. The ruptured roots began to sprout anew and shrill moans rose from them. It was regenerating. Soon it would unleash its scream again. He would have to deal with it himself, before the rest of the chamber arrived.

Kratus leapt forward, impossibly quick despite the weight of his armour. The hilt of his sword slid smoothly across his palm as he thrust it forward, and the blade punched through a bloodreaver’s chest. He tore it free and turned, smashing the sigmarite pommel into a second bloodreaver’s face. The Chaos warrior catapulted backwards, struck the edge of the rampart and spun away, into the dark below. Kratus continued to move, stabbing, sweeping, thrusting, leaving bodies behind even as the distant towers continued to scream.

His Prosecutors continued to pummel the battlements from the air. Occasionally they would swoop through the ranks of the foe to leave a trail of broken bodies in their wake. Kratus fought his way towards the mandrake. The deathbringer rushed towards him, bulling through his own followers with a roar. He wore a round helm studded with brass nails, and his arms were bare and scarred. His axe keened strangely as it swept through the rain.

Kratus parried the blow and replied in kind, driving his opponent back. The deathbringer roared imprecations and curses as the two warriors stamped and whirled in a deadly gavotte. Kratus fought in silence, save for the hiss of his blade as it cut through the rain. The deathbringer raced forward. Axe and sword became locked as the two champions strained against one another.

‘I will pluck out your skull and mount it upon my trophy rack,’ the deathbringer snarled. When Kratus did not reply, the champion cursed. ‘Say something, damn you! I would know the name of my prey – I demand it!’

Kratus twisted his opponent’s axe aside and jerked forward. His head cracked against his foe’s, and the Chaos warrior staggered in surprise. Before he could recover, Kratus slid his starblade free and whipped it across the champion’s exposed forearms, severing the tendons there. The deathbringer howled as his axe fell from nerveless fingers. He lurched towards Kratus, trying to grapple with him, but the Knight-Azyros slid aside and chopped through the back of his opponent’s legs. The champion sank to his knees, and Kratus reversed his starblade and drove it down through a gap in his armour, between head and shoulder. He gave the blade a twist and jerked it free, as the dying deathbringer toppled over the parapet and tumbled to the slope far below.

Kratus held his starblade out so that the rain sluiced it clean. As he did so, he turned his head to meet the stunned gazes of the other Bloodbound. He said nothing, made no challenge. That was not his way. Silence spoke eloquently enough for his purposes these days.

Once, he had been a singer of great renown, in the days before the closing of the Gates of Azyr, before the fires of Chaos raged wild across the veldts of the Striding Kingdoms. He had wandered, singing for the highest chieftain and the lowliest tribesman alike. He had sung songs of peace and of war. But he would sing no more, not until the last embers of Chaos had been extinguished or his final hour, whichever came first.

Above the Bloodbound, he could see the mandrakes taking form. Their shrill piping grew in volume as new-grown roots rose and twined about one another with sinister speed. Soon, they would scream again. From below, on the outer slopes of the crater, he could hear the familiar clarion call of Tarkus’ battle-horn as the Knight-Heraldor urged his fellow Stormcasts on. Bloodbound warriors were streaming up the slope, retreating. Kratus could hear the groan of the colossal gates as they slowly creaked open. If it was to be done, it would have to be done now.

Kratus used the tip of his blade to open the shutter of his celestial beacon. Light poured out, the pure, blinding power of the Heavens themselves. It swelled, driving back the dark, reflecting from every drop of rain. To the faithful of Sigmar, that light was a wonder to behold – in its scintillating radiance was all the splendour of the heavens, clouds of nebulae and the shining of uncountable stars, a glimpse into the wide cosmos, and the glory of the Celestial Realm.

But to creatures like the Bloodbound, twisted and fallen from grace, the light of the celestial beacon was purest agony. It burned them as no fire ever could, searing the darkest corners of their corrupted souls. Armour, flesh and bone gave way before the light; warriors were reduced to smouldering wisps, their contorted shadows burnt into the stones of the bastion. Slowly, Kratus turned, lifting the beacon high so that its light swept across the closest mandrake. It shuddered as the light touched its tormented flesh, and, with a soft, sad sigh, the tree-thing collapsed in on itself, crumbling to ash.

Kratus lifted his beacon higher, even as the second of the great wooden effigies collapsed, joining its fellow in dissolution. The light blazed brighter and brighter, and the thunder rumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Prosecutors swoop low, towards the gates. They would take control of them before the enemy could open them.

More Bloodbound burst out of the stairwells of the shattered gatehouses, charging towards him. The first to reach him exploded into motes of char, as did the second, but the third swatted the beacon from Kratus’ grip even as he smouldered and crumbled. Kratus parried an axe and beheaded a bearded bloodreaver.

Lightning streaked down, and struck the bastion again and again. Each strike shook the stone wall down to the foundations. Bloodreavers were flung from the rampart, or were burnt to cinders by the touch of the lightning. But more still pressed forward, driven to a killing frenzy by fear and madness. As the last echoes of the lightning faded, Kratus readied himself to meet their charge. But he knew that he would not do so alone.

‘Ho, Silent One, you called and we have come – make way, make way,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, as he plunged out of the swirling smoke of the lightning strike. He whirled his sigmarite halberd about in a tight circle over his head as he pounded towards the stunned bloodreavers. His loyal Gryph-hound, Shrike, loped alongside him.

Before the Chaos worshippers could recover their wits, Gorgus and Shrike were among them. As the smoke cleared, newly arrived Stormcasts followed their Lord-Castellant into battle. Liberators pressed forward, smashing into the bloodreavers and driving them back. Judicators took up position on the walls, and began to fire down into the enemy milling about on the slope below.

‘Take the gatehouses – quickly now,’ Gorgus said, directing a retinue of Liberators forward. He scooped up Kratus’ celestial beacon with the tip of his halberd and extended it to the Knight-Azyros. ‘Lost something, did you?’

Farther down the bastion, a howling mandrake fell silent as Prosecutors destroyed it. The winged warriors swooped past a moment later, rejoining their fellows as they attacked the Bloodbound on the slope below. Caught between their own bastion and the advancing Stormcast, the Khorne-worshippers were slowly coming unravelled. Those that did not flee would be ground under, and eliminated. Gorgus hurled a barbarian over the rampart and turned. ‘Best go let Orius know we’ve arrived, eh? I’ll settle up here,’ he said, and extended his hand. Kratus nodded and shot into the air.

The Mandrake Bastion had fallen.

The storm had come to Klaxus.

CHAPTER TWO

In the Walls of Uryx

‘Forward, Stormcasts!’ Galerius roared, lifting his standard higher as he crushed a cackling bloodreaver’s skull with his hammer. The Knight-Vexillor led his brethren up the slope of the Tephra Crater into the enemy forces arrayed across its rim. Whole tribes of bloodreavers massed in the shadow of the Mandrake Bastion, and more warriors surged to join them through the great stone gates that marked the entrance.

Galerius laid about him with hammer and standard, driving the vanguard of the Adamantine into the very heart of the foe where the enemy chieftains and champions waited. They bellowed orders to their savage followers from within a forest of grisly banner poles topped with skulls and worse.

The Knight-Vexillor felt his heart quicken with pride as he fought. The chamber’s finest warriors surrounded him, their warblades and hammers exacting a bloody toll from the tribesmen who sought to bar them from their goal. The honour of the final thrust to win the field had fallen to Galerius and those who followed him. Liberators, Decimators and Judicators fought alongside him, carving a path for their fellow Stormcasts to follow.

‘Onward, for the glory of Sigmar, and the honour of the Adamantine,’ Galerius cried. He crushed the shoulder of a tribesman, and dispatched a second warrior with a blow to the head. He extended his standard so that all who followed him might see the crackling energies which crawled across the ornate symbols mounted there – the hammer, the shield and the stylised arc of the storm. Divine power flowed through the standard and into Galerius, filling him with strength. It reminded him of that final day in the gladitorium, when he had fought his brothers to earn the right to bear the war-banner of the Adamantine.

‘Crush them, brothers! They are but dust beneath our feet,’ he shouted.

Primitive war-horns brayed suddenly and crude chariots rumbled down the slope, pulled by things that had once been men, and crewed by howling warriors. Galerius tightened his grip on the standard and a blazing meteorite smashed into the foe. The chariots were blasted into splinters and their riders jerked and shuddered as they burned and fell smoking to the ground.

For a moment, as the echoes of the impact faded, the press of battle slackened and Galerius could see the others. Lord-Celestant Orius and Lord-Relictor Moros led the left and right flanks respectively, fighting their way up the slope. Behind them came Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, leading the Thunderhead Brotherhoods. Before them rose the Mandrake Bastion, with its strange root-like towers. They were almost at the high, heavy stone doors which led into the bastion and beyond that, the crater-city of Uryx. But it would do them no good to win the outer slope if those gates were not opened.

That honour had fallen to Kratus the Silent. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been dispatched to win control of the Mandrake Bastion, even as Galerius and the others broke the enemy on the slopes. As he struck down an axe-wielding tribesman, Galerius heard the rumble of thunder. He looked up and saw a bright, blazing light suddenly envelop the uppermost ramparts of the bastion. As the light spread, lightning speared down from the storm clouds above, striking the walls again and again.

Galerius bellowed in satisfaction as the slope trembled beneath the celestial hammer-blows.

‘Sigmar is with us, brothers – see! See his wrath and know that he has judged us worthy,’ he said, as the enemy cowered. The tribesmen were caught between the advancing Stormcasts and the light washing down from the bastion and across the outer slope of the Tephra Crater, suffusing all it touched with a cleansing blue glow.

The Knight-Vexillor knew that light, as well as he knew the one who had unleashed it from the celestial beacon he bore. Kratus the Silent had succeeded. The Mandrake Bastion belonged to the Adamantine.

Tribesmen clad in crude armour and bearing the rune of Khorne on their skin wailed in agony as the light swept over them, searing their scarred flesh. Grotesque standards and monstrous icons were set aflame and reduced to burning chunks. Brutal chieftains, conquerors and champions fell, consumed by the blue light.

Soon, the rugged slopes beneath the Mandrake Bastion were littered with a thousand crackling azure pyres, and there were no foes in sight. Galerius raised his standard and cried out in wordless triumph as the light enveloped him and filled him with a newfound strength. His warriors joined him, and the cry was carried from one retinue to the next as they gloried in the power of Sigmar.

Far above, the storm redoubled its fury, lashing the crater and everything around it as a heavy rain began to fall on Uryx.

‘Even the rains cannot clean this place,’ Orius Adamantine said. Greasy plumes of smoke rose over the sprawling tenements and claustrophobic avenues where the poor of crater-city had once lived. The buildings were constructed haphazardly, stone terraces piled one atop the next, held aloft on pillars or crudely carved wooden support beams. Thick nets of roots and branches supported sagging walls or acted as thatch for the rooftops.

Fires raged among these structures, defying the storm. The Bloodbound had set them as they entered the city through the Ashen Jungle, blocking any means of escape for the beleaguered folk of Uryx. Screams still rose from the nine hundred districts, mingling into a desolate susurrus beneath the omnipresent growl of the storm. Some brief moth-flutter of memory told the Lord-Celestant that Uryx had been home to almost a million mortal souls. He wondered how many of them yet remained.

‘A good rain washes more than the stones,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor and Galerius stood behind Orius, their armour streaked with gore. The standard of the Knight-Vexillor gleamed with barely contained celestial energies, casting long shadows across the ground as Galerius leaned against it. Lord-Castellant Gorgus sat nearby, his halberd leaning against his shoulder and his Gryph-hound, Shrike, at his feet. He held his warding lantern balanced on his knee, its light washing across them.

‘Then let us hope this storm lasts,’ Tarkus said. He stood beside Gorgus. Like the others, the Knight-Heraldor’s armour was covered in blood and dust, and he held his hand out so that the rain cleansed his gauntleted fingers and forearm. It had taken them hours to fight their way through the many-chambered gatehouse of the Mandrake Bastion to the internal portcullis. All of them were tired, but in the light of Gorgus’ warding lantern, their strength was fast returning.

All around them, Stormcasts cleared the area of bodies, dragging them out of the way. He considered the enormous fortified courtyard before them carefully. A wide inner wall, smaller than the bastion, extended out, terminating in three more enormous portcullises which opened out onto city avenues. Each of the portcullises had been torn open, ripped from their frames and discarded at some point in the recent past, and the wide wall had been shattered by siege-weapons or fell sorceries.

Gorgus’ retinues were already hard at work, dragging shattered plinths and broken stones into position, creating bulwarks and chokepoints to be used defensively in case of a tactical withdrawal. A Stormcast shield wall was almost impenetrable, but solidly anchored stones were nonetheless helpful. Thanks to the fires which still raged through the city, it was nearly as bright as day, though the smoke and the rain didn’t help.

‘They mustered armies here, once. If we don’t hold this point, we’ll be under siege within a few hours.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘How soon until your repairs are complete?’

‘Not long,’ Gorgus rumbled. He stroked his Gryph-hound’s feathered neck. ‘Give me an hour and I can have us entrenched. A day, we will be unassailable. We shall not be moved, if it comes to that. And those who follow us shall find a well-fortified route awaiting them.’

Orius nodded in satisfaction. Soon, Sigmar would send reinforcements. Warrior Chambers from the Celestial Warbringers waited in the Celestial Realm for their time to descend and strengthen the Adamantine’s control of Klaxus.

No other chamber had come so far. Prosecutor retinues from the Stormforged and the Beast-Bane had arrived not long after the Adamantine had taken the Mandrake Bastion, to bring word that the advances of both the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had stalled. Zephacleas was still fighting his way through the lava-tubes, and Artos Stormforged had laid siege to Ytalan. Makos Wrathsworn and his chamber of Celestial Vindicators had managed to breach the steam-ramparts of Balyx, but their assault on the arboreal cities of Vaxtl had slowed as every beastherd for leagues had poured out of the jungles, eager for battle. Only the Adamantine were in a position to strike off the serpent’s head.

Without Anhur, their warlord, the enemy would crumble. Its chieftains and deathbringers would turn on one another, each seeking to take the Scarlet Lord’s place. Thus distracted, they would be easily dealt with by the Stormcasts. But first, they had to eliminate him. Even as the thought occurred to him, horns echoed up from beyond the courtyard walls.

‘Ha! Hear that? What say you, Moros?’ Gorgus said, as he unhooked an hourglass from his belt. The Lord-Castellant set it down beside him. He peered at the sand and tapped the glass. ‘I give it a few moments. No more than that.’

The Lord-Relictor leaned against his staff, and made a show of considering the avenues beyond the outer walls. ‘An hour, at least. If not sun-up.’ He glanced at the Knight-Vexillor. ‘Galerius?’

‘Less than that. I can hear their drums,’ Galerius said.

‘See? Galerius agrees with me,’ Gorgus said. He sat back, his tone one of satisfaction.

‘I do not dispute your wisdom in these matters, brother,’ Moros said, genially. ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it.’ He gestured to bodies heaped and piled about the enormous courtyard. ‘We broke them, Gorgus. We drove them back, and broke them wherever they chose to stand. It will take their remaining chieftains hours yet to whip them into a renewed frenzy. Assuming that wiser minds do not intervene.’

‘Wisdom and the Bloodbound are not words often found together,’ Tarkus said. The Knight-Heraldor looked at Orius. ‘If they’re gathering nearby, it might be wise to keep them on the defensive. I can take a few retinues and strike before they know what hit them.’

‘Come to that, we all can,’ Galerius said, pointing at the shattered portcullises. ‘Three points of egress… three of us,’ he continued.

‘Ha! A race then, brother?’ Tarkus said. Galerius laughed. Tarkus looked around. ‘First to meet the enemy wins. Who’s with me?’

‘Wins what?’ Moros asked. Orius could tell by the Lord-Relictor’s tone that he was becoming annoyed. Tarkus had that effect on his fellows. He was a great warrior, gifted in battle, but nonetheless prone to excessive exuberance. They all felt some touch of it – battle was their craft, vengeance their purpose. They were the storm made flesh and they were driven by its fury. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged to wage war in Sigmar’s name, and it was their duty and honour to do so. But even among the Stormcasts there were those who fought with a zeal that bordered on the foolhardy.

‘Glory, Lord-Relictor. Victory itself. What else is there?’ Tarkus said, seemingly baffled.

Gorgus chuckled. ‘He has a point.’

‘Please do not encourage him,’ Moros said, sternly.

‘Quiet, my brothers,’ Orius said, raising his hand for silence. ‘Quietly now. Gorgus is right. The enemy are indeed on the move, though in which direction, I cannot say…’

He got his answer a moment later, as the last member of his auxiliary command arrived. Kratus the Silent dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch before his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been keeping an eye on the city from the air. Kratus signalled sharply as he rose to his feet.

‘The enemy come,’ Orius said, nodding.

‘Not tribesmen,’ Galerius said. The Knight-Vexillor cocked his head and tightened his grip on his standard. ‘Beastkin. I can smell their stink on the breeze.’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘It seems we will not need to go out to them, brother. They come to us.’

Orius frowned. Even the Bloodbound did not willingly share their camps with the beastkin. They would have pushed them as far to the fringes of the city as possible, if not beyond, into the jungle. The sounds of the battle for the bastion would have drawn those nearby to investigate. He looked at Tarkus.

‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. Muster our brethren.’

Tarkus lifted his battle-horn and blew a long, sharp note. The signal to muster. Across the courtyard, Stormcasts ceased their labours, recovered their weapons and shields, and fell back towards the portcullis. Swiftly, Liberators took up a staggered formation, shields raised, as Judicators took up position behind them. More Stormcasts joined their brethren in gilded ranks, even as the enemy arrived in force.

Beastmen poured out of the avenues beyond the inner walls and into the huge courtyard. They were varied and monstrous: snorting gors and squealing ungors, bellowing bullgors and heavily armoured bestigors. Goatish jaws snapped and frothed as cloven hooves stamped. Barbaric standards, crafted from bone, wood and tattered flesh, rose over the horde as beastkin from different herds jostled each other for space.

As Orius watched, a massive shape thrust itself forward through the press, smashing aside or stomping on those beastmen too slow to get out of its way. He recognised it for what it was instantly – a deathbringer, one of the mortal champions of Khorne. The deathbringer bore scraps of scavenged armour strapped to his malformed frame, and a banner pole made from a gibbet cage. The cage still held a rotting body, its features contorted in hunger and fear. His head was that of a snarling, red-maned lion, though no lion had ever had horns of brass or fangs like iron nails. He reared back and swung a crude flail composed of brass chains and hooks and decorated with cracked skulls.

‘I am Vasa the Lion. I am a champion of Khorne. Hear my roar, whelps of Sigmar, and know thy doom is come!’ the deathbringer shouted out in challenge, and the beastmen followed his example.

‘Judicators to the vanguard,’ the Lord-Celestant said, ignoring the deathbringer’s ranting. He raised his hammer in command. ‘Greet them properly, my brethren. Kratus – you and your warriors will be the hammer. Strike as you see fit.’ He signalled to Moros. ‘Lord-Relictor, you shall heat the metal. Tarkus, Galerius – you two shall extract it from the fire.’

‘Pincer movement,’ Tarkus said, approvingly. ‘You honour us, Lord-Celestant.’

‘I shall take the centre of the line, with Gorgus.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘That’ll make you and I the anvil, old friend, if you’re willing.’

Gorgus snorted. ‘Someone has to do it.’ He turned and raised his halberd. ‘Liberators – form up. I want a wall of sigmarite across this courtyard. Lock shields!’

Galerius and Tarkus followed his example, bellowing orders to their own retinues. Decimators, Retributors and Protectors moved forward to join the two. They would advance from the flanks, carving through the horde flooding into the courtyard, bloodying it and forcing it to contract. Then they would retreat, drawing the beastmen after them. From behind the shield wall, the Judicators would thin out the herds even further.

In Orius’ experience, the beastkin were ferocity itself on the attack, but blunt their fangs and their courage wavered. They had no stomach for prolonged combat. They would retreat deeper into Uryx and seek to ambush any who pursued them. But the more of them they killed here, the fewer they would have to worry about later. The deathbringer might be another matter. Khorne’s champions were as deadly as a hundred lesser warriors.

‘Just like the Adamantine Mountains,’ he said, out loud. ‘Do you remember that day, brothers? The war in the Havokwild, the day our chamber earned its war-name?’

‘Aye,’ Galerius said. He set his standard. ‘We all remember that day, Lord-Celestant. The day you split the skull of the Pale King, and we cast down the ruinous standards of the beastherds.’

‘We drew them in,’ Tarkus said, picking up the story. ‘Drew them in and shattered them on our shields.’ He spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the ranks of the assembled Stormcasts. The recitation was not quite a song. Even so, the words hummed on the air. Warriors began to thump their weapons against their shields, the way a blacksmith might hammer a blade. Retributors heaved their hammers up and brought them down on the stones in a brutal rhythm.

‘We stood then, and they broke against us,’ Moros said, as he joined the Judicators at the front. ‘They shall break against us now.’ The Lord-Relictor held up his reliquary staff and the clouds boiled above, lightning shimmering within their depths.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Tarkus said.

‘We shall not break,’ Galerius called out, his standard held aloft.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus said, thumping the ferrule of his halberd on the ground.

‘We shall not break,’ Moros cried, staff raised.

As the front ranks of the beastmen drew close, the Lord-Relictor whirled his staff about in a tight circle and slammed the end down. Orius could feel the strength of the storm flood through him as Moros spoke, drawing its fury down with his prayers. A crackling radiance danced across the war-helms and shields of the assembled Stormcasts and shrouded their weapons. A bolt of lightning speared down and struck the reliquary atop Moros’ staff. As he thrust it forward, the lightning roared forth, springing from the empty sockets of the skull mounted in the reliquary.

The lightning streaked across the plaza and tore a bloody furrow in the heaving ranks of the beastmen. Hairy bodies were flung into the air, while others crumpled, smoking. But the herds thundered on, cloven hooves rattling across the stones. Bestial horns whined, and the whole barking, squealing, bellowing mob surged over the bodies of the fallen. Behind them, the walls of the courtyard ruptured and split, as the Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers.

Moros roared out an order, and the Judicators loosed a salvo of skybolts. A second salvo followed, and then a third. But the warherds pressed forward. Rickety chariots rattled up, surging through the ranks, pulled by snorting beast-things. Lumbering bullgors smashed aside their own kin in their haste and greed. Kratus and his Prosecutors swooped low over the horde, striking at its edges, forcing the beastmen to draw together as Orius had planned. The creatures were funnelled straight towards Moros.

‘Fall back, Moros. Pull them in!’ Orius bellowed. He raised his sword and Tarkus sounded his horn in response. The Judicators began to retreat, firing as they went. The Liberator shield wall split, and the Judicators marched to the rear in good order, Moros accompanying them. As the Liberators locked shields once more, Tarkus and Galerius smashed into the enemy flanks, drawing their attentions from the retreating Judicators. Axes and hammers rose and fell, wreaking red ruin. The beastmen reeled in confusion.

Orius saw Tarkus behead a braying gor chieftain. He caught sight of Galerius’ standard, rising above the carnage as the two warriors met amidst the slaughter and fought side-by-side. The enemy’s momentum dissolved, as the horde began to collapse in on itself. The stones of the courtyard were slick with blood and gore when Tarkus sounded the withdrawal.

As swiftly as they had carved themselves a path into the belly of the beastherd, the Paladin retinues carved themselves an exit. They fought their way free with brutal speed, and the Prosecutors covered their retreat. Celestial hammers tore the ground, driving the scattered beastmen back together in a disordered mass.

Like the animals they were, the creatures knew only one response to such fury. They lunged in fits and starts, no longer a fighting force, but instead a mass of berserk animals driven past the limits of their fragile self-control. They flung themselves forward with desperate savagery, fighting not for victory now, but for survival.

The beastherd’s charge carried the foremost among them against the shield wall with a thunderous crash. Gors and ungors died, crushed between the shields of the Liberators and the bodies of those beastmen behind them, as the horde advanced unceasingly. Orius swept his hammer down. At his signal, Gorgus roared, ‘Forward!’

The Liberators began to move, shoving their foes back. Orius followed them, ready to step into place if any of his warriors should fall. The beastmen were in disarray but they were not beaten. Not yet. Howling gors hacked wildly at the Liberators as ungors sought to squirm between the locked shields, stabbing and slashing with primitive stone blades. The bodies of the fallen, the wounded and the dying were trodden into the stones.

‘We shall not break!’ Orius roared, as he led the Liberators forward. His chamber spoke with him, as one. The growl of their war-song filled the air, and the thunder rumbled as if in accompaniment. And then, there was no more time for singing. Only for war.

The stones of the Sulphur Citadel trembled and groaned. The walls and floor of the great chamber were smeared with the blood of fallen warriors. Of the eighty-eight chosen warriors who had accompanied Anhur to the citadel, only a few remained. All eighty-eight had descended into the chamber’s central crater at his command, and butchered one another without question. The flesh-shroud had soon been hidden by blood and bodies as warriors strove against one another in an orgy of violence, battling to prove their worth. Axes had bitten into exposed flesh, and swords had pierced vital organs. Where weapons failed, fists, feet and teeth had served, and as more bodies joined those of the fallen champions, the obsidian plates hanging in the air above had begun to rotate faster and faster.

It had been an hour since the last of the dying collapsed, guts leaking from between his fingers, and Anhur had called for a halt. The bodies of the fallen had been dragged from the flesh-shroud and their blood and organs smeared and scattered across the chamber by Pazak’s hulking blightkings as the survivors ascended to join Anhur above the carnage. What was left of the dead had been strung from great chains fastened to the underside of the chamber roof, so that not a drop would be wasted. Only a few had been strong enough, blessed enough, to survive the butchery, and now these stood to the side, awaiting the Scarlet Lord’s notice.

Anhur ignored them for the moment, his attention on something far greater. Axe resting in the crook of his arm, the Scarlet Lord stared up at scenes and moments visible in the cloud of blood which Pazak of the Faceted Eye had spread across the air beneath the rapidly spinning obsidian plates. Images of war rose and fell across the rippling surface of the pulsing void of blood, shredded flesh and splintered bone.

‘Glorious,’ Anhur murmured, as he watched the many kingdoms of the Igneous Delta and the Felstone Plains burn.

In the swirling cloud of blood and offal, he saw flickering images of a thousand battles being waged across the world. Warriors clad in armour of gold and turquoise clashed with Bloodbound in the Ironpassage, fighting to control a realmgate to Chamon, the Realm of Metal. Mount Infernus, the largest fire-mountain of the triple-ringed Vulcanus Range and the greatest of the slaughter-pits, was besieged by more of these armoured invaders, as was the Seared Fortress in the Helwind Dale. Everywhere Anhur looked, there was war. And he found it good. He looked at Pazak.

‘Do you think they know, my friend?’ he asked the sorcerer. ‘Do you think that they understand the depths of our gratitude for this gift?’

‘No. Even I don’t understand, and I have stood by you for a century,’ Pazak said, as he manipulated the scrying spell. ‘Khul is under siege, and the Red Pyramid with him,’ he added.

‘And the living rage has fallen. They hold the Ironpassage, the Scintillating Portal…’ Anhur laughed. ‘Well, what pleasure is there in fighting an incompetent enemy, eh? I’ve seen enough. Show me what occurs on our doorstep.’

Pazak gestured, his long fingers manipulating the air as if it were clay. The blood-cloud spasmed in response, fraying and darkening as the sorcerer forced its gaze elsewhere. Anhur saw the vast lava-tubes of Raxul, and the broken remnants of the duardin under-road. Enormous statues of glowering duardin kings gazed sightlessly down on the conflict raging at their feet. Amethyst-clad Stormcast Eternals fought against the warherds of the bray-king, and were steadily pushing the beastmen back. As he watched, the giant, stag-headed bray-king fought his way towards the leader of the Stormcasts, who met him with sword and hammer.

‘Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Show me the rim-citadel.’

Pazak obliged, extending a hand and gesturing sharply. The blood billowed and thickened, and Anhur saw the familiar sight of the mighty basalt gates of Ytalan rising above the Great Southern Way. In the shadow of those looming gates, silver-armoured Stormcasts assaulted the undisciplined forces of the Queen of Swords. The queen herself led the defence, riding atop her scythe-wheeled chariot, leading her Brass Stampede into the ranks of the enemy.

‘Beautiful,’ Anhur said, without thinking. Part of him wished he were there – Ytalan had been his, once upon a time. His to rule, and he had done so well, for the most part. Until it, like everything else of worth, had been stripped from him. He forced down the rising anger. There would be time enough for that later. All the time in the world, he thought, glancing at the obsidian plates which still rotated above the centre of the chamber.

‘I do not see it myself,’ Pazak said. He motioned again, and the image faded and skewed, changing. ‘As you predicted, they assault the crater from every direction. The steam-ramparts of Balyx on the eastern rim have already fallen, and Sevenjaw-Jahd with them, the stupid brute.’

‘No loss there,’ Anhur said. ‘Balyx is too far away for them to reach us in time, even if they manage to fight their way through Sevenjaw’s remaining war-chiefs. And likely Vaxtl as well, for I wager old Chief Warhoof and his beastherds will make our foes pay for every bloody scrap of ground. What of the Mandrake Bastion?’ he asked.

Pazak didn’t reply. Anhur looked at the throbbing blotch of blood, and saw golden-armoured figures fighting against his forces atop the stone battlement. He laughed as he caught sight of a familiar figure, wielding hammer and sword with deadly skill. ‘The Hound of Ytalan,’ he murmured. ‘Oros, my friend, you do me such honour…’ He laughed again. ‘Look at him Pazak – look at him! He fights with the strength of a hundred lesser men.’

‘He is determined, I’ll give him that,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of that one at the Hissing Gates.’

Anhur grunted. Memories of that day came swift and savage… a golden figure, charging through the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing… a moment of recognition… He shook his head.

‘Oros of Ytalan, at my throat again,’ he said. ‘Truly, Khorne smiles upon me.’

‘Does that mean you’ll kill him this time?’ Apademak growled. As he spoke, Apademak ran a chunk of stone over the edge of his axe to sharpen it. The slaughterpriest squatted nearby, with the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen, all save for the exalted deathbringer known as Vasa. They had all heard the boom of thunder and seen the flash of lightning through the far, high windows which lined the periphery of the dome. They knew as well as he what had come sweeping down with the storm, and were impatient to face it. Vasa alone had been given the honour of first blood, while Apademak and the others had remained in the Citadel at Anhur’s command.

Vasa had earned his chance at glory – it had been his blow which had slain the grandmaster of the sulphur-knights, and won the Bloodbound the Bridge of Smoke. Anhur doubted the brute would see another dawn, but he would serve to obstruct the enemy’s advance.

If Anhur mustered his forces now, the Stormcasts would be driven back. Not easily, or soon, but it could be done. But, such would defeat the entire purpose of this enterprise. Of all his Gorechosen, only the skullgrinder, Volundr, truly understood. Anhur didn’t turn as he answered Apademak.

‘Someone will, before the end.’

‘That is not an answer, my lord,’ Apademak said. The scratch of stone on steel grew more frenzied. ‘You had a chance to take his head at the Hissing Gates, and instead you stayed your hand. Khorne does not reward mercy, my lord… only victory.’

‘Yes, but victory takes many forms,’ Anhur said, still not looking at the slaughterpriest. He could feel the heat of his Gorechosen’s anger, and it amused him. Apademak took his duties quite seriously. He could not grasp the true scope of Anhur’s ambitions, for he existed in the moment. There was no future, no past for him… only the red now. But now was not good enough for Anhur. He had not come to Klaxus merely to cast it into ruin. No, he had come to drag it back into glory, one way or another.

‘No!’ Apademak snarled. Anhur heard him rise, and he saw Pazak tense. ‘No… victory is only measured in blood and skulls, Lord Anhur, and you would do well to remember that.’

Anhur’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. He turned, and extended his axe towards Apademak. ‘Careful, Hungry One, or I’ll fill your belly with enough steel to satisfy even your cravings.’

‘Would you kill me for speaking the truth?’

‘I would kill you for any number of reasons, Apademak. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.’ Anhur swung his axe loosely and looked around. Strange shapes pushed and squirmed beneath the blood which coated the walls and floor. Half-formed daemon-shapes which thrashed like babies in their mother’s womb. And that, in truth, was what the Sulphur Citadel was to be, once the Black Rift had been opened – a womb of horrors, born of rage and slaughter. He glanced at the obsidian plates, noting how swiftly they now spun. Soon the power contained within them would grow too great to be contained and it would erupt, opening the way to Khorne’s realm.

He could almost see the wonder and glory of the Brass Citadel in his mind’s eye – a veritable mountain range of bastions, battlements and forges, iron-bound walls and moats of boiling gore, and beyond them a fractured, infinite wasteland where eternal armies waged unending war in the name of he who watched it all from his throne of skulls. Such was Khorne’s realm, and Klaxus would be the same when Anhur was finished.

But first, he had one final debt to pay.

‘Glorious,’ he murmured again. He glanced at Pazak. ‘How long?’

Pazak sighed. ‘Hard to say. There is great power here. It lies athwart innumerable realms, touching all, but open to none. And while the stones sleep, so too shall the facets. We must awaken them, and that will require sacrifices. Many sacrifices.’ He held up his withered hands. ‘Do you feel it, my lord? The air is weighed down by centuries of indolence. The stones of this place are groggy with ennui, and not yet roused to their full hunger. We must whet their appetite…’ He gestured to the bodies of Anhur’s fallen warriors. ‘This was a start, nothing more.’

‘A start,’ Anhur repeated. He grunted. ‘We have captives aplenty, even now, after Apademak’s… excesses.’ The warlord cast a disapproving glance at the slaughterpriest. ‘And the Warpfang and his verminous lot are scouring Uryx for any survivors who might have escaped.’ He frowned, as he thought of the skaven. The ratkin were untrustworthy, but they had nonetheless proven themselves useful in his assault on the Tephran crater-kingdoms. More than once, it had been the cunning of the black-furred warlord, Warpfang, which had seen enemy bastions overthrown and gates opened. If the creature had been a man, Anhur might even have offered him a place amongst his Gorechosen. He would make no more strange a champion than Pazak.

In hindsight, Anhur had to admit that sparing Pazak had been wise move. At the time, he had thought it merely a whim. The sorcerer had been a worthy foe, and his invasion of the Blister-Vents of the Alkali Basin had been entertaining, if unsuccessful. Khorne might despise sorcery, but Anhur knew that the Blood God valued victory more. And a sorcerer, in the end, was just another weapon to be aimed and let loose upon the foes of the Lord of Skulls.

Pazak made a sharp gesture. ‘No. We need a finer vintage than that. We have stirred them with the blood of warriors. Now we must awaken them with the blood of champions. Then, and only then, can they batten on the blood of the conquered.’ He looked meaningfully in the direction of the survivors of the earlier massacre. ‘It is the best way I know to reveal the skull-roads and tear the veil between this world and that of the Blood God.’

‘Ahhh,’ Anhur murmured. He turned his attentions to the survivors. He knew them all – Yan the Foul, Grindlespine, Kung of the Long Arm, Baron Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress, Skullripper, and Redjaw the Resplendent… Monsters and madmen. Their stories, like his own, were acts of brute heroism raised dripping from the cauldron of slaughter which was Aqshy.

Yan the Foul wore a grisly mask made from the stitched flesh of Bromnir, the last duardin king of the Firewalk, and a cloak made from the beards of the fallen king’s drakeguard. Grindlespine had cracked the fire domes of the Magmatic Crescent, putting their populations to the axe – eight million skulls, shattered on the anvils of Khorne. Kung of the Long Arm, a giant of a man who bore a screeching daemon-blade crafted from the bones of his brother, had cast down the silk standards of the horse-lords of the Calderan Plains.

In contrast to the deeds of those three, Baron Aceteryx had thrown open the gates of Scorian Bastion to Anhur’s warhorde and had participated in the massacre of his own people in return for the promise of power – power which had come in the form of armour crafted from the butchered flesh and splintered bone of those he had betrayed. Unlike Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress had earned her name in the deeps of the Ashdwell, where she had led her tribesmen in the extermination of the innumerable orruks who laired there, offering up their bestial skulls to Khorne.

The last two were even more monstrous than their fellows. Skullripper, clad in piecemeal war-plate scavenged from a thousand battlefields, had led the charge at the Sun Gate into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade, and his bestial mien and size spoke of Khorne’s favour. And Redjaw… Redjaw was a monster among monsters, whose face was hidden beneath a scarlet helm wrought in the shape of a flesh hound’s muzzle, and who wore a cloak dyed in the metallic blood of the seven child-kings of Cinder.

Monsters and madmen, Anhur thought. These were the tools that Khorne allowed him, the blunt instruments by which he would carve a new order. The Blood God did not believe in easy victories. Anhur looked at Pazak.

‘I shall give you your sacrifice, sorcerer, and find three new champions in the process.’

He had entered the Tephra Crater with eight champions as was proper, but three had fallen in the battles which followed. Otalyx of Spharos had died on the Bridge of Smoke, battling the sulphur-knights of Klaxus, and both Bolgatz Bonehammer and the slaughterpriest, Grundyx Five-Scars, had fallen in the taking of the citadel. He suspected that Apademak had killed Grundyx – slaughterpriests were a competitive lot, always seeking the eye of the Blood God. He raised his voice.

‘There must be eight, else Khorne will turn his gaze from us. Eight Gorechosen, to serve at my side. So must it be, so shall it be.’

Anhur turned, facing the expectant survivors. They knew what was coming. It was a ritual older than Aqshy itself, one of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood by the first of the slaughterpriests at Khorne’s command. The rite of the Gorechosen.

‘They say,’ Anhur began, ‘that Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows. But that is not wholly true.’ He spread his arms. ‘Sometimes only the right blood will satiate him, only the worthiest skulls will please him – you know this, as well as I, my warriors. Not the blood of slaves. Worthy blood and worthy skulls.’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the waiting warriors murmured as one. Behind Anhur, Apademak struck the floor with his axe. Berstuk joined him, and Hroth, until the air quivered with the shriek of metal on stone.

‘My Gorechosen have lost their brothers,’ Anhur said, raising his voice to be heard over the clangour. ‘Even now, Vasa fights in their name, in all of our names. Who would join him in his glories? He swept his axe out, indicating Apademak and the others, as they moved to join him. ‘Three have fallen, and so three must rise. Three worthy skulls!’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the warriors chanted. ‘Blood for the Blood God.’

‘Who will stand forth? Who will walk the axe’s edge?’ Anhur thundered. ‘Eight there must be – eight to stand at my side, eight to build the skull-road, eight to kill in Khorne’s name!’ He swept his arms out, indicating the others who stood beside him. ‘Stand forth and declare thy worth. Stand forth and be judged.’

A sudden skirl interrupted whatever might have come next, and the tramp of marching feet filled the air. Anhur turned to see a column of armoured skaven marching across the chamber towards them. At Pazak’s gesture, the blightkings stepped aside. The skaven warlord, Kretch Warpfang, marched at the head of the column.

Warpfang was a burly example of his kind, bigger and stronger than most. His red war-plate had been burnished to a blinding sheen by his slaves, and his black fur groomed and stiffened by fatty unguents. In one paw, he carried a halberd. Its haft had been cut down so that it was easier to wield. In his other paw, he carried a spiked mace, its head shot through with glimmering veins of warpstone. A replacement fang made from the same had been fitted into his scarred muzzle at some point, and it glimmered strangely amid a thicket of scar tissue. ‘I bid thee greetings, most savage man-thing lord,’ Warpfang snarled as he brought his warriors to a halt a safe distance from the Bloodbound.

‘Why are you here, vermin?’ Apademak called, stepping forward. ‘You were not summoned. You dare show your muzzle here – now? You interrupt one of our most sacred rites! I should crush your cowardly skull.’

Anhur gestured and the slaughterpriest subsided, glowering at the skaven.

‘Speak, Warpfang,’ the Scarlet Lord said.

‘We bring more-many slaves, yes-yes,’ Warpfang said to Anhur, ignoring Apademak. The skaven looked around. ‘More for the slaughter, yes? As you asked.’

‘Asked?’ Anhur said. He laughed. The ratkin were, for the most part, a cowardly lot, but Warpfang showed little inclination to cower. The creature had a high opinion of himself, and Anhur often had to resist the urge to teach the skaven the meaning of humility.

‘You have brought chattel,’ he said, more loudly. The skaven cocked his head, eyes narrowed.

‘Yes-yes. Chattel. Man-things. Slaves.’

‘And is that the only reason, brave Warpfang? Is that why you have interrupted us, in this most sacred moment?’ Anhur glanced at Pazak as he spoke. It had been the sorcerer who had first made contact with the ratkin and recommended the alliance. Pazak and Warpfang knew each other of old. The sorcerer smiled thinly, and Anhur had to restrain a laugh.

‘No,’ Warpfang said. He thumped his chest-plate with his mace, unleashing a flash of green sparks. ‘Warpfang will be Gorechosen! Warpfang will kill-kill!’

‘Kill, Warpfang, kill!’ the rest of the skaven shrieked, as one. The black-furred ratmen drove the hafts of their halberds against the stone floor as they chanted, nearly drowning out the singing of Redjaw’s followers. ‘Kill, Warpfang, kill! Kill, Warpfang, kill!’

‘Arrogant vermin,’ Apademak snarled. He whirled, glaring at Anhur. ‘He makes mockery of us and of this sacred moment. But say the word, my lord, and I shall offer up his wretched heart for your pleasure.’

Anhur raised his hand, silencing the slaughterpriest. ‘Speak, my friends. What say you, my champions?’ He looked at the others. ‘Pazak? I know you encouraged him in this.’ How else would he have known what was occurring here, he thought, unless you told him. Only mortals devoted to Khorne could join the ranks of the Gorechosen, but Warpfang would be useful regardless, if he survived. And his presence would annoy Apademak no end.

‘He’s an ambitious little maniac,’ the sorcerer said, with a shrug. ‘Crazy even by skaven standards. He’ll make a fine champion if he survives.’ He looked at Anhur. ‘Grandfather Nurgle long ago made common cause with the children of the Horned Rat, and it has ever been to our benefit. Would you turn down a weapon because it does not look as you wish?’

‘I agree. Let him fight. His blood will grease the wheels of some worthier champion’s victory,’ Berstuk said, thumping the stones with the haft of his bone portal. The scar-faced bloodsecrator laughed. ‘Besides, I never grow tired of their squeals.’

‘He makes for eight,’ Hroth said, testing the edge of one of his axes with his thumb. The deathbringer gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘An auspicious sign, whatever else, my lord. I agree with my brothers – let him fight.’

‘The Lord of Skulls has a million beasts, but precious few beast-masters. All who think themselves worthy must have a chance to prove it,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He cannot stand as Gorechosen, but if he lives… he is worthy to serve.’

‘But he is nothing – he is a mere pest!’ Apademak sputtered, glaring at the skullgrinder. He looked at Anhur. ‘He does not even follow the Eightfold Path…’

‘Even vermin can kill,’ Pazak interjected. ‘And is that not the only worship Khorne demands? I do not follow your path, yet here I am, at the Scarlet Lord’s right hand, not one of his Gorechosen, but a weapon nonetheless.’

Apademak flushed and opened his mouth to retort, but Anhur cut him off with a curt gesture. ‘Quiet. The Eight are mine to choose, how I wish. The rat shall fight. If Warpfang wins, he may not be Gorechosen, but he will join you at my side, and be welcome. War is the great leveller, Apademak. It raises up and casts down, in equal measure. All who serve it are welcome at my side in this undertaking.’ He hefted his axe. ‘Fight,’ he said, as he brought his axe down and embedded it in the stones at his feet. ‘Fight and die for the glory of Khorne!’

For a moment, the only sound was the echo of Anhur’s cry. Then Phastet stepped forward lightly, her sword springing into her hand as she moved. In the same, smooth motion, she slashed out, opening Yan’s throat to the bone with the serrated blade. She whirled around him as he staggered forward and brought her sword down between his shoulders, driving him to his knees. The huntress continued to hack at him as he slumped, her eyes alight with feral joy.

‘A true daughter of Khorne,’ Volundr murmured.

As if Phastet’s sudden assault had been a signal, Skullripper gave a guttural howl and charged Kung. The two warriors began to trade heavy blows, even as Baron Aceteryx, ever the opportunist, circled them, a flail of brass and iron swinging from one hand and a basket-hilted sword in the other.

‘What odds do you lay, Shieldbreaker?’ Berstuk growled, watching the duel intently. ‘The Skullripper or Kung?’

‘Kung,’ Hroth said, scratching his chin with the edge of his axe. ‘He fought beside me at Oruxx… But then, the Baron is quick. Khorne may favour him, even as he favours Grindlespine.’ The warrior in question was advancing on Warpfang. Horny growths of bone and red scale covered Grindlespine, and he wore little armour. Antlers sprouted from seeping wounds in his head and he’d chewed his own lips to ragged tatters, exposing blackened fangs. He hefted a two-handed sword and stamped forward, swinging it about his malformed head.

Warpfang lunged forward, ducking beneath Grindlespine’s blade as it looped out. The skaven rolled to his feet and his halberd chopped into the back of the aspiring champion’s leg. Grindlespine howled and sank down to one knee. Warpfang bounded to his feet and spun, his mace crashing into the back of the hobbled warrior’s skull. The skaven was already moving as Grindlespine pitched forward.

Pazak whooped, earning him a glare from Apademak. Warpfang leapt onto Kung’s back, using his halberd as an anchor. The blade sank into Kung’s shoulder-plate and the giant roared and staggered as he tried to dislodge the skaven. Skullripper tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Baron Aceteryx sprang forward and drove his basket-hilted blade through a gap in the brute’s armour.

Skullripper stumbled and whirled, swiping at the Baron even as Phastet darted towards him, her saw-edged sword chopping down on his arm. Skullripper gave a keening wail and spun to face her. Aceteryx came at him again, smashing his flail down on Skullripper’s head. The brute sank down as the two warriors struck him again and again. Kung staggered towards them, still clawing at Warpfang, who clung stubbornly to his perch.

‘Three down,’ Anhur said. His pulse quickened as the scent of newly-spilled blood filled the air and the others had begun to chant, reciting the eight hundred and eighty-eight names of the Lord of Skulls as they clashed their weapons and stamped their feet.

Pazak silently pointed at the obsidian plates spinning above the fight. They had begun to glow softly and the blood was running freely across the stones of the chamber.

‘They awaken, my lord,’ the sorcerer murmured. Anhur laughed.

In the crater, Kung backhanded Aceteryx and knocked him sprawling. Redjaw whirled forward, his spear darting out, snake-quick, to pierce Kung’s eye. The screeching axe made a sound like a sob as it tumbled from its wielder’s hand and fell to the ground. Kung leaned forward, held upright by Redjaw, until the champion stepped aside and tore the spear free with a single motion.

‘Four down,’ Apademak said, gleefully. ‘Redjaw has it!’

‘Not if the vermin has anything to say about it,’ Hroth said, slapping the slaughterpriest on the shoulder. Apademak turned and glared angrily at him, but said nothing.

Warpfang rode the body to the ground, and then leapt at Redjaw. They moved back and forth, almost faster than the eye could follow, weapons clashing again and again. Warpfang nimbly avoided every thrust, even as Redjaw blocked every riposte. As they moved about, trading blows, Phastet crept towards Aceteryx. The Baron rose unsteadily to his feet and the huntress’ too-wide mouth split in an ear-to-ear grin, revealing shark-like teeth. She lunged and the Baron turned, but not quickly enough.

Her jagged blade shattered as it crunched down on Aceteryx’s helm, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee. Phastet gave him no chance to recover – she jerked a short-hafted orruk axe from her belt and prepared to strike. But before she could, Anhur roared, ‘Enough!’

Panting, Warpfang stepped back and Redjaw lowered his spear. Baron Aceteryx clambered to his feet. Phastet had claimed Kung’s axe for her own and murmured quietly to it as she joined the others. The warriors looked up at the Scarlet Lord expectantly, to where he and his Gorechosen watched from the top of the small crater. Anhur spread his arms.

‘Enough. You have won. Three to replace the fallen, and one more besides.’

He tore his axe free of the stones and raised it over his head. ‘Blood for the Blood God. Blood and skulls for Khorne!’ The newly-made Gorechosen echoed his cry, raising their weapons. Even Warpfang and his skaven joined in, screeching wordlessly.

Satisfied, Anhur lowered his axe. ‘Victory, at the cost of pain. Suffering is our toll, to walk the skull-road.’ He looked at Pazak. ‘Is it enough?’

‘It’s a start,’ the sorcerer said. ‘This place has slumbered for centuries… even before the coming of the Ruinous Powers. It will take more blood – seas of it, to open the way. We must baptise this place in the blood of its people.’

Anhur nodded slowly. Is it all that you hoped it would be, Anhur of Ytalan? The voice rose up out of the dark of him, prying and digging at his certainties. Will you save your people by slaughtering them? Will you save the kingdom by destroying it? The warlord snarled and shook his head. The voice faded and he looked down at his axe, seeking strength. He traced the rune of Khorne, carved into the flat of the blade, and growled. ‘So be it.’ He turned to Warpfang. ‘More slaves. More slaves, more blood, more skulls. The way must be opened, whatever else. We have come too far to falter now.’

He lifted his axe, and felt a savage joy fill him, driving back his doubts. ‘I will drown Klaxus in the blood of its people, if that is what it takes,’ he bellowed, and his Gorechosen roared out their agreement.

As they did so, the Scarlet Lord heard again the rumble of distant thunder and smiled.

‘Now… now we come to it at last, Oros, my friend,’ he murmured. The enemy had come, as he had known they would. ‘Now, we will see.’

Now, the true battle for Klaxus could begin.

The Adamantine shield wall pressed on, killing as they marched. Orius led them forward, striking down snarling beasts with every blow. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, winding above the clangour of battle, but he had lost sight of the others in the advance. Every so often, the sky lit up with lightning, as Moros called down the storm, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. The Scarlet Lord had hundreds of herds of beastmen in his army, and it seemed as if many of them were here, now, trying to slaughter his warriors.

Suddenly, an all-too familiar flail of skulls swept down from out of the press, smashing an unlucky Liberator to the ground. Beastmen fell upon the warrior and hairy hands dragged him struggling into the depths of the horde. Even as Orius stepped up to take his place, a bolt of blue lightning streaked upwards, signalling the fallen warrior’s return to Azyr. Anger thrummed through the Lord-Celestant as he moved to confront the creature called Vasa.

The monstrous deathbringer, his gibbet-banner clattering, loomed over Orius. Red eyes bulged and slaver dripped from his muzzle as he bellowed wordlessly in challenge. He swung his flail down, and Orius slashed out with his runeblade, chopping through the chains. The deathbringer stumbled back, stamping clumsily on a squealing ungor. He tossed the ruined weapon aside with a bellicose snarl and reached for Orius, clawed fingers wide.

‘I will crush your skull, and offer up the fragments to Khorne!’ the brute roared.

The Lord-Celestant stepped forward quickly, avoiding Vasa’s grasp. He drove his hammer up, into the leonine warrior’s jaw. Bone crunched and the deathbringer staggered, eyes rolling wildly. Before his opponent could recover, Orius opened Vasa’s stomach with a single slash of his runeblade. The giant champion sank down with a morose grunt, claws clasped to his gut. As he sought to rise, Orius split his skull.

‘He can have yours instead,’ he said, watching as his foe twitched his last. He looked up, and saw that the shield wall had pressed forward without him. The Stormcasts had driven the foe before them, sweeping them back out of the courtyard. And with the fall of the monstrous deathbringer, their will to fight had seemingly evaporated.

‘They’re on the run,’ Tarkus said, as he trotted towards Orius. He looked none the worse for wear, despite the gore which streaked his armour. At the other end of the courtyard, the Stormcasts had driven the remnants of the warherd back, against the outer walls. Orius judged that only the swiftest would manage to escape into Uryx. Judicator retinues moved to man the broken walls and Prosecutors kept watch from the air, just in case the remaining beastkin regrouped more quickly than expected. The Knight-Heraldor kicked a goatish head aside as he joined Orius. ‘Now’s the time to advance, if we’re going to do it.’

‘Indeed,’ Orius said. ‘The Prosecutors will collapse as much of the city to either side of us as they can and block it off from any advance once they regroup. That will keep our foes off our flanks as we press forward.’ The Lord-Celestant looked at Kratus, who had joined them, wings folded behind his back.

The Knight-Azyros nodded and signalled to one of the Prosecutor retinues circling overhead. They swooped towards him and he motioned sharply. The Prosecutor-Prime of the retinue raised one of his hammers in salute. Orius watched the interaction curiously. In all the years he had known the Knight-Azyros, Kratus had never spoken, for reasons known only to himself and Sigmar. Nonetheless, he made himself understood. The warriors of the Adamantine had learned to read volumes from the Silent One’s simplest gesture. As the Prosecutors swooped off, the sound of collapsing stone and cracking wood rose up from the city below, momentarily drowning out all other sounds.

The noise rose up, throbbing on the air, as Orius, joined by the rest of his auxiliary commanders, climbed onto the courtyard walls. It pulsed for several moments, beating against their ears like a monstrous heartbeat.

‘The fire,’ Galerius began, as the echoes faded. Moros shook his head.

‘The jungle,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly. ‘I can feel it. Something has provoked it. It is unfettered, for the first time in millennia. It is… hungry and eager.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Soon it will devour the city and everything in it. The magic of the priest-kings… it held this city together. Now they’re dead, and the city dies with them.’ He hesitated. ‘Furthermore, something grows in the rot. I can feel it. A war-wind blows, my Lord-Celestant. Our enemy came here for a dread reason, I think.’

‘Whatever it is, we must move quickly. The inner gates will need to be opened if we are to win our way into the city proper,’ Orius said as he peered out across the terraces and plazas of the outer city. The jungle encroached here more than elsewhere. It always had, something told him. A jagged splinter of memory thrust its way upward, pricking him. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the rasp of the hot wind across stones and bark.

He saw a face, heard a familiar laugh. A man he had fought under, whom he had called friend. A man he had followed from the basalt crags of Ytalan, through the Ashen Jungles, in the name of justice. What happened to you… to us? he wondered. The question held him tight. It refused to release him, no matter how he tried to thrust it back into the shadows of memory. Orius could see more faces: allies, friends, brothers. There had been unrest in Klaxus, after the war with Raxul. Pogroms and bodies stacked in the streets. The priest-kings had called them home, but Anhur had not marched on their behalf – no, the Prince of Ytalan had been determined to topple the old, corrupt regime. To replace it with something better.

In this dying city, we sought a reason to live, he thought, without knowing why. He bent over the ramparts, the ancient stones crumbling beneath his palms. ‘But we found only death,’ he muttered, as the memories receded, taking the shadows of the past with them. Where are you, Anhur? Where are you, traitor?

‘My lord,’ Moros said, softly.

Orius straightened. He looked out over the city, wondering, and he found his gaze drawn to the distant shape of a citadel composed of yellow stone, rising from the pale, steaming waters of the sulphurous lake which nestled in the crook of the crater’s curve. The city spread out around the lake in all directions. The priest-kings had ruled Klaxus from that foul place, and that, he knew, was where his enemy would be.

‘There,’ he said, with iron certainty. ‘That’s where he is. That’s where whatever he’s planning will take place.’

Moros followed his gesture. ‘What is that? A temple?’

‘Of a sort. The Sulphur Citadel,’ Orius said, slowly, drawing the name from the ashes of his mortal memories. ‘The last redoubt of the priest-kings. And the first. It is – was – said that Uryx sprouted from the citadel, growing up around it. It is a palace, a fortress, a temple, surrounded on all sides by sulphurous waters that boil and churn.’

‘There is a bridge?’ Gorgus asked.

‘The Bridge of Smoke,’ Orius said. ‘A thing of sorcery, like so much of this city.’

Moros shook his head. ‘It won’t be easy. We’ve half a city between us and it, and by what we’ve seen so far, the bulk of our foe’s forces have occupied Klaxus. He’ll be calling in every chieftain and would-be champion out of the jungles, even as we advance.’

‘Then we must be quick.’ Orius looked at the others. ‘This isn’t the Hot Gates. There’s nowhere for him to run now. Even if he retreats back across the crater, towards Ytalan or Raxul, he will have to face us. If he does not smash us, we will smash him.’ He pointed. ‘We must make for the Gnawing Gate.’

The others followed his gesture. He heard Tarkus curse softly. He didn’t fault the Knight-Heraldor. The hideous gate loomed above the labyrinthine streets of the outer city, its grey bulk crouched amidst a web of inner ramparts and aqueducts.

The Gnawing Gate, like the Mandrake Bastion or the Street of Vines, was a legacy of the priest-kings of old. And who knows what other horrors they’ve concocted since, he thought.

‘The old men say it was once a beast, hungry and foul,’ he said. He shook himself. ‘Or they used to, long ago. But from there we can march straight to the Bridge of Smoke and on to the citadel. If Sigmar is with us, we can clear the bridge before it too succumbs.’

‘I can–’ Tarkus began, but Orius cut him off.

‘No. I will do it,’ the Lord-Celestant said. ‘I know the way. We will take the Water Road.’ He extended his hammer toward the distant length of the ancient aqueducts which ran from the Mandrake Bastion, down across the courtyard wall and into the city, over the tops of the jungle trees and buildings. ‘It’s the most direct route, and the path of least resistance. I’d be surprised if the Bloodbound even knew what the aqueducts are.’

‘Anhur might,’ Moros said. ‘He’s cagey, that one.’

Orius looked at him. The Lord-Relictor’s gaze was unreadable. Orius suspected that Moros knew of the memories which afflicted him, but the Lord-Relictor had never said anything. All Stormcasts knew the pain of half-remembered moments and unrecognisable faces. He nodded slowly.

‘He might well. But I do not think he will care.’

Moros cocked his head. ‘As you say, Lord-Celestant.’

Satisfied, Orius looked at the others. ‘Kratus will accompany me. Tarkus – you, Moros and Galerius will help Gorgus establish a strongpoint here and then press forward to meet me at the Gnawing Gate. Drive the enemy before you as we did on the outer slopes of the crater.’ He looked up, at the roiling clouds. ‘Soon, Sigmar will send the other chambers to reinforce us. We must see that their path is clear.’

He extended his sword, letting the rain sluice what blood remained from the blade. ‘We are the killing stroke, the final thrust, and we shall do as we have been forged to do. For Sigmar.’ He raised the now-clean blade over his head.

‘For Sigmar,’ the others said, in unison.

‘You have your orders. Sigmar willing, I shall see you all soon. Kratus, attend me.’ Orius sheathed his sword and strode along the wall, Kratus following soundlessly. As he went, he sent runners to muster those retinues who would accompany him. Soon, fifty Stormcasts had assembled on the wall near the closest of the aqueducts. They were a mix of Liberators and Judicators, with a large contingent of Retributors. Three retinues of Prosecutors circled them overhead. When the Stormcasts had gathered, Orius explained his plan to Kratus.

‘You will take wing, my brother,’ Orius said. ‘Hunt the skies with your warriors, see what there is to see and report back to me. Once we reach the Gnawing Gate, your speed will be to our advantage. We must hold it, whatever else happens.’

Kratus nodded. Orius clasped his shoulders. ‘Be wary and do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. Our only advantage is that they do not yet know our numbers. We must keep them guessing until our brethren arrive to bolster our ranks.’

Kratus stepped back and saluted, smashing his fist against his chest. Orius raised his hand in farewell as the Knight-Azyros leapt into the air, followed by his Prosecutors. He watched them spiral upwards into the dark sky, until only the faintest gleam of their wings was visible.

Orius looked up at the roiling clouds. He could still recall the sense-shattering moment that he had been plucked from the point of his death and taken to Sigmaron, amongst the stars. In a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, he had traded death for life, and mortal failure for a higher cause. Great and perilous trials had followed, as he was forged anew and made more than the man he had been. His mettle had been tested time and again within the Forge Eternal, until at last, Orius Adamantine had stepped from the ashes of Oros of Ytalan.

He led his warriors towards the entrance to the covered aqueducts. The tunnels had been built to carry water from the upper reaches of the crater-city to the lower, and circular cupped grates marked the entirety of their vast length. They were said to have been shaped by duardin artisans at the behest of the priest-kings of old, when the first foundations of Uryx, and Klaxus, were laid, and such was the obvious skill of their construction that Orius could readily believe it.

The aqueducts stretched from the Mandrake Bastion throughout the city, and from them one could reach almost any point. They were covered by roofs of brick and knotted roots, with wide holes at intervals which allowed in the rain. Great networks of vines stretched up from the ground and clung to their length, spreading between the hundreds of support pillars like vast spider webs. The great iron grates were the only way to enter them.

Orius slammed his hammer against the ancient grating and smashed it loose from its frame. It splashed down, the echoes of its fall galloping down into the depths of the aqueduct. The aqueducts were called the Water Road for good reason. They had never run dry in all the centuries of their existence. Even in the hottest seasons, lukewarm water had run down the pillars to rain upon the poor who had waited eagerly below.

He could feel the splash of that water, the relief it brought to be clean, if only for a few moments. Orius closed his eyes briefly. Voices he had not heard in a century called out to him, from the depths of his recollection. Faces, indistinct yet familiar, rose and fell before he could fully see them. A lifetime of memories, ever just out of his reach.

Come, Hound of Ytalan, a voice had said, between the ringing of axe-strokes. Anhur’s voice, rising above the roar of the geysers at the Hot Gates. The name meant something, stirred some ancient ember of mortal pride, but Orius could not say why. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. This was not the first time he had waged war in the streets of Uryx, but it would be the last. Whatever had gone before, whatever had happened to Oros of Ytalan, none of that mattered. The past had been burnt from him by Sigmar’s lightning. He was Stormcast now, purged of weakness, forged in aetheric fire. Only the present mattered. Only the future.

The Lord-Celestant stepped into the tunnel. It stank of mildewed stone and rotting plant matter. Rain sluiced down through the holes. It was barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to travel three abreast. Orius lifted his weapons and carefully dragged the blade of his sword across the face of his hammer. His hammer trembled in his hand, and a soft, vigorous light rose from the runes and sigils carved into it. The light washed down the length of the aqueduct, illuminating every dangling vine and revealing the ancient tiles which decorated the underside of the roof. Strange shapes – vermin, perhaps – scampered away from the light, retreating deeper into the aqueduct.

The Lord-Celestant turned to his warriors. They waited, silent and gleaming, each of them a hero forged in tragedy and fire. Bound together by the will of Sigmar, and sent forth to free the Mortal Realms from the clutches of abomination. Kingdoms like Klaxus. He wondered if he had fought beside any of them before, in forgotten days. How many of you fell here with me, the first time? How many will fall now?

Orius pushed the thought aside. Death was not an end. Not for them. They would fight until the eight realms cracked asunder, until the stars were snuffed, until all hope was lost and beyond. They were Stormcast Eternals, and they were Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest.

‘Follow me. We march for the Gnawing Gate,’ he said.

And then, with a clatter of sigmarite, Orius Adamantine led his warriors into the dark.

CHAPTER THREE

The Gnawing Gate

Pazak of the Faceted Eye watched the obsidian plates whirl and dance above the floor of the great chamber, faster, then more slowly. There was no pattern to it, no rhythm that he could determine. It was a thing of Chaos, forged in warpfire and shaped by impossible tools. The furnace kings were artisans beyond even Pazak’s comprehension.

But though he could not discern the magics which had gone into the creation of the Black Rift, he knew how to manipulate them. How to set them into motion. Some doors were simpler to open than others. Pazak thrust out a hand, feeling the ebb and flow of the ancient sorceries which thrummed through the close air of the Sulphur Citadel.

The priest-kings of Klaxus had not truly understood the wellspring of power that the citadel had been built on. They had known only that it made their petty magics more potent, and they had employed it with brute simplicity. With that strength, they had tamed the Ashen Jungle, and raised great structures from the soil of the crater. With that power, they had conquered the other crater-kingdoms, forcing them to kneel one by one.

Pazak extended his hand, and something wet and sobbing briefly curled about his fingers and retreated, drawn back towards the shimmering cloud of spirits which circled the Black Rift like moths about a light. There were a thousand broken souls for every stone in the citadel; the last remnants of those unfortunates sacrificed by the priest-kings to the god they called Sigmar. From what little Pazak knew of the being in question, he doubted the Thunderer had appreciated such succulent offerings.

In reality, the priest-kings had likely served one of the Four – perhaps the Changer of Ways. Pazak thought he could smell the faintest stink of Tzeentchian magics on the stones of the Citadel. Yes, the Deceiver could very well have had a hand in the continued survival of the crater-kingdoms. That one would have found the priest-kings to be pliable tools indeed.

‘Children,’ Pazak muttered. ‘Blind children, scrabbling in the dark.’ He looked up, at the face of Sigmar stretched across the curve of the dome. ‘And you, forced to watch it all. How did it feel, eh? How did it feel to watch your worshippers cavort and kill, all in your name?’

A distant rumble of thunder was his only answer. Pazak snorted. ‘Growl all you like,’ he said, and turned his attentions to the latest batch of prisoners Warpfang’s followers had brought him. There were only fifty or so – the ones no good for menial labour, but too stringy to feed on. Warpfang would have culled his take from the rest. The skaven were being paid well for marching beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. When Warpfang returned to whatever pestilential burrow his clan called home, he would be rich in slaves and plunder.

The prisoners were a forlorn lot, weeping and bloody. Some could barely stand, despite the lashes of the skaven. One or two looked dead on their feet. He could smell the sweet tang of infection and gangrene seeping from wounds, and see a few who were shivering despite the heat. The Klaxians had held out against the Bloodbound for centuries, thanks to the malign sorceries of their priest-kings. It was only when Anhur had breached the Steam-Ramparts and invaded the crater-kingdoms that their control began to fray at last. Now the once-proud folk of Klaxus were so much grist for Khorne’s mill.

Once, he had been as they – a puling creature, barely more than an animal. He had been a mere shaman, a speaker to ghosts and a reader of bones. Unaware of the greater glory of Grandfather’s Garden, for all that he manipulated the magic of the realms. But when the plague had come creeping silently among his tribe, Pazak had embraced it willingly. And Grandfather had seen, and approved. Pazak had grown strong in Nurgle’s grace, and his mind and spirit had flourished.

The plague-winds were his to control now. He could draw forth blight-flies and gurgling daemons, he could poison the air and rot a man’s flesh with but a look. Power such as he had never dreamt of, at his fingertips. And he’d almost lost it all at the Alkali Basin, but for the most unexpected of mercies. Anhur had turned aside the edge of his axe that day, and Pazak had kept his head, in return for an oath of service. An oath sworn in blood and bile.

Anhur was a canny one, no doubt about it. He’d needed a sorcerer to open his door to Khorne’s realm, and Pazak had obliged, in return for his life. He rubbed his throat. He never wondered whether he should have let Anhur kill him. The carnage the Bloodbound left in their wake served Grandfather as well as Khorne. Rot followed death, and from corruption new life waxed profane. And this plan of Anhur’s would see much death and much rot.

And more besides, he thought, as he studied the faces of the prisoners. He held up a hand, and one of the skaven stepped forward, muzzle twitching. ‘Where is Warpfang?’ Pazak said.

‘Gone out-out,’ the skaven chittered. ‘Hunting man-things.’

‘Where?’ Pazak said. The ritual to open the Black Rift required a constant flow of blood. The skaven chittered. It took a moment for Pazak to realise that it was laughing.

‘The Avenue of Five Hundred Hands,’ the ratman said.

Pazak grunted. That was near the Gnawing Gate. And right in the path of the advancing Stormcasts. Brave little maniac, he thought, not without amusement. Unlike most of his kind, Warpfang was almost as fierce as any of Khorne’s chosen. If no one put a knife in his back, and he didn’t perish in battle, he might just rise far among his own kind.

A useful creature, if he survives, he thought. Grandfather Nurgle had long cherished the friendship of the Horned Rat and his chittering children. Pazak scraped his finger along the face of one of the prisoners – a man, clad in the tattered raiment of a temple guard – and traced a sigil in the air with the blood. The sigil pulsed once, before the blood turned to ash and swirled away. Pazak nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, turning away. ‘Bulbus, my friend, see to the harvest, if you please.’

The skaven overseers scampered aside as his faithful blightkings lurched into motion. The prisoners began to scream. Heavy blades rose and fell, silencing them. Chunks of bloody flesh and streamers of muscle were tossed about as blood seeped between the stones. More ghosts rose to join the legions which circled the Black Rift, dragged inexorably upwards towards the dimensional doorway that was slowly opening. Pazak twitched in time to their tinny shrieks. ‘Blood and souls, blood and souls,’ he murmured.

Yes, some doors were simpler to open.

The Gnawing Gate was hungry.

The sound of its desire swelled, filling the streets and avenues, rising to the rooftops and above, shaking the leaves of the jungle-trees with its dolorous strength. It made the stones tremble, and animals flee. It was a cry of need, a moan of frustration, a warning of violence. A structure cracked and tore as something long, grey and glistening slithered through a window and ripped the walls from their foundations.

More glistening things – tendrils formed from flesh, root and stone – stretched out from the grey bulk of the Gnawing Gate and tore in a futile frenzy at the nearby buildings. Other tendrils flailed in mute protest at the support pillars of the great aqueducts that rose over the gate, or stabbed viciously at the length of the vein-encrusted walls which stretched out to either side, separating the outer city from the inner.

The Gnawing Gate squatted astride the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands, a rippling colossus of filthy creation. It was a thing of terrible sorcery and strange alchemy, wrought from stones culled from the depths of the sulphur lake, the blood and bone of slaves, and the very earth itself, raised up during some long-ago siege to defend the main thoroughfare of Uryx from an encroaching enemy.

It resembled a length of flayed meat, going sour, and stretched across the narrowest point of the city. Its walls were as thick as those of the Mandrake Bastion and the furthest edges of its length bled seamlessly into the high stone bastions to the west which kept watch over the Ashen Jungles on one side, and the yellowish shore of the sulphur lake on the other. The central gateway which was its skull, heart and brain occupied the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands.

Beyond its crouched bulk, the avenues and plazas of the inner city spread out like the spokes of a crooked wheel, around the semi-central hub of the Sulphur Citadel. The western bastions were all but rubble now, allowing the Bloodbound to bypass it and travel from the inner city to the outer without fear of the gate’s hunger.

More buildings collapsed, brought low by thrashing tendrils. The gate groaned again as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. It jerked and quivered as the rain fell, and the fires set by the Bloodbound during their attack on the city drew close. Like an animal, it sought to flee the encroaching flames, and to feed itself, but could not manage either. So, it thrashed and groaned and shrieked.

It had been four days since the Gnawing Gate had last eaten, and it was growing more agitated with every hour. Kretch Warpfang knew the signs well enough, for he was no stranger to such monstrous flesh-engines. Indeed, Clan Rictus, one of the foremost Verminus Clans of Blight City, had its share of similar creations in its burrows and warrens. The warlord sat on the shoulders of a decapitated statue of a forgotten man-thing potentate and watched the gate’s paroxysms with some amusement. All around him, the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands was a-boil with activity, as his clanrats rooted out their prey and dragged them screaming into the wheel-cages. The Klaxians were a beaten folk, their armies cast down by the Scarlet Lord and their priest-kings butchered on brass altars. Now, as their city burned, all they wanted was to run and hide, to seek refuge in the deep places of the jungles.

Lightning speared across the sky. Below, his bodyguards, arrayed around the base of the statue in a rough phalanx, shifted uncertainly. He could smell the musk of fear on some of them, and he showed his fangs in annoyance. The enemy – the storm-things – were in the city, if his scouts were to be believed. They were marching south, towards the Sulphur Citadel. Soon enough, they might even reach the Gnawing Gate, unless the beastherds managed to detain them in the outer city. Which they wouldn’t, filthy beast-things. It mattered little to Warpfang, in any event. It was not his job to fight the storm-things. He was to cull slaves, for whatever great work Pazak was undertaking. It fell to the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen to defend the city.

‘Hurry-hurry,’ he snarled at his warriors, bashing the statue with his mace. ‘Get them in the cages, quick-quick! We must be gone by the time the storm-things arrive, yes!’ Lashes hissed and snapped as his packmasters hurried their prisoners into the wheel-cages. Warpfang settled back on his haunches, satisfied.

His clawbands were scattered throughout this part of the city. It was inevitable that some of them might run afoul of the foe, but they all knew to fall back towards the secret tunnels he’d ordered to be dug… the ones that would take them deep into the inner city, out of sight of any advancing enemy. There, at a point of his choosing, they could regroup, and muster a concentrated defence – or would be in a position to take advantage of the situation. Warpfang glanced towards the gate as an immense tendril erupted through the roof of a distant structure and lashed blindly at the black clouds above. The Gnawing Gate roared, its hunger palpable. He snarled, and clamped down on his instinctive fear.

The Scarlet Lord had decreed that the Gnawing Gate be left unfed and unmanned, after two tribes’ worth of bloodreavers had unsuccessfully sought to tame it to better defend the main thoroughfare into the city’s heart. The gate had devoured them with glee, its great fang-like portcullis rising and falling to puncture, pierce and pulverise. Now, its gatehouse towers, with their mortar of blinking eyes and thatch of scalps and teeth, twisted and swivelled in a desperate search for sustenance.

Warpfang kept his warriors well away from the cannibal-structure, as a rule. He’d lost more than a few clanrats and prisoners to those creeping tendrils during his hunting expeditions, and now stationed scouts to keep a watch on it. It was growing, as the magics that bound it unravelled. Whole streets were now lost to thrashing tendrils and hungry stone jaws.

He was almost impressed by the sheer artistry that the man-things of Uryx displayed in their architecture. They possessed an almost skaven-like ingenuity. He gazed down the length of the street. Severed hands, mounted on iron poles, lined the avenue. The hands had been preserved through some barbaric ritual, and the fingers of each were topped with flickering witch-lights that resisted the steady rain.

‘Magnificent,’ he chittered, as he scraped wet ash from his cuirass. A wail lashed his eardrums and he grunted in annoyance. He shifted on his perch.

More prisoners were being dragged screaming from a tumbledown structure by his warriors. Most of the man-things had fled into the jungles or the caves along the crater-wall when Anhur’s warhorde had torn down the southern bastions and ravaged the cream of the Klaxian armies in a gruelling three-day slaughter. Others had chosen to hide in the slums and the outer boroughs of the city, hoping to ride out the sack beneath the noses of the victorious Bloodbound.

‘Stupid-stupid man-things,’ Warpfang muttered.

Warpfang and his stormvermin had watched much of the battle for Uryx from the jungles, content to capture the man-things who wandered, thunderstruck, into their paws. His clanrats had been scampering through the caverns and lava-tubes of the crater wall, dragging screaming Klaxians out of hiding even as Anhur and his Gorechosen clashed with the sulphur-knights on the Bridge of Smoke. Few had escaped, and those who had, well, they had made for an enjoyable, if not challenging, diversion.

Yes, it had been a wise decision to join the Scarlet Lord. Much loot and many slaves, all to increase his standing and that of Clan Rictus. The Horned Rat would smile upon them, and raise them up, perhaps even to the heights enjoyed by the Greater Clans. The sorcerer had promised Warpfang all that and more, in return for warriors and siege-engines to bolster Anhur’s conquest of the crater. Why the Scarlet Lord wanted this filthy jungle crater, Warpfang didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care.

He hefted his halberd and watched the rain slide down the width of the blade, leaving greasy trails. When Pazak had spoken of the benefits of becoming one of Anhur’s champions, Warpfang had thought he’d gone mad, that his putrescent brains had finally leaked out of his mouldy skull. But he had never been able to resist a challenge. Thus, intrigued, he had made his play and won. Then, his skills were supreme. Better than any Chaos-thing, at least. Warpfang chittered in pleasure and swung his halberd absently.

Who knew how far he might go, what treasures and pleasures might be his, now that he stood pre-eminent among the commanders of the warhorde. He had sent many treasures and screaming slaves through the gnawholes back to the warrens of his clan, there to increase his standing amongst his peers. Warpfang would rise, and Rictus would rise with him.

He hissed in sudden annoyance as one of the prisoners broke away and scrambled into the ruins, heading straight for the gate. The skaven warlord dropped from his perch and sprinted after the runaway. His bodyguards surged in his wake, grumbling. Warpfang chittered in amusement. They didn’t need the wretch – one slave more or less made little difference. But his bodyguards were growing fat off easy meat and plunder and a run would do them good.

‘Faster,’ he snarled, as he sprang from the street to a pole and swung himself onto a wall. He ricocheted off, leaping from wall to wall as he pursued his quarry into the tangle of streets. His prey panted in fear and exhaustion, stumbling as he ran on hunger-weakened legs. The human wasn’t particularly fast, but Warpfang was enjoying the chase.

That enjoyment came to an abrupt end as a greyish tendril erupted from the wall of a building in a plume of dust. It swiftly coiled about the human and jerked the wailing man back through the wall before the dust had even cleared. More tendrils bored through the street, arrowing towards Warpfang. He leapt backwards, twisting in the air. He hooked the shield carried by one of his bodyguards, and sprang onto the bewildered skaven’s shoulders. ‘Run-run, you fools! Quick-quick!’ he snarled, as he used the heads of the other skaven as stepping stones. His bodyguards trampled after him as he sprinted back the way they’d come. The slowest were snapped up by the questing tendrils, and dragged away, shrieking.

Warpfang yowled out an order as he and his stormvermin burst out of the side-street and back into the witch-lights of the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands. The jezzail teams he’d stationed at the entrance to the avenue scurried forward. Heavy pavises chunked down at the mouth of the street, and soon high-velocity bullets of refined warpstone were screaming down its length. Grey flesh burst and ichor stained the street as the tendrils retreated. A screech rumbled down the avenue, rattling Warpfang’s teeth.

As the echoes of the sound faded, dust and water spattered down from the aqueduct far above. Warpfang stared up at the serpentine length of shaped stone and licked his namesake idly. A jolt of energy filled him and he turned. He flicked his halberd out, indicating several of his scout-leaders. ‘You, you and you. Take your clawbands. Go. Quick-quick. Climb and see.’ He thrust his mace upwards, indicating the aqueduct. The skaven flooded past. Humans were tricky beasts. Almost as tricky as skaven. It would be just like them to attempt to flee the city via the aqueducts. Worse, the Gnawing Gate could have at last breached the structures. Whichever it was, his warriors would find out soon enough.

The scouts began to scale the support pillars with commendable speed. More than two dozen of them – enough to stymie any escape attempt. As Warpfang watched them, a glint of something, far above, caught his eye.

Curious, he looked up.

The city spread out beneath Kratus in waves of stone that rose and fell as Uryx spilled down the incline of the crater wall, and splashed the jungles below. Broken towers and shattered aqueducts rose like lonely grave markers amid the thick vegetation. As he swooped past, towards the Gnawing Gate, a tower collapsed in on itself in a gout of dust and fire, as vast roots curled tight about its husk. The city was being reclaimed, one street at a time, even as Moros had sworn. Soon there would be nothing left to fight over, save vine-choked ruins.

The horizon was aflame, and massive streaks of lightning flashed down, illuminating the distant stretch of the southern crater-rim. The Tephra Crater was home to many small kingdoms, some no larger than a few fortified cities rising up from the Ashen Jungle. Klaxus was the largest of these, but even it was mostly jungle. And all of them nestled in the shadow of the crater walls. As he spun and wheeled, riding the winds, he heard the distant boom of thunder.

Then, a great scream, as of some ravenous giant, shuddered through the air. He saw pulsing lengths of grey rise and plunge through buildings or erupt from the streets with malignant purpose. From above, the Gnawing Gate resembled nothing so much as a gangrenous wound in the body of Uryx. Like the mandrake towers, it was a tame horror, created by the cruel masters of Klaxus in times long past. But with the fall of Uryx, its servitude was at an end. Now it lashed out savagely at the city that had been its prison for so long. Whether this was the doing of Chaos, or merely another sign of the entropy consuming the city, Kratus didn’t know. But if the Stormcasts were to free the city from the Bloodbound, they would have to get past the monstrous edifice.

A pillar of fire suddenly swept upwards, rising from a fallen building and jolting him from his reverie. It spun in place, a cyclone of flame, bending and writhing like a thing alive. More of them rose throughout the city, as if to challenge the storm clouds above, weaving serpents of flame that darted and struck at the roiling clouds. The air had become hot and dense, and the steady rain did little to alleviate it.

Despite the fire, bands of Bloodbound moved through the streets like swarming ants. They moved in all directions, some heading for the jungles, others streaming towards the Mandrake Bastion. He spared a brief thought for Moros and the others. They would soon be hard-pressed, as they advanced towards the Gnawing Gate.

Horns wailed and drums thudded as other Bloodbound celebrated their recent victory over the armies of Klaxus. The broken bodies of the slain were hoisted aloft on spears, and their weapons and armour doled out by magnanimous chieftains. All these sights and more Kratus saw as he led his warriors through the storm-tossed, fire-stung air.

The enemy possessed no discipline; there was no sign that the brawling groups below were anything more than disparate tribes, gathered to plunder the vast crater-city – there seemed to be no organised plan of defence. They clashed in the streets and plazas, warring against one another over scraps of plunder, rather than turning their axes on the enemy. Such was ever the case, Kratus knew. Unlike the Stormcasts, the Bloodbound owed no loyalty save to their obscene god. They fought amongst themselves readily enough, when no other enemies were close to hand. That Anhur had managed to wield a coalition of this size for as long as he had was a testament to the danger the warlord posed.

But the Bloodbound were not the only monsters who prowled Uryx. Kratus’ keen eyes spotted more than one herd of beastmen galloping through the streets in pursuit of unseen prey, or else clashing with their human allies over shelter and food.

Worst of all, however, were the skaven. They alone moved with purpose, in great scuttling hordes that wound through the city and jungle. Kratus had faced the ratmen before. Wherever the forces of Chaos congregated, the skaven would soon follow, seeking slaves and plunder. These, it seemed, were after the one more than the other.

Screams rose from below, as a horde of ratmen rounded up the former masters of Uryx and herded them into great wheeled iron cages. Men and women and children fled before the lash and spear as the chittering horde harried them out of their hiding places. The people of Klaxus were lithe and dark, and while they knew much of war, Anhur had broken them. They were beaten, the fight drained out of them. Kratus watched as a man stumbled and fell. The skaven fell upon him with savage zeal, clubbing and slashing at him until his bloody form was dragged bodily into one of the wheeled cages.

Anger swelled up in him, but he forced it down. He had his orders, and he would see them through. There would be time enough for vengeance later. But, as he swooped past the aqueducts which carried Orius and his warriors to the Gnawing Gate, he caught sight of the skaven slithering up the support pillars. Almost thirty of the creatures, clad in dark, ragged smocks and blackened hauberks. More skaven were moving into position below, and all at once, Kratus knew they’d been seen. As he and his Prosecutors flew beneath the aqueduct, between the support pillars, sling stones rattled against his armour.

The anger returned, and with it satisfaction. Orius had commanded that he not engage the enemy without reason. Well, this was reason enough, Kratus thought. He signalled to his Prosecutors. At his gesture, they swooped downwards. As they passed over the ratmen at the base of the aqueducts, they hurled their celestial hammers, pulverising skaven in their dozens. jezzail bullets and sling stones caromed off sigmarite war-plate in response.

The skaven shrieked and scattered. Small knots of them raised their shields, hoping to protect themselves from the attack, to no avail. The crackling hammers whirled down, rupturing the street and hurling broken bodies into the air. The disciplined ranks began to waver and unravel, as the skaven’s natural cowardice asserted itself in the face of the oncoming storm.

A second retinue of Prosecutors swooped low across the skaven lines, separating the panicking ratmen from their prisoners. The winged Stormcasts landed in the street and drove back those skaven brave enough to attack them.

Kratus dropped through the smoky air like a rock, and the skaven unlucky enough to be standing beneath him crumpled, broken. The Knight-Azyros rose from the twitching remains of the ratman and drew his starblade without flourish. His wings remained spread, the rain evaporating as it struck them. Steam rose from his armour, a legacy of the speed of his dive. The skaven, stunned by his sudden arrival, scrambled back, clawing and biting at one another in their haste to escape. Kratus stalked after them.

A skaven warlord, larger and better armoured than the rest of its foul kin, squealed and laid about itself with the flat of its blade. As it snarled, he caught a glimpse of a single glowing green fang amongst its crooked teeth. Slowly, spears were raised, and clanrats began to edge forward, hunkered behind shields. Kratus stopped. He cocked his head, waiting. The warlord snarled out an order, and the Knight-Azyros hurled his starblade as if it were a javelin. The warlord twisted aside with incredible agility, and the blade caught one of the creatures behind him between the jaws. The force of the throw tore the ratkin’s head from its hairy shoulders.

As the body hit the ground, Kratus lifted his celestial beacon and flipped it open. The holy light flared, enveloping the front ranks of the cowering ratmen. The skaven screeched in communal agony as azure flames sprouted along twisted limbs and licked at wrinkled snouts. The warlord barked orders, to no avail. Some skaven fled, pelting into the darkness of the ruins like living torches, while others simply burst in the cleansing heat. Kratus continued forward, until he was treading upon slick ash. He pulled his sword free of the pillar it had become embedded in, allowing the smouldering skull to flop to the ground.

He caught sight of the warlord, standing atop a low-hanging rooftop. The creature stared down at him, eyes glinting in the light of the cleansing flames. Then it whirled about and was gone. For a moment, he considered pursuing it, but before he could, a grey tendril, composed of rotting flesh, rock and root, speared towards him out of the darkness. Instinctively, Kratus chopped it in half. Ichor sprayed across his armour.

More tendrils, drawn by the scent and sound of combat, slithered into view. Dying skaven were caught up, crushed and consumed by the hundreds of gnashing mouths that sprouted along the twisting length of each tendril. The prisoners in the cages began to scream in fear as the tendrils stretched towards them eagerly.

The Knight-Azyros turned to the cages and reached them with a single flap of his wings. As he landed, he swept his light over them, revealing the huddled shapes within – men, women and children, young and old. Some wore rags that had once been finery; others the tattered remnants of armour and uniforms. Most, however, had the starveling look of those who lived on the edge of sustenance, even in times of peace. Kratus stepped towards the cages, and the prisoners screamed and cowered back, as if they could not bear the light of his beacon. A tendril reared up over him with serpentine malice and he swung his celestial beacon about.

The holy light drove the tendril back. It retreated, smoke rising from its length. Swiftly, Kratus shuttered the beacon and chopped through the bindings holding the cages together. His Prosecutors followed his example and their hammers smashed apart the other cages. They stepped back. The prisoners stared at Kratus in something that might have been shock. He loomed over the tallest of them, and their frightened faces were reflected in the polished surface of his war-plate. Part of him longed to break his vow, to speak and perhaps comfort them. But he had not been forged for such things. He had been made to shatter chains and slay tyrants. The best he could do for the innocent was offer them his hand.

He hung his beacon from his belt and extended his hand. Slowly, hesitantly, the first of the prisoners, a woman, took it and clambered out. The rest followed, more slowly. The mortals surrounded him, warming themselves in the heat of his presence. They began to speak, in the strange liquid tongue of Klaxus, asking questions, begging for answers. Hands reached for him, as if to touch his gleaming armour, only to pull back in fear.

The moment was broken as more tendrils struck, diving for the newly freed mortals from on high. Kratus spun, his starblade slicing through the undulating lengths of predatory matter. The avenue shook as the Gnawing Gate bellowed in pain and frustration. He pointed towards the Mandrake Bastion.

‘Run, if you value your lives,’ one of his Prosecutors, a warrior named Syros, called out.

The former prisoners fled, streaming past Kratus, the strong helping the weak. Syros and the other Prosecutors flung themselves skyward as more and more tendrils erupted from the walls and street.

Kratus joined them as the last of the Klaxians vanished into the shadows of the city. As he flew out of reach of the tendrils, he saw that the skaven on the aqueducts had vanished. He hadn’t seen them retreat. More concerning, however, was the profusion of tendrils, each larger than the last, which now coiled about one of the support pillars and stretched towards the aqueducts. With a snap of his gleaming wings, he shot towards the aqueducts, hoping that he would be in time.

Orius Adamantine beheaded a squealing skaven and twisted aside as the crooked blade of another scratched across his chest. Dozens of the ratkin had attacked out of the darkness, first with sling stones, then with blades, dropping onto the lead Stormcast with fierce glee. The attack had come so quickly that he and his warriors had barely had time to respond. Now, thanks to the cramped conditions of the aqueduct, the bulk of his warriors were trapped behind their fellows, unable to help.

The rest of the creatures had rushed forward in a swarm, trying to take advantage of the narrow corridor to isolate Orius. He kicked a skaven in the chest, crushing its ribcage and sending it flopping down the aqueduct. Sling stones rattled off his helm as he turned.

Not all of the skaven had dropped into the aqueduct; some still clung to the openings in the roof, and these were sending a constant barrage of stones into the packed ranks of the Stormcasts. He saw a pair of the creatures trying to manoeuvre a heavy-barrelled jezzail into position. He stomped towards them, scattering skaven with every step. His hammer and sword carved a path through those too stubborn to scramble aside.

He was too slow. The skaven gunner chittered mockingly as it lit the fuse and aimed the weapon at him. But before it could fire, the aqueduct shook. Something massive and grey, like rotting flesh or wet stone, swiftly coiled about the unfortunate jezzail team, and crushed them. Gore rained down onto Orius. A booming roar echoed through the aqueduct, and a chill swept through him. The wall of the aqueduct bulged, the stones cracking as something pressed against the opening above. He backed away, weapons raised.

With a scream of tortured stone, the opening split and shattered as something horrible forced its way through to flop into the water below. It resembled nothing so much as a titanic root, studded with scales of stone and bone. Orius took another step back as the tendril filled the aqueduct, squirming forward.

Its surface burst and split, disgorging smaller pseudopods, which rapidly filled the aqueduct. These smaller tendrils thrashed and darted, crashing against hastily interposed shields and tangling about legs and weapons. Skaven and Stormcasts both came under attack. Orius watched as one of the tendrils split, revealing an oscillating maw of lamprey teeth, and engulfed a squealing skaven.

‘Back,’ he roared, ‘fall back!’

Tendrils surged forward, hammering against his war-plate. For every two he chopped apart, four more arose from the swirling mass. The aqueduct shuddered about him, and the ancient stones beneath his feet began to buckle. A tendril snagged his wrist, yanking him off-balance. He hewed at it with his runeblade, even as more of the slithering strands of filth coiled about his helm and legs. A burst of blue lightning flashed and exploded upwards, momentarily driving back the mass of tendrils, as a fallen warrior returned to Azyr.

Orius seized the moment. ‘Shields up, fall back,’ he bellowed. The last of the skaven was dragged squealing into the mindlessly champing maws of the tendrils, its hairy form pulled in multiple directions all at once. The Stormcasts fell back. Orius chopped through a questing tendril and sank to one knee. ‘Lock shields and stay back,’ he growled. ‘I will handle this.’

Behind him, he heard the clang of shield rims striking, as Liberators filled the width of the aqueduct with shields, one atop the next until a burnished wall of sigmarite had been erected. No tendril would get past it. Satisfied that his warriors were safe, he rose to a crouch, weapons held low. He sprang forward even as the mass of writhing tendrils surged towards him anew. His runeblade slashed out, severing those that came close, while his hammer smashed aside the larger ones. With every strike, sizzling reverberations of lightning ran along the bulk of the thing, eliciting a monstrous roar from somewhere beyond the aqueduct walls. The Gnawing Gate, he thought, as he bisected a tendril. It had spread far beyond its remit. He had to force it to withdraw before it ripped the aqueduct apart.

He fought his way to the central tendril and sank his sword to the hilt in its bulk. Muscles aching with the strain, he held it in place and struck it with his hammer. It writhed and thrashed with every blow, trying to pull itself free. The smaller tendrils sought to snare him, but he ignored them. A screech echoed up from the Gnawing Gate and the main tendril began to recede. He held tight to his sword and continued to strike it, not giving it a moment’s respite.

Lightning tore across the sky as the tendril whipsawed back, out of the aqueduct, dragging him with it in an explosion of stones and dust. Orius held tight to the hilt of his blade, as the streets of Uryx twisted and stretched wildly beneath him. The foul expanse of the Gnawing Gate spread out directly below, and more tendrils, each as large as a building, slashed towards him. He tore his runeblade free and sprang into the air.

Orius plummeted through the crawling sky, a prayer to Sigmar on his lips. Tendrils sought to snag and snare him, but he hacked through them as he fell towards the monstrous battlements below.

Orius had once fallen from the Sky-Bridges of the Thunderpeaks, locked in battle with an orruk chieftain. Next to that, this was the merest stumble. Or so he told himself, as the battlement rose up swiftly to meet him. He tightened his grip on his weapons.

A moment later, he struck the flesh-stones of the Gnawing Gate hard and rolled across the heaving rampart, until he slammed against the base of a gatehouse tower. There was no time to catch his breath, however, as the tower undulated towards him with a sinuous motion. Innumerable eyes glared at him, as a thousand mouths champed and shrieked. Orius hooked the edge of his warcloak and whipped it about him, unleashing the spell woven into its lining. The runes which marked the edge of the cloak flared and a barrage of shimmering hammers, formed from sorcerous energies, exploded outward. The tower jerked back as the hammers tore burning craters in its stonework.

He rose to his feet with a grunt of pain and looked around. His bones ached and something in him was cracked, if not broken, but he’d made it to the top of the Gnawing Gate. The rampart quivered beneath him, and the roar of splintering stone filled the air. It was as if the whole monstrous structure were beginning to tear itself loose from the street. Tendrils ripped themselves free from the wall and sought to entangle him. He drove them back, but only for a moment. The Gnawing Gate had had centuries to set down its horrid roots, and now they were all burrowing to the surface. There was only one way to put a stop to the monstrosity.

Explosions rippled along the abominable wall, eliciting a shriek from the Gnawing Gate. He looked up and saw Kratus and his Prosecutors arrowing down through a storm of lashing tendrils, fighting their way towards him.

‘Kratus,’ he roared. ‘Make me a hole.’ He gestured with his runeblade, and the Knight-Azyros nodded in understanding. Prosecutors dove down, through the thrashing tendrils, and loosed their hammers. As the celestial weapons struck the ramparts and cracked the heaving stones asunder, Kratus and the rest of his retinue dropped from the sky. They spread their wings like shields over Orius as he bulled towards the newly made hole. Tendrils stabbed down and jerked back, seared by the blazing wings, or smashed by the hammers of the Prosecutors.

Orius leapt down into the dark. His feet struck something softer than stone, but harder than flesh. Bone, he knew. The bones of a thousand men, enemies of Klaxus, melded together in an unholy union and raised up to serve those they had sought to destroy. Such had been the way of the priest-kings. Such might have been his fate, had Sigmar not plucked him from death.

The air inside the gate was hot and humid, worse than the jungle. It choked him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and he knew he would have to be quick. A deep sound echoed around him, a steady thump as of a hammer striking sand. Holding his glowing hammer aloft, he followed the sound. As he moved, the walls creaked and half-seen faces formed in their substance, whispering to him piteously. He could not hear the screams of the gate here, only the soft weeping of things which had once been men.

The darkness began to fade, giving way to a soft red glow, which flickered in time to the sound. Orius stepped out onto a platform made from the fused ribcages and spinal columns of the dead. The walls around him rose pink and fleshy. Vast capillaries and squirming veins stretched everywhere, across flesh, bone and stone alike.

At the centre of this chamber of horrors, suspended amidst a web of thin ligament, stretched muscle and rusty chain, hung the heart of the Gnawing Gate. It was a bulbous mass of meat, easily the size of three men, which pulsed and swelled. Each time it did so, the chamber shuddered, and the red light which burned within it grew blinding. He could see thin streaks of rot along the surface of the heart. The magic that had created the Gnawing Gate was now, with the fall of the priest-kings, consuming it. It was dying, but its death would be a long time coming – years, even. Years of agony, driving it to berserk heights. If it were not stopped now, Orius thought, it would uproot itself, and slither across the crater, destroying all in its path, until at last it expired.

Orius stepped towards it. Condensation formed on and ran down his war-plate as he drew close. A perfectly formed mouth sprouted from the raw mass. ‘He-elp,’ it gurgled. Another mouth joined it, rising from the folded slabs of flesh at the top. ‘I-it hu-urts,’ it whimpered. ‘Hu-rthurturts,’ a third mouth moaned, as it pushed its way into the light.

More voices – or one voice, rising from a thousand mouths – joined them, as things that might have been faces rose like blisters along the fleshy walls. A thousand souls, chained together in stone and agony, for countless centuries. He shook as the reverberations of their cries thundered through him, scratching at his mind and soul.

‘Be at peace,’ he whispered, and all at once, the voices were silent. A hush fell over the chamber, and the heart trembled in its web, as if in anticipation. A thousand souls watched him with tormented eyes. Orius Adamantine lifted his hammer, and, with a murmured prayer, shattered their chains.

Thunder rumbled across the city, and the flash of lightning stung Anhur’s eyes as he watched from the high terrace. Fire limned the horizon. Soon, Uryx would be ashes, unless the storm extinguished it. Down below, on the steps of the citadel, his warriors made ready for what was to come. The Scarlet Axes were the hardened veterans of a thousand wars. They had stood beside him since he had fought his way past the basalt gates of Ytalan, the armies of Klaxus on his heels. He watched them as they oversaw the transport of the newest batch of prisoners culled from the ruins of Uryx by the skaven.

Some would go to the slave-pits, others to the stew-pots. And some – a lucky few – would become a part of something greater. He glanced back, into the inner chamber, where Pazak was hard at work, shaping his sorceries. Soon, he thought.

He had loosed Apademak and the others to wage war as they willed. They would fight and they would fail, and then fall back, to the Bridge of Smoke, drawing his enemies to him. His Gorechosen would burn – indeed, the deathbringer, Vasa, was likely already dead – but they would laugh while they did so. And the foe would be bloodied and staggering, ready for Anhur’s axe. Come, Hound of Ytalan. Come to me, so that all debts might be settled before the end, he thought.

Anhur looked up at the stained statue that rose beside him. It depicted one of the priest-kings of Klaxus, Aunis the Cunning. He studied its face, and wondered at the likeness. ‘It’s been a long time, grandfather,’ he said, finally. ‘I never should have left you… though you didn’t give me much choice.’ He laughed. ‘I guess I am deathproof, despite what you believed.’ The statue seemed to frown in disapproval. Suddenly angry, Anhur’s hand fell to his sword.

No, not mine. The thought came swift and unbidden. He pulled his hand away from the sword and let it fall by his side. No, it wasn’t his sword. It was the blade of Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and heir to the throne of Klaxus. But Prince Anhur was dead. And he had a new weapon now. He looked down at the axe, dangling loosely in his grip. He brought it up, and gazed into the polished obsidian of its blade. Something vague and unformed looked back at him.

The anger rose up, burning white-hot, and he swept the axe out and smashed the head from the statue. He whirled, axe raised, and confronted the other statues which lined the terrace. Stony eyes regarded him, and his anger swelled.

‘You took warriors and made them weak. You took heroes and made them servants,’ he said. ‘I would watch you all die a thousand deaths for that crime, if I could.’ His words bounced from pillar to plinth, echoing across the terrace. ‘But I will settle for unmaking all that you built. I will erase Uryx and Klaxus both from history, and shape something new from the ashes.’ He looked around. ‘Do you hear, grandfathers? You wrought this citadel from the stuff of the jungle, and built a new kingdom on the bones of the old. And I, your truest son, will do the same. I will be the last king of Klaxus, and the first.’

Anhur spread his arms. ‘See me, in whatever netherworld you occupy. See me, and despair. I will rule our people, and lead them as you never could. Only I remember your names now, and soon, even I will forget.’ He lowered his arms. ‘Soon…’

‘May Khorne will it so, O Scarlet Lord.’

Anhur turned. ‘I was wondering where you’d gotten to, war-smith.’ Volundr went where he willed, and none dared gainsay him. The skullgrinders were the crafters of blades, the armourers of the Bloodbound. None knew where they came from, only that they appeared alone, striding out of the wilderness, to lay claim to certain sacrificial altars. They were the keepers of the anvils of Khorne, and where they walked, Khorne’s gaze soon followed.

‘Your mind is aflame,’ Volundr said. The hulking skullgrinder moved quietly for all his size. Anhur had not heard his approach. ‘I can smell the stink of its burning from here.’

‘Does it offend you, war-smith?’ Anhur asked.

‘I do not take offense. I take skulls,’ Volundr said. He smelled of hot metal and cinders. ‘You are… uncertain.’ It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t a threat either. Anhur turned.

‘I am,’ he said, after a moment.

‘Why?’

Again, there was no threat. No menace. Anhur’s grip on his axe tightened. ‘A lingering trace of the man I was,’ he said. ‘A mote of weakness, which threatens the integrity of the blade.’

‘Honour is no weakness, Anhur. No matter what creatures like Apademak might contend,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘They think of nothing save the spilling of blood, and the taking of skulls…’

‘And is there more, then?’ Anhur said. ‘For I have waded through seas of blood and climbed mountains of skulls, only to find myself here again, at my start.’ He raised his axe, so that the witch-fires were reflected in the polished obsidian of the blade. ‘I chipped this axe myself, from the still, cold heart of a great fire-wyrm. It yearns to destroy, even as I do. It grows irritable, in the absence of slaughter… as do I. I am the axe, and the axe is me. Is there more, war-smith?’

Volundr stared at him for a moment. Then, he chuckled. It was a harsh sound, like the stroke of a sword. ‘War is the anvil on which our souls are shaped, Anhur,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. One massive hand settled on Anhur’s shoulder-guard. ‘And it is Khorne who wields the hammer. By his will are we purged of weakness and made strong.’

‘Strong,’ Anhur said. He looked at Volundr. ‘I will – I must purge Klaxus of weakness, war-smith. I will break my people on Khorne’s anvil, and make of them – of myself – something better. Something stronger. I will make us weapons, in his name.’ He lifted his axe and examined the blade. ‘Or, failing that, I will end them utterly. I will burn Klaxus, so that something greater might be born from the ashes.’

‘Aye, my friend,’ Volundr said. ‘And that is why I am here. That is why I joined you, all those months ago. For all your talents, Prince of Ytalan… you are no weaponsmith.’

Anhur laughed. ‘And glad I am of it, my friend.’

Volundr nodded. ‘As you should be.’ He held up his anvil, on its thick chain. ‘War is the forge, Anhur, and this moment is both hammer and anvil. What happens next depends on the quality of the metal.’

Anhur clasped the skullgrinder’s forearm. ‘As you say, wise one. Come, let us see how the fire rises, then.’ He turned and led Volundr back into the chamber. ‘Pazak,’ he called out. ‘The time draws near. I have loosed my hounds upon the city. They will crash against the enemy in futile slaughter, spilling rivers of blood. How long?’

‘Futile slaughter – such a cunning stratagem,’ Pazak said, turning to look at them.

‘Your mockery is noted and forgiven,’ Anhur said, amused. ‘For the moment, at any rate. And the stratagem is the only one Apademak and the others understand. If I had not set them loose, they would have revolted. Of them all, only you and Volundr understand my true purpose.’ He gestured to the skullgrinder. ‘Only you understand that we fight not simply to hold what we have conquered. I ask again, how long?’

‘A few hours more, my lord,’ Pazak said. ‘A few hundred more souls, fed into the Black Rift, and it shall begin to open. As you can see, they grow stronger…’ He gestured to the bloody floor and the things that writhed there.

Anhur sank to one knee and caressed the head of one of the mewling daemons attempting to free itself from the blood. ‘Soon, my brother, soon…’ he murmured, as he stroked the bloodletter’s flat skull. ‘Soon, you shall rise and slay, as you were created to do. Soon, we shall wade together through an ocean of gore… still yourselves, sons and daughters of Khorne, be still and dream of the beautiful horror which awaits us all.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Stir this effluvium, sorcerer. I would speak to our ally.’

Pazak made a face, but complied. He began to chant, softly. The blood-cloud pulsed and thinned, as more rose from the floor or dripped sideways from the walls to join it. Bones burst from the red mire to pierce the cloud and join the effluvia. Severed hands scuttled across the floor like pale spiders, and headless torsos lurched after them. All were pulled upwards into the cloud and soon it was a swirling vortex of reds and browns and butchered flesh. Raw skulls surfaced to chatter mindlessly before being enveloped once more.

Anhur gazed up at the boiling, shifting blotch of blood and spoke a single word. It was a name; a name he had flayed one letter at a time from the backs of the Pain-Scribes of Anguz, and etched whole upon the still-beating heart of their abbot. The sound of it seared the very air. The blood-cloud began to roil and stretch in a grotesque display. More and more of it dripped upwards from the floor, joining the swirling mass. The skulls surfaced once more, and began to chant in time, limned in crackling flames.

The floor shook beneath him, as if something vast were approaching. Anhur held his ground. It was not the thing itself, but merely a dreadful echo, resounding through the Mortal Realms. He had spoken the true name of one of Khorne’s huntsmen, casting it into the void. And now, the daemon known as Skul’rath the Broken had come at his call.

A shadow, gigantic and foul, outlined in black flame, appeared in the surface of the blood like a shadow on a curtain. Anhur recognised it at once. Large teeth, capped in brass, and anchored in a large doglike muzzle, pierced the veil of blood. Nostrils flared, and the hideous mouth opened. ‘I hear you, mortal. Skul’rath hears, and he comes,’ the Bloodthirster rumbled. ‘Speak, mortal. Speak, Skul’rath commands you…’

‘No man or daemon commands me, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur said. ‘We are allies in this endeavour. I am no daemon-slave, to be twisted and broken at your whim.’ It was a risk, talking to the creature in such a fashion. Had it been any other of Khorne’s chosen –Ka’Bandha, or Khorg’tan – he might have balked. But Skul’rath was different.

The daemon had been humbled by the Stormcast Eternals. Skul’rath had been the first to fall in the war, the first casualty, the first defeat. And he was eager to redeem himself.

‘Where is the gate I was promised, mortal? Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions await the opening of the way, and they – WE – grow impatient.’

‘The way will soon be revealed, Broken One,’ Anhur said, staring up at the daemonic face. The chamber shook as a sudden monstrous roar burst from the squirming blood. The things – the half-born daemon-shapes – thrashed and shrieked in sympathy.

‘Do not call me that,’ the daemon bellowed. Sizzling dollops of blood spattered against Anhur’s helm. ‘I am not broken. I am the breaker.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ Anhur said. The air grew hot and stifling as the daemon roared again. It seared his lungs and sweat stung his eyes, but he did not falter. As the heat rose, so too did his anger. It reached up, through the meat of him, trying to throttle his lucidity. His pulse throbbed in time to the daemon’s roars, as if the very sound of it were twisting what was left of his soul into new, more horrible shapes.

Strange images were burnt into the air, fading as quickly as they formed. A hunched and crippled form, dragging itself across endless skullfields. The Gates of the Vanquished, rising up over the moats of boiling blood. The wails of those bested in battle, and the Gatekeeper, with his voice of iron, demanding the identity of the one who had dared to return to the Brass Citadel in defeat. And finally, Skul’rath, forcing himself to stand, forcing himself to speak. Skul’rath the Tamed, Skul’rath the Broken.

Anhur had seen it all before. The image of the vanquished was cast across the Eight Realms, to every daemon-lord and war-leader as a warning and a call to arms. For the first time in centuries, the name of Sigmar reverberated through the Brass Citadel, and echoed in the minds of all those whom Khorne had blessed. The Hammer of Heaven had come once more, and the Mortal Realms shook at his tread.

Anhur shuddered, forcing the images aside. The daemon’s rage fed his own, and threatened to devour him from inside out. But he pushed it down, denying it, forcing himself to remain calm. If he gave in now, all was lost. He heard the clink of Volundr’s chain, and drew strength from the sound.

The blood crawled across the air, spreading and drying as the bodies of the slain began to blacken and smoke, filling Anhur’s nose with the stink of burning flesh. The daemon was venting its fury in the only way open to it. Pazak’s blightkings lumbered towards their master, drawing their corroded and dripping weapons as they did so. Volundr hefted his anvil warily. ‘He is beyond reason, the broken fool,’ the skullgrinder growled.

‘Calm yourself, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur began, knowing even as he did so, that it was the wrong thing to say. Another roar shook the chamber, and dust sifted down as the walls and dome cracked. The struggles of the things squirming on the floor became more frenzied. They hissed and screeched and the sound of Skul’rath’s fury pounded against Anhur’s eardrums. The heat of his rage beat at the air. The obsidian plates began to spin faster and faster, as things pressed against the black surface, like swimmers in tar.

‘Impossible,’ Pazak muttered. ‘The way is not yet open.’

‘What is impossible for us is but the work of a moment for the gods,’ Anhur said. Skul’rath might have been nothing more than a shard of the Blood God given mind and purpose, but even the shard of a god could accomplish the unthinkable.

Pazak began to chant, but too late. Geysers of blood and meat exploded upwards, and monstrous shapes, lean of limb and athirst for slaughter, raced into reality. Black blades swept out, hacking a blightking down. Anhur parried a blow with his axe and caught his attacker’s throat with his free hand. The bloodletter squirmed and hissed. It tried to rip itself free and Anhur snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. The body began to dissolve even as he flung it aside.

More of the daemons sprang from the gore. A trio of the red-limbed killers flung themselves at him, blades sizzling as they carved bloody contrails through the air. Anhur stepped forward, and smashed the first of the daemons to the ground. His blood sang as he fought, and the air throbbed with the shrieking murder-hymns of the damned. Volundr fought beside him, his wide shape twisting and spinning with impossible agility as he swung his anvil and chain to crush the skulls of daemons.

He felt a wash of sour heat, and saw a flash of sickly light out of the corner of his eye. Pazak, Anhur thought, and felt his battle-lust recede. If the sorcerer were killed, then all had been for naught. In his mad rage, Skul’rath might destroy all that they had worked for. Anhur turned, and saw bloodletters flinging themselves at the sorcerer and his bodyguards. The blightkings were few, but strong, and Pazak was no weakling. He’d drawn the scabrous blade from its rotting sheath on his hip and as Anhur started forward, the sorcerer beheaded a bloodletter.

‘Skul’rath, cease this madness,’ Anhur roared, as he hacked down a daemon. Streamers of pale red steam rose from the floor, as more daemons fought and clawed their way free of the blood and gore. ‘Would you doom all we have strived for, in the name of petulance?’

‘I am not broken! I yet stand – I yet kill. I will break the world and offer up its shards to Khorne,’ Skul’rath roared. ‘I will have my vengeance – a million skulls shall I offer up…’ The bloodletters twitched and grew more frenzied in their attack, as their bodies began to steam and slough away into nothing. Skul’rath’s rage had forced them into solidity, but that alone was not enough to sustain them. Anhur chopped through the midsection of another daemon, and it exploded into nothingness as his blade passed through it.

‘Aye a million and more besides, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur shouted. He spun to face the blood-cloud. ‘We shall build our lord a throne of a million corpses, and cast the skulls of the fallen at his feet like pearls. We shall break the Realm of Fire, and make of it a conflagration unending, a cauldron of eternal war… but we can only do so together.’

Skul’rath’s roars faded. The bloodletters slowed. Steam rose from them and they began to come apart, crumbling even as they retreated. Anhur forced his voice to remain steady as he called out, ‘Our bargain holds, mighty Skul’rath. When the way has been opened, you will be free to wreak your vengeance on this realm, starting with Klaxus.’ He raised his axe. ‘By my axe, I swear it.’

‘And by my true name, I swear that if you make good on that oath, I will serve you until you choose to release me,’ the bloodthirster growled. ‘But do not seek to play me false, Scarlet One, or your skull shall be the first I take!’

Slowly, the heat faded. The corpses cooled, and the blood, now reduced to a fine ash, cascaded down. Pazak coughed and waved a hand. ‘Makes a strong impression, that one.’

‘Have you ever known a daemon to do otherwise?’ Anhur growled, as he turned. ‘I share his impatience. I would have this over and done with, sooner rather than later.’ He shook his head. ‘So many months. Years, even, of planning. Of preparing. The red road calls, and I have no choice but to follow it.’

‘There is no turning back, Anhur. Not for you,’ Volundr said.

Anhur gazed down at his axe. His reflection stared back at him, and for a moment, he saw himself as he had been, rather than as he was. He laughed. That man was dead, and something stronger had risen from his ashes. Just as something greater would rise from the ashes of Klaxus.

‘Victory or oblivion,’ the Scarlet Lord said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Six Pillars

Apademak the Hungry stood atop the remains of a shattered statue in the Plaza of Six Pillars, his head thrown back, and screamed. It was a sound overflowing with fury and hunger. It filled the expanse of the plaza and beyond, echoing through the rain-swept streets that curled about the Gnawing Gate and the crumbled structures that lined them, where great fires crackled and savage shapes danced. Apademak bent backwards, forcing the sound louder and louder, until his throat burned and his lungs ached.

As he screamed, he could hear the wail of horns, the bellowing of the Gnawing Gate, and the sounds of the dying, spreading out from the city around him. Those captives not meant for Pazak’s purposes, or for other labours, were left to the mercies of the Eight Tribes – those teeming hordes of savage bloodreavers who fought beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. Some, like the Skinstealers, devoured the meat of their prisoners after stripping them of flesh. Others hunted their terrified prey through the overgrown ruins for sport, or else sacrificed them to the Blood God on sacred brass anvils.

These were the tribes who would come at his call, and more besides. Though their warriors were scattered after the sack of Uryx, they would not have gone far. There was too much fun to be had in the centre of the city. Hundreds of captives to entertain them, and the palaces of the soft-skinned nobility to be pillaged and burnt. They would come, and he would lead them forth to partake of a dark feast in Khorne’s name.

Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, and a clap of thunder caused the trees to sway. The war-song of the enemy, Apademak thought. They whose blood tasted of lightning, and whose tread was thunder. He had yet to take the skull of one of the warriors Anhur called ‘Stormcasts’, and the thought only added to his anger. He had killed many, hacking them down in their gilded panoply at the Hissing Gates, but something – some force – always snatched them away before he could collect his due.

‘But I will do so today, Khorne – in your name, I shall pluck their skulls smoking from their flesh and cast them into your fires,’ he roared, and the strange sulphur-birds which nested in the yellow roots that ran through the walls of the plaza burst into the air, crowing raucously as if in reply. He watched them circle through the stinging rain, and for a moment he thought he saw another shape amongst them. A lean shape, hideously beautiful, leather wings flapping as she swooped over the faithful. His heart swelled.

‘Valkia,’ he roared. ‘Gorequeen, Jewel of Murder… hear us, oh Lady of Slaughter! Hear your sons and daughters – we will spill seas of blood in the name of he who is our father. We will offer up the lightning itself!’

The phantom faded, even as his words echoed across the street. He had seen Valkia once, at a distance. The Gorequeen had danced through the slaughter so gracefully that in that moment, Apademak had been lost. He could still feel the sweet pain of her voice as it dug its hooks deep into the meat of him, assuring him that he was hers forevermore. Whether she had heard him, whether she had truly graced him with her presence, he could not say, but a man gained nothing if he did not first try.

He heard the crash of stones and the groan of splintered wood. Over the tops of the square, vine-encrusted buildings that surrounded the plaza, he could see the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. The monstrous archway was ever hungry, and its tendrils hunted the streets as eagerly as any Bloodbound.

As he watched, the great tentacle of the gate ripped a distant aqueduct apart, and lightning flashed, again and again. The Gnawing Gate roared, as if in agony.

The enemy were coming. Vasa the Lion, exalted among deathbringers though he had been, had been unable to stop them in the courtyards of the outer city. Apademak tightened his grip on his axe, glad of its weight. It trembled in his hand, eager to sing a hymn of slaughter. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, placating the blade’s spirit with a taste of his blood. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Soon, we shall drink until our bellies burst, my friend.’

He looked out over the plaza, and across the shimmering yellow surface of the lake, where thick columns of smoke rose over Uryx. The Nine Hundred Pillars, Anhur called it, though Apademak did not know why. Anhur said many things that Apademak did not understand. He used words where an axe was needed.

That was something creatures like Anhur would never understand. They had not grown up as he had, cloaked in Khorne’s glory. Apademak had grown to manhood in the Bitter Mountains. His tribe had offered up wine-soaked gobbets of meat to the shrieking carrion-birds who brought Khorne’s words from the Brass Citadel. And the birds had carried those sweet meats to Khorne’s lips, and the Blood God had cast his blessings down, in return.

Men like Anhur sought power in battle and became lost, until Khorne found them. But Apademak had never faltered, not once. He had set his first skull atop the Blood God’s altar at the age of ten winters, and had done so faithfully for uncounted days since. Anhur knew nothing of Khorne’s truth. The Scarlet Lord was a bloodless thing, who saw no crime in retreat, victory in failure and wove schemes like a spider wove webs.

But, somehow, he had Khorne’s favour. Despite it all, he still stood, blessed and strong. Why had he been sent here? Why had he been called to serve such a creature? Apademak shuddered, suddenly gripped by an all-consuming anger. It tore through him, threatening to break his limbs and rip the muscles from his bones. He threw back his head and howled again, venting his fury at the storm clouds that gathered above.

As he screamed, his mind suddenly roiled with gory visions of the carnage to come. Apademak staggered, clutching at his head. His long fingers dug into the scarred flesh of his brow as scenes of war and death flashed across the surface of his mind. He heard the clamour of daemon-voices, and the rattle of the brass standards of Khorne. He felt the heat of the great forges of the Brass Citadel, and could taste the blood of men on his tongue.

He saw a vast shape unfold across the storm-riddled sky. A shape of brass and blood, a titan of awfulness clad in baroque armour, with a face like that of a snarling hound, only miles wide and grinning down through the rain and lightning. Khorne straddled the Tephra Crater, his feet planted on either rim, his great sword held aloft, its blade pointed down. Soon, soon, he would drive the Ender of Worlds down, and Klaxus would die. Aqshy would die. All things would die, and Apademak screamed and screamed, as vision after vision washed over him, showing him pieces of what had been and what was to come.

The echoes of his cries plunged deeper and deeper into the city, merging into a roar of summons, and those who heeded such calls came. They flowed into the plaza, howling and clashing weapons – Skinstealers, Bonegnawers, Red Blades and more besides, warriors and chieftains from the Eight Tribes. With them came a few lash-wielding bloodstokers, and a trio of his fellow slaughterpriests. They knew what his cry meant, for it was one of the most sacred of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood – it was the call to the Feast of Slaupnir.

Apademak looked down upon the gathering of warriors and growled in satisfaction. With these, he would break the Stormcasts. Even now, the main thrust of the foe drove forward, through the crooked streets and broken avenues of the outer city, towards the Gnawing Gate. Apademak intended to meet them, and fling them back. Khorne was watching him, the eyes of his patron were upon him, and he would not be found wanting.

Apademak met the eyes of the tribesmen gathered below him, and raised his axe in readiness to whip them into a frenzy. But before he could speak, the growing crowd was pierced by an armoured shape. The tribesmen drew back, muttering amongst themselves, and even the slaughterpriests knew better than to bar a skullgrinder’s path.

Volundr moved slowly, as if he were a thing of iron, rather than flesh and blood. He carried his anvil on his shoulder as he walked, and dragged his chains behind him. Men skipped back rather than be touched by those chains. He came to a halt before Apademak’s perch. The anvil thudded down from Volundr’s broad shoulder, splintering the stones. The chains in his grip clinked softly. Apademak straightened. Of all the Gorechosen, the warrior-smith was the most dangerous, besides himself. And he was stubbornly loyal to Anhur. Perhaps that was why he had come. Apademak had challenged the Scarlet Lord more than once since they had begun their march across the Tephra Crater, as was his right and duty. Was Volundr challenging him in return? The thought of it was thrilling.

‘Hungry One, I would speak with thee,’ Volundr said, his voice issuing hollowly from the fang-like mouthpiece of his crimson helm. ‘I bring you the words of our Lord Anhur.’

Apademak stopped. He looked down at the skullgrinder warily. He was taller than the war-smith, but not by much, and Volundr was twice as broad. ‘Then speak,’ he said. ‘But be quick – our enemies draw close, and my axe is thirsty.’

‘He is displeased with you, Apademak,’ Volundr said.

‘Is he?’ Apademak said. ‘And he sends you to tell me? Why does he not come here himself, and face me as a true warrior?’

‘He has greater wars to wage. Can you feel it, Apademak? Can you feel the weight of Khorne’s gaze? It is drawn to this place, to Anhur. Khorne waits – eager and slavering – on the threshold, and it is our duty – our privilege – to thrust the gate wide,’ Volundr said.

Apademak grunted. ‘Aye, I feel it. It is ever thus. Khorne is in every splintered shield and torn limb, in every dying scream and roar of triumph. He is always with us.’ He spread his long arms and the bloodreavers roared in agreement.

‘But his eye is not on us. It is Anhur who occupies him,’ Volundr said, and the tribesmen fell silent at his words. Apademak made an impatient gesture.

‘And so? Does that mean I should slink quietly? I was already a prodigy of murder before I felt Khorne’s spark, and I have made war my lover, lord and life,’ Apademak said, arms spread. ‘The Blood God speaks through me, hell-smith. Can Anhur say the same? You forge weapons, but I am one. If you wish to challenge me, I will oblige you in your folly.’ Apademak spun his axe with ease, the corded muscles in his forearm bunching. Bloodreavers stepped back, clearing the area around Volundr. The skullgrinder laughed harshly.

‘No challenge, I assure thee, Hungry One. Merely a warning… heed me or not, as you will,’ Volundr said. ‘You are a weapon, as you say, but it is Anhur who wields you. And a weapon which turns too often in its wielder’s hands is bound for the fire and the anvil, to be reshaped into something more useful.’

Apademak threw back his head and laughed. ‘Proof enough that no man may know the will of the gods,’ he said. He tapped the side of his head and leered at Volundr. ‘Khorne’s words thrum in my brain like fresh-driven nails. Loyalty is not among them. Only blood, only skulls, only war… those are the gospels of Khorne.’

‘Indeed,’ Volundr said. ‘But war comes in many forms. It can be a thing of bloody brevity, or an eternity of slaughter. Anhur fights for the latter…’

‘The Scarlet Lord fights for himself, as we all do, skullgrinder. He is as riven with weakness as that fool, Baron Aceteryx or even Hroth Shieldbreaker. It spreads in him like a sickness. I can smell it, and soon, I shall end his suffering.’ Apademak tested the edge of his axe. A sudden urgency gripped him. Change was on the wind, and if Khorne’s gaze had been drawn here, then all the better. ‘Tell him that, if you wish. Tell him that I am ever hungry. That I see him for what he is, and I shall take his skull the moment he gives me reason, even as he has threatened to take mine.’

‘You need a reason?’

Apademak smiled. ‘The formalities must be observed, warrior-smith. I speak for Khorne. I challenge the weak in his name. I cull the unworthy.’

Volundr nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. Then, ‘You cull the weak, slaughterpriest. But never forget that it falls to me to forge the strong.’

‘Then prepare thy tools, war-smith, for the strong stand before thee,’ Apademak snarled. Anhur was afraid. Why else would he have sent Volundr, with such an overt warning? Anhur was afraid! And Apademak would show him that he was right to be so, once the Stormcasts had been driven from Uryx. He glanced up, and saw again the enormous shadow of Khorne, stretching across the curve of the sky through the riotous storm clouds.

He felt his muscles swell with fury and strength, and he lifted his axe over his head. Rain pelted his face as he roared, ‘The enemy has come, my brothers. They ride this gale, and we must meet them. Khorne hungers, my brothers… will you not feed him?’

‘Feed,’ the bloodreavers roared. The lashes of the bloodstokers sang as they whipped the tribesmen into a frenzy, and Apademak’s brethren added their own voices to his exhortations. The bloodreavers grew more frenzied by the moment, chanting Khorne’s name, and gashing their flesh with their weapons. Apademak saw Volundr moving away, across the plaza, and he grinned. Run back to your master, war-smith, he thought.

‘Feed, brothers,’ Apademak said. ‘Eat of their hearts, brothers, so that Khorne might taste the blood. Find them, and feast.’ As he spoke, he could feel the rage that was in him stretching forth to infect those Bloodbound closest to him. The heat of his fury ignited the flames of their hunger, stirring them and burning away doubt, hesitation and fear. Feed, as I will feed upon the Scarlet Lord before this battle is done, he thought.

‘Feast,’ the tribesmen bellowed. The clash of their weapons swelled to fill the air, and Apademak swept his axe out, as if to cut through the noise. Thunder rumbled, shaking the very stones of the plaza. He heard the screech of the Gnawing Gate, and laughed.

‘Sniff them out, my brothers,’ he roared, ‘Hunt them down and fall upon them, ravenous and strong. Crack their bones and flay their hides. Pry loose their hearts, and offer them up smoking and bloody in Khorne’s name! Blood for the Blood God!’ He leapt down from his perch and struck the ground with his axe, sending up sparks.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ came the thunderous reply. Apademak howled again, and the gathered tribesmen joined their voices to his. The sound rose up and up, drowning out even the noise of the storm for a brief moment. And then, as one, the warriors of the Eight Tribes went to meet the foe.

‘What sort of folk are these, who raise up such monsters?’ Tarkus said, as he stepped over one of the grey tendrils that lay limp and shrunken in the street. Only moments earlier, the advancing Stormcasts had been forced to raise their shields against the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. But with a sudden crack of thunder, the hideous limbs had, all at once, stiffened then fallen away, as if whatever malign life force animated them had been snuffed. ‘Perhaps we should leave the Klaxians to their fate…’

‘If I thought you were serious, Tarkus, you and I would have words,’ Moros said. He and Galerius marched alongside the Knight-Heraldor at the head of the Adamantine. Behind them came the Devastation Brotherhoods – Retributors, Protectors and Decimators, marching in the shadow of those Prosecutor retinues who had not accompanied Orius. Liberators and Judicators, arrayed in Thunderhead Brotherhoods, moved alongside the Paladins with steady determination. More than once since they’d started out from the Mandrake Bastion, one or more of these brotherhoods had peeled off from the main column to confront an approaching enemy.

‘You mistake the people for their leaders,’ Moros continued. ‘The crimes of some are not the crimes of all. The common folk of Klaxus had no more say in the actions of their rulers than the people of Raxul or the citizens of the Striding Cities of the Ghyran Veldt. Our duty remains the same regardless. We will free them from tyranny, familiar or otherwise.’ He used his hammer to thrust a man-sized coil of tendril out of his path. That these tendrils were inert meant only one thing – Orius had succeeded in taking the Gnawing Gate.

And Sigmar willing, he can hold it until we arrive, the Lord-Relictor thought, as he led the warriors of his chamber on through the rubble-strewn streets of Uryx. The column Moros led marched swiftly. It was composed of the bulk of the Stormcast retinues of their chamber. The remainder followed more slowly, under the leadership of Lord-Castellant Gorgus.

It fell to Gorgus to render the plazas and courtyards they travelled through defensible for those chambers who would follow them, and aid the Adamantine in reclaiming Uryx from the Bloodbound. Uryx would become a bastion from whence the Stormcasts might march to free the remaining kingdoms of the Tephra Crater. But first, they had to free the city from the grip of the Scarlet Lord. Beneath his war-helm, Moros frowned.

The Adamantine had pursued Anhur across mountain, salt-plain and trackless waste, harrying him from the realm of the furnace kings to the Hissing Gates. They had clashed with him again and again, and every time the Scarlet Lord had chosen to flee, rather than stand and fight, as if some greater purpose than mindless carnage drove him. Despite their victories, Moros couldn’t help but feel that Anhur had drawn them knowingly to the Tephra Crater. Why else would he seemingly put his hand in such a trap?

Between the fires that raged through the surrounding jungles and the Stormcasts laying siege to the crater-kingdoms, there was no chance of Anhur escaping with anything remotely resembling an intact army. His power would be broken if he remained in Uryx. Unless he thought to defeat the Stormcasts in this maze of tangled streets, where he had failed to do so before under the open skies. Why have you come here, Scarlet Lord? Are you seeking a final confrontation… or is it something else? Moros thought. There was a smell in the air that he didn’t like – not simply the effluvium of war, but a more pervasive stink. The stench of corrupt magics. It might only be the death-rattle of Uryx, as the spells which held it intact faded, but he suspected otherwise. A voice from above drew his gaze skyward. A Prosecutor swooped low. ‘Something approaches, Lord-Relictor,’ the winged Stormcast called out.

‘Enemies,’ Tarkus said, raising his battle-horn. He blew a single note, and two retinues of Liberators moved forward smoothly, taking up position across the width of the street, their shields raised. The sound grew louder and louder, and then a number of shapes, not all of them human, burst into sight. ‘Wait – those don’t look like Bloodbound,’ the Knight-Heraldor said.

‘They’re not,’ Moros said, as the street was suddenly filled with life and noise.

In the lead were a pack of the grey, black-spotted scale-cats that prowled the upper branches of the Ashen Jungle. They screeched as they spotted the Stormcasts. One by one, the reptilian felines bounded from the ground, scrambling up onto the rooftops in an apparent effort to escape, leathery tails whipping about in fear. After them came serpents and vermin, of all shapes and sizes. Birds as well, damp-feathered and shrieking. Behind the animals came a group of fear-stricken Klaxians, clad in rags, carrying makeshift weapons or wailing children, or both. They stumbled to a halt as they realised what awaited them.

‘Stand aside – let them past,’ Moros bellowed. Sigmarite shields swung aside, and the Liberators made room for the Klaxians, who lurched forward as a path was opened. The mortals hurried through the silent ranks of the Stormcasts, glancing about in dull-eyed fear. They did not stop, or even slow, and no Stormcast sought to hinder them. Moros hoped Gorgus could take them in hand, or at least shepherd them to safety.

He turned as lightning flashed. The Prosecutors swooped and dived, hurling their hammers at whatever pursued the Klaxians. He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Lock shields – Thunderhead Brotherhoods to the fore,’ he called out. The air trembled with a measureless roar of raw sound – innumerable voices, raised in a brutal song. The ground trembled beneath his feet. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t planning on stopping.

A moment later, the first bloodreaver burst into sight, running flat out, an axe in either hand. More followed – dozens, fifty, a hundred – a savage tide of murderous fury. Moros could feel the hatred radiating outward from them, and the terrible hunger that drove them. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ he cried. Liberators braced themselves as the Judicators behind them began to fire, launching crackling bolts into the flood of flesh and crimson iron sweeping towards the Stormcasts.

The howling tribesmen hurtled forward, through the barrage of skybolts and hammers hurled from on high by the Prosecutors. They filled the avenue and trampled the wounded in their haste to reach the sigmarite shield wall. Moros could see the bulky shapes of bloodstokers in the maddened crowd, lashing the barbarians cruelly, goading them on. The first of the bloodreavers reached the shield wall and the sheer fury of their charge nearly buckled it. The Liberators stiffened, driving warblades through the gaps between shields to gut and hamstring the foe, or crushing the hands and heads of those that sought to climb over the wall with warhammers.

‘We need room to manoeuvre – Galerius, we need to push them back,’ Moros said. The Knight-Vexillor nodded and strode to join the Liberators, battle-standard raised high. ‘Tarkus–’ he began, glancing at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘I’ll take one of these side-streets. We’ll hammer ourselves a path, and flank them,’ Tarkus said, before Moros could continue. At Tarkus’ signal, the Devastation Brotherhoods moved forward. Moros made to speak, but merely nodded instead. Tarkus, for all his exuberance, knew his business. The Lord-Relictor held out his hand, and Tarkus caught it. The two Stormcasts clasped forearms as the paladins moved to join them.

‘Be careful, my friend. And be quick,’ Moros said. He turned. The Liberators crashed against the bloodreaver ranks, forcing them back one bloody step at a time. He counted the moments, waiting until they had gained enough space, and then gestured. ‘Take out the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

Retributors unleashed their hammers on the walls and doorways behind the shelter of the shield wall. The ancient stones cracked and fell, and where vines and roots held them suspended, the axes of the Decimators set them loose. As the paladins worked to open gaps, Judicators clambered through them and took up positions in the shattered ruins. Soon, skybolts were sizzling across the narrow avenue in a deadly crossfire, cutting down the enemy by the dozen. Galerius raised his hammer, and the Liberators halted their advance to wait, shields and weapons ready, holding the foe at bay. Judicators carrying skybolt bows and boltstorm crossbows moved forward, shielded behind the Liberators.

‘Tarkus – go,’ Moros said, motioning sharply to the Knight-Heraldor. Tarkus saluted and led his warriors through one of the newly-gutted structures. A moment later, Moros heard the sound of lightning hammers shattering stone. ‘Keep pace, whatever else. Do not let your bows grow cold for an instant, brothers,’ the Lord-Relictor said to the Judicators as he passed through their ranks. ‘Show them the storm in all its fury, and do not falter. Protectors, with me!’

Moros moved towards the enemy, his Protectors close beside him, their stormstrike glaives extended. He signalled to Galerius as he moved past. ‘Galerius – lead them forward on my command. We will be the point of the spear, and you the haft,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We cannot stop for anything.’

‘Even death shall not slow me, Lord-Relictor,’ Galerius said. ‘Not while I bear our standard. Where you lead, we shall follow, even unto the fire.’

‘Hardly the fire, Galerius. Just to the next plaza, I think,’ Moros said. He could hear the winding blast of Tarkus’ battle-horn, somewhere beyond the sagging structures and splayed branches of the trees that grew amongst them. The Knight-Heraldor was on the move, and Moros was determined to keep the enemy unaware of that fact for as long as possible. He took a breath and cleared his mind of all save the sacred lightning. It was no simple feat. It required concentration to stir the divine tempest. And only those possessed of faith undying could direct the thundering aetheric energies that Sigmar had bestowed upon them. Only those like Moros Calverius.

He concentrated, focusing on the soft sound of the rain, the distant growl of the thunder, and heard the voice of Sigmar, speaking to him through the storm. The air swirled and the rain hissed as it felt the touch of lightning. He expelled the breath he’d been holding and swung his reliquary forward, unleashing the elemental fury that boiled within him. ‘Forward – for Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial!’ Moros roared, as his lightning scythed through the ranks of the tribesmen. ‘Press forward, sons of Sigmar, and let no foe stay thy path.’

A bloodreaver, skin charred and smoking, staggered towards him, laughing wildly. Moros crushed the dying warrior’s skull and cursed as more bloodreavers charged towards him. They fell, struck down by the glaives of his bodyguards. Galerius shouted an order, and the shield wall began to move forward once more in the Lord-Relictor’s wake.

Soon, the stones of the street and buildings were slick with gore. The Bloodbound did not slow their assault, even as they died in droves. It was as if every cursed tribe in the city were trying to get at them. Warriors leapt from the rooftops, trying to bypass the shield wall. They fell, plucked from the air by the bolts of the Judicators or the hammers of the Prosecutors.

Moros drove the enemy before him, scouring them with lightning, and reducing many to ashes. He crushed skulls and shattered limbs with every strike of his hammer. His Protectors fought alongside him, and with them he carved a bleeding wedge in the enemy, blunting their momentum. Galerius kept the shield wall steady, so that those foemen who got past the Lord-Relictor found no refuge. The Stormcasts stamped over the bodies of the fallen, grinding them into the stones as they moved forward with relentless precision.

Soon, the avenue widened into an enormous plaza, lined with shattered pillars and toppled statues. The barbaric standards of at least five tribes of bloodreavers rose above the seething mass of tribesmen as they stampeded over rubble and around fallen walls. They flooded the plaza, coming from all directions, driven beyond reason.

Neither lightning nor sigmarite deterred the foe, but the Stormcasts continued to advance. To stop was to risk being overwhelmed. As the shield wall forced its way into the plaza, the retinues behind fought their way forward. The shield wall stretched further out, until almost every Liberator retinue had taken his place in the battle-line. Behind them, Decimators and Retributors fought to keep the flanks free of enemies. Prosecutors swooped overhead, trying to shatter the entrances to the plaza and cut off the flow of tribesmen.

Moros snarled in fury as a nearby Liberator fell, his skull split by an axe, and his body dissolving in a burst of lightning. The weapon’s wielder was a giant of a warrior, long of limb and heavy with muscle. Slaughterpriest, Moros thought. The slaughterpriest was covered in scars, his flesh branded with the rune of Khorne. Great horns of bone stretched from the back of his head, curling over his broad shoulders. As the Lord-Relictor watched, the giant drove his axe into a Liberator’s shield hard enough to crumple it. The Liberator staggered, and the warrior caught his head in one big hand. Veins bulged and muscles swelled in the giant’s arm as, impossibly, the sigmarite war-helm began to buckle and crack. Then Galerius was there, his hammer smashing down on the giant’s arm with bone-crunching force.

Moros lost sight of the Knight-Vexillor as a barbed lash hissed out and caught him around the wrist. Surprised, he dropped his warhammer. A burly bloodstoker chortled as he stabbed at Moros with his rusty blade. The blade shattered as it struck Moros’ armour, and the Lord-Relictor allowed himself a moment to relish the look on the brute’s face, just before he punched him. The bloodstoker staggered back. Moros whirled his reliquary staff about and slammed the weighted haft into the Bloodbound’s stomach. As his opponent stumbled back, Moros snatched up his fallen hammer and swept it across the bloodstoker’s head, crushing it.

He heard a cry and spun to see Galerius stagger, one hand clamped to his shoulder. The slaughterpriest reared back and kicked the Knight-Vexillor in the chest, knocking him back against the shield wall. ‘Is that it,’ the slaughterpriest roared, as he avoided an off-balance blow from Galerius. ‘Is that the best you can do, lightning-rider?’

Moros slammed his staff down and a bolt of crackling lightning punched the slaughterpriest backwards to bowl over a group of bloodreavers. For a moment, the clamour of battle faded, as Moros and his warriors moved towards the downed warrior. The slaughterpriest heaved himself to his feet, in a cloud of smoke. ‘Who dares strike Apademak?’ he screamed. His flesh was raw and puckered where the lightning had struck him, and smoke rose from his body. He lashed out in a frenzy, killing tribesmen as they raced past him. ‘You,’ he snarled, pointing at Moros. ‘I’ll eat your heart,’ the slaughterpriest roared, bounding through the press of battle, his axe raised. The wicked blade swept out, and caught a Protector in the shoulder.

The Stormcast staggered, and tried to bring his glaive about, but he was too slow. The axe bit down again and again, until even sturdy sigmarite was forced to give way. The Protector fell, body evaporating in a haze of blue lightning. The slaughterpriest howled in fury, and whirled, backhanding another of Moros’ bodyguards off his feet.

Moros lunged forward, and drove the haft of his reliquary staff into the Bloodbound’s unarmoured torso. Bones cracked, and the slaughterpriest staggered back a half-step, his howl choked off in a strangled grunt. His eyes bulged and he stomped forward, axe whirling. Moros backed away, watching his opponent warily. The slaughterpriest was larger, with a longer reach, but like most Bloodbound he was a sloppy fighter. A brawler, rather than a trained warrior.

They came together again, trading blows. Then, perhaps one as strong as this doesn’t need training, Moros thought, as they circled one another. The slaughterpriest’s energy was inexhaustible. He fought as if his foul god were whispering in his ear, spurring him on. The battle flowed around them. Moros could spare little attention for anything save his duel.

The slaughterpriest surged forward suddenly, and slammed into Moros, knocking him from his feet. The Lord-Relictor rolled aside as the axe slammed down, nearly chopping into his chest. He shoved himself upright, narrowly catching a second blow on his staff. For a moment, the tableau held. But inch by inch, he felt himself being pushed back.

Then the air was split by the monsoon roar of a sigmarite battle-horn, crying out like the voice of the God-King himself. The booming wall of sound reverberated through the plaza, drowning out the clangour of battle. It was so powerful that several of the broken walls that lined the plaza exploded outwards, filling the air with shards of stone and a billowing cloud of dust. A chunk of wall, as large as three men, slammed into the slaughterpriest, tearing him away from Moros and burying him beneath an avalanche of rubble.

Moros turned from his fallen foe. Most of the bloodreavers closest to the explosion were ripped from their feet by the tumbling stones. Those who remained standing were cut down moments later by the axes of the Decimators who charged out of the breach. Tarkus led the charge, his sigmarite broadsword bisecting an unlucky bloodreaver who tried to bar his path. The Knight-Heraldor raised his horn in greeting, as he and his warriors swept towards the rest of the chamber. ‘I see you started without us, Lord-Relictor. For shame,’ Tarkus called.

‘You are here now. And there are foes aplenty,’ Moros shouted back. He looked around for Galerius, and caught sight of the wounded Knight-Vexillor being helped behind the shield wall by a Liberator. Relieved, Moros turned back to the battle. With his Protectors following close behind, he began to fight his way towards the newcomers.

‘Ha! Truly, I was forged for moments such as this,’ Tarkus roared, as Moros joined him. His broadsword swept out in a wide arc and chopped through a bloodreaver’s midsection. Flesh and bone parted and Tarkus reversed the arc of the swing with a speed that Moros found almost impossible to follow. The hilt of the blade rolled in the Knight-Heraldor’s grip as he pivoted and brought the wide blade down on a second bloodreaver, removing the savage warrior’s arm at the shoulder-joint. Tarkus stepped aside as the bloodreaver toppled, and interposed his sword between Moros’ head and the axe of another burly warrior.

‘Any time you’d like to step back, Lord-Relictor,’ Tarkus said, as the bloodreaver strained against him. The berserker snarled in frustration and made to drive his blade into Tarkus’ side. Moros whipped his staff up and thrust it past Tarkus. He drove the weighted ferrule into the Bloodbound’s chest, cracking bone. As the warrior staggered, Tarkus jerked his sword free and brought it down on the berserker’s helm, splitting both it and the skull beneath.

‘The day I step back is the day I am bound for reforging, Knight-Heraldor,’ Moros said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Though you have my thanks for your timely arrival.’

The bloodreavers were falling back, streaming away from their foes, their will to fight momentarily broken. The shock of Tarkus’ arrival had shattered whatever spell had gripped them, replacing frenzy with fear. They’ll regroup soon enough, but we will be ready for them, Moros thought, as he signalled for his retinue to reform.

‘Where howl the enemies of Sigmar, so too shall I be, to silence them,’ Tarkus said. He planted his sword point-first in the broken ground and leaned on the hilt. He raised his battle-horn and blew a single, powerful note. It hung on the air for a moment, causing the very stones to vibrate. Soon, the tramp of marching feet reached Moros’ ears, and more Stormcasts streamed into the square, reinforcing the shield wall. ‘Galerius?’ Tarkus asked, as he lowered his horn.

‘Hurt, but unbroken,’ Moros said. He would tend to the Knight-Vexillor as soon as he was able, and any other wounded as well. He looked around, searching for the slaughterpriest. The brute needed finishing off, if possible. He was too dangerous to leave running loose. But it was a futile effort – the plaza was covered in a shroud of broken bodies and rubble. If the creature still lived, he was buried beneath stone and corpses. ‘We need to keep moving. Gorgus will have to deal with the remnants of our foes, when they regroup. We…’ he trailed off, as something caught his eye.

Strange shapes rose from among the heaps and mounds of dead bodies, twisting and stretching like living smoke. Grotesque faces leered and gibbered silently at him, as intangible limbs swiped uselessly at the Stormcasts as they moved through the battlefield. ‘By the celestial hammer,’ Tarkus said, as something lean and foul clawed at him with ghostly talons. It thinned and faded as he whirled to confront it, vanishing like the morning mist.

‘Daemons,’ Moros said, a sick feeling rising in him. ‘They press at the world’s threshold, seeking entrance.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Stay close – they cannot harm us, not yet.’ Not until whatever is in the air has come to a boil, he thought. Was that Anhur’s plan, then? To summon a daemontide to drown his enemies? A chill swept through him at the thought.

‘Let them come,’ Tarkus said, as he chopped through another fading daemonic shape. It twisted in on itself and vanished as his sword pierced it. ‘They will meet the same fate as their mortal servants.’

‘Boldly spoken,’ Moros said. ‘And Sigmar-willing, prophetic. But leave them be. They are vermin, and we should ignore them as such, until it is time to spill their ichor upon the ground.’ Despite his words, he felt uncertain. He shook his head. ‘Come. Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. We must press on. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. We must not fail him.’

Hroth Shieldbreaker strode through the rain, across the cracked and stinking plaza. Slaves toiled despite the storm, heaving heavy blocks into place to form barricades or else erecting dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles were embedded in the stone, their fleshless bounty staring sightlessly out over the lake which separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Standards and banner poles bearing the rune of Khorne pierced the plaza, like arrows in the hide of some great beast. Bands of scuttling skaven dragged weeping prisoners past him, towards the Bridge of Smoke. More grist for Pazak’s mill. Hroth growled softly. Sorcerers were not to be trusted. Especially ones who had once been enemies.

The armoured shapes of Anhur’s Scarlet Axes were visible amongst the throngs of slaves and bloodreaver taskmasters. The blood warriors had fought for Anhur since well before Hroth had joined the warhorde. They were loyal unto death, and rarely mingled with others. As he watched, one cut down a cowering prisoner with a casual sweep of his axe. The blood warrior tore the dying man’s head free of his neck and began to scrape the flesh from the skull.

Grass crunched beneath his feet and he glanced down. Even here, at the heart of the sulphurous lake, life persisted. The yellow, brittle grass thrust persistently upwards through the flat stones, obscuring ancient mosaics. The thick, sickly-hued roots of a few monstrous trees pushed more of those stones up or else cracked them clean through, casting blighted shadows across the plaza. As the magics that had kept Uryx safe faded, so too did its great works crumble. Soon, even the Sulphur Citadel would be no more than a root-encrusted ruin, its terraces and ramparts hidden beneath a shroud of jungle trees and grasses. Strange birds, scaly and lumpen, perched in the crooked branches, screeching a song that sounded almost like the screams of children.

Hroth liked the birds. They reminded him of home. He glanced back, past the ancient stone archway that marked the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge stretched away, over the boiling surface of the sulphur lake. The bridge had come by its name honestly. It had been carved not from stone, but from sulphur fumes, trapped and frozen like amber by sorcerous tools. The bridge swayed and undulated slowly, like a strand of smoke caught in the breeze.

He remembered leading his warriors across its ever-shifting expanse. It shrank and grew without warning, enveloping bloodreavers and drawing them screaming down into itself. Others fell into the lake below, as the bridge shrank beneath their feet. It had thrashed like a thing alive as the Bloodbound fought the Klaxian sulphur-knights across its span. He remembered Vasa the Lion’s roar of triumph as he brained the grandmaster of the knights.

He smiled at the memory. The knights had been brave, for mortals. But they had died like all the rest, and the bridge had swallowed their remains as greedily as it did those of the Bloodbound. Now the great expanse waited, content for the moment. He did not trust it, for it was a thing of sorcery, but he could not deny that it made for a potent barrier. Then, the city was full of such horrors – the Mandrake Bastion, the Gnawing Gate, the Street of Vines…

It is no wonder that Khorne was pleased when we brought this place to ruin, Hroth thought, with satisfaction. The priest-kings of Klaxus had been sorcerers and that was reason enough to mark them for death. He turned away, and continued on, his warriors moving around him in loose formation.

‘A wonder, is it not?’

Hroth turned, as the bulky shape of Volundr fell into step beside him. He had his anvil balanced on one shoulder, and its chain wrapped about him. Hroth grunted in annoyance as he noted the way his blood warriors made way for the skullgrinder. Such a show of respect annoyed him – only two beings were worth that, and Volundr was neither.

‘What is?’ Hroth said.

‘This bridge. The city. All of it. The priest-kings crafted it from the raw stuff of the jungle, and now, with their fall, the jungle reclaims it. Roots and branches once kept in check by the magics of the Klaxian nobility now spread and engulf the city built atop them. Feral warriors run wild in darkened streets, and predators prowl the temple squares. Civilization crumbling unto savagery, as it must,’ Volundr said. ‘A wonder, as I said.’

Hroth peered at him. ‘And so?’

‘I forget that you are not a craftsman, deathbringer. You cannot see the beauty in such things,’ Volundr said.

‘The only beauty I care for comes from split skulls,’ Hroth said. ‘You are in my way, smith. Stand aside and live for another day yet.’ He started forward, wondering if the skullgrinder would try and stop him. Some part of him longed to test his might against Volundr. The war-smith was reputed to be one of the eight forgemasters of the infamous Soulmaw warriors, who had supposedly won Khorne’s favour by wrestling with the very elements themselves in order to craft weapons of great and terrible power. Win or lose, Hroth thought it would be a glorious fight, one to be remembered in tale and song.

‘I will not stand aside. Nor will I hinder you,’ Volundr said. ‘I come to fight beside you, and the others.’ The skullgrinder stepped back and swung his hand out. ‘They await us, at the heart of the Plaza of Yellow Smoke.’

‘Us… you have not deigned to take the field since we fought our way through the scalding geysers of the Hissing Gates, Volundr,’ Hroth said, as they strode through the vast plaza. A hundred campfires burned in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The Plaza of Yellow Smoke had once felt the tread of a hundred thousand supplicants, seeking aid, mercy or salvation from the priest-kings of Klaxus. Now it was a mustering ground for the warhorde in all its demented glory. Amidst the newly-erected monuments and tottering banner poles, cackling beastmen strung up skin sacks, newly flayed from screaming captives and sewn tight, so that they caught the sulphurous breeze. Warriors matched blades across circles of crushed bone, and slaves were auctioned for sale between tribes.

Such was the fate of any place where the shadow of Khorne fell. The conquered had no right to life, to salvation or mercy. The weak were food for the strong, and such was the true way of it. Hroth had learned those lessons on the seas of Gjoll as a boy, and he kept them close to his heart.

The sounds of battle echoed up from the city. Apademak had demanded the honour of the vanguard, and Hroth had seen no reason to deny the berserker his desire. With Vasa the Lion likely dead, Apademak was the next most senior, behind Hroth and Volundr. The rest of the Scarlet Lord’s Gorechosen were crouched over a crude map Warpfang had scratched out in the dirt. It depicted the northern edge of the city, so that the skaven chieftain could indicate the movements of the enemy for the others.

‘Lightning-things are here, here and here,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered, as he stabbed the dirt with the tip of his halberd. ‘They have advanced past the screaming-tree-things and the gate-that-gnaws. My clawbands hold them here,’ he continued, tapping another spot.

Hroth stroked his beard. ‘They move fast.’

‘Like lightning, one might say,’ Baron Aceteryx murmured. Hroth looked at him. The deathbringer shrugged. ‘I did say “might”.’

Hroth shook his head. The Shieldbreaker had fought in campaigns undreamt of, against enemies both monstrous and mortal. But he could not recall ever coming across a creature so worthy of an axe between the eyes as Baron Aceteryx. The Baron fought with words as well as blades, waging his wars in the mind and heart as well as on the field. In that way, he was much like Anhur.

‘Fast or not, we can match them,’ Phastet said. She crouched over Warpfang’s rough map. ‘This city is a warren, full of narrow streets and wide plazas. A perfect hunting ground.’ She looked at Warpfang. ‘Scouts?’

The skaven showed his teeth. ‘Yes-yes. Flying things. Stink of the storm. They burned my warriors,’ he said, eyes narrowed. He stabbed his halberd down. ‘Here. Freed my chattel-things. Slew the gate-that-gnaws.’ Hroth laughed. The skaven sounded more aggrieved about the slaves than his warriors. Warpfang glanced at him, as if trying to determine the source of his humour. Hroth smiled and Warpfang looked away.

Smart beast, he thought. Warpfang had shown his mettle in the Rite of Choosing, but Hroth had been Anhur’s shield-bearer since the fall of Skorch. And he had maintained his position through three Choosings of Gorechosen. He yanked on his beard. ‘I know the beings he speaks of – we’ve all seen them. Great winged warriors, hurling hammers of light and force.’ The others nodded. Many of them had witnessed the fury of the Stormcasts, winged or otherwise, at the Hissing Gates. ‘And more besides.’

The skullgrinder nodded. ‘Apademak clashes with the foe in the outer city even now. But he will not hold them for long,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He will bloody them, as we must bloody them.’

‘And where is Anhur? Why does he keep himself from war?’ Redjaw said, thumping the ground with the haft of his spear. Hroth reached for one of his axes, annoyed by the other deathbringer’s tone. Warpfang replied before he could snatch it up and brain the whelp.

‘A wise leader does not race to fight,’ the skaven said, still studying the map he’d scratched out. ‘A wise leader, yes-yes, a wise leader lets others die for him, before seizing the glory, quick-quick.’ The skaven gestured, as if snatching something out of the air.

‘Maybe amongst your cowardly kind, vermin, but we are Bloodbound – our leaders are the first to spill blood, the first to meet the foe,’ Redjaw said.

‘I always assumed that they were merely the last ones standing,’ Baron Aceteryx said, in polished tones. Redjaw turned, spear raised, but Hroth thrust a hand between the two deathbringers.

‘Anhur has done all that you claim, Redjaw, again and again. You were not at Orrux, boy. You did not stand with us against the war-beasts of the Firewalk duardin or charge alongside the Scarlet Lord into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade,’ Hroth growled. He pointed a finger at the other deathbringer. ‘But you were at the Hissing Gates, so you have no excuse for your words.’

‘Aye, I was at the Hissing Gates, and I saw Anhur draw back his axe from the throat of a foe,’ Redjaw said. ‘What sort of warrior does that?’

‘One who takes pleasure in more than butchery,’ Volundr said. He looked around, at the other Gorechosen. ‘One who has caught Khorne’s eye, not for the quantity of his kills, but for the quality of them. Who broke the Calderan Khans and burned the plains clean of their yurts? A thousand champions tried and failed to bring the horseclans to heel, but only one succeeded.’ The war-smith hefted his anvil. ‘Eight million skulls were shattered on this anvil when we broke through the shimmering walls of the Fire Domes. Who was it who pierced their sorcerous veil and saw through their stratagems? You, Redjaw?’

Redjaw growled, and the iron of his spear-haft groaned as his grip tightened. Volundr continued, uncaring. He gestured to Baron Aceteryx. ‘Who was it who claimed the soul of Baron Aceteryx and gained us entry into the Scorian Bastion, where even Skarr Bloodwrath himself failed to triumph?’ Aceteryx bowed mockingly, his seeping armour moaning slightly. Volundr went on, relentless. ‘Who led us to victory over the armies of Cinder, and delivered up the seven child-kings and their queen-regent to Khorne in sacrifice? By whose kindness do you wear that fine cloak, Resplendent One?’

Volundr extended one thick arm, and let the anvil hang from his grip. It twisted slowly above Warpfang’s map. ‘The Scarlet Lord is no longer a mere aspirant, no mere deathbringer, like the rest of you. He is a warlord – a king among champions. He stands astride a rampart of victories, at the foot of the Skull Throne. He does not bring death to one foe, or a dozen, but millions. And this–?’ With a twitch of his wrist, Volundr let the anvil fall, to obliterate the drawing. ‘This is but a skirmish. He readies himself to wage a far greater war, and it is to our glory that we give him time to do so.’

‘And so we shall,’ Hroth said. His eyes slid to Phastet the Huntress. The deathbringer was staring at the map, concentration etched on her narrow face. ‘You have that look, woman… what are you thinking?’

She jabbed the ground near Volundr’s anvil with the tip of her knife. ‘The enemy sees further and farther than we. So we must blind him. We draw their eye here. The Street of Vines. Shoot down the pretty birds, and take their wings.’

‘A cunning scheme, my lady,’ Baron Aceteryx said. ‘Blind them to our numbers, we might overwhelm them, in these narrow streets.’ He tapped the map with his foot. ‘But even blind, they’ll keep coming. They charged through the steam-clouds of the Hissing Gates, they’ll do the same here.’ He drew his blade and marked the ground. ‘Here. A square along the main route. If my warriors and I strike, we might be able to split their forces even more.’

‘Yessss,’ Berkut said. He thumped the ground with his standard. ‘Draw them off, peel them like flesh from bone. And then I will be the hammer which breaks those bones.’ The bloodsecrator scanned what was left of the map. ‘I will strike them here – the Avenue of Ten Skulls. An auspicious name.’

‘Redjaw will join you,’ Hroth said. ‘And Volundr as well.’ Redjaw made to protest, but Volundr clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

‘You do us much honour, Shieldbreaker,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. ‘But what of you?’

Hroth grinned. ‘I? I will hold this plaza,’ he said, cheerfully. He fixed the skaven with a gimlet eye. ‘And Warpfang as well – you will call out your legions, vermin. The Stormcasts march this way, according the rat’s spies. And I feel no urge to run after them, like a panting dog. Let them come to me.’

‘Lazy,’ Berkut said, with a crooked grin.

‘My armour is heavy, my weapons too,’ Hroth said. ‘I am weighed down by the blood and souls I have claimed. I think I am entitled to sit and wait, priest.’ Berkut laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. Hroth wondered whether the bloodsecrator even remembered what humour was. There was little room in his mind for anything that was not related to blood and slaughter. ‘Go forth, my friends – kill and revel in that killing, for we do Khorne’s work this day,’ Hroth said. He drew his axes from the straps across his chest and clashed them together over his head. Thunder rumbled above, and the rain grew in strength. Hroth tilted his head, so that he could catch water in his mouth. It tasted achingly clean and he spat it out. ‘Go, Gorechosen – go, sons and daughters of Khorne,’ he bellowed. ‘To your assembled warpacks and gorebands go. The old foe comes, and there is blood yet owed.’

Berkut howled and struck the ground with his icon. ‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he roared. The others raised their voices to join his, until the Plaza of Yellow Smoke shook with the sound. The gathered warriors bellowed and shrieked along with their leaders. As the sound spread, Hroth turned to see the skullgrinder watching him. The deathbringer jerked his head back towards the Sulphur Citadel.

‘Anhur will come soon, I trust,’ he said.

‘He will. He must. There is blood yet to be spilled,’ Volundr said.

‘The time draws close, then?’ Hroth murmured. Volundr didn’t look at him.

‘If all goes well. If we do not falter.’

‘If he does not, you mean,’ Hroth said.

Volundr turned. ‘And you think he will? Do you truly believe such is even a possibility, Shieldbreaker?’ the skullgrinder asked. Around them, the Bloodbound mustered for war. Hroth saw Phastet the Huntress leading her band of tattooed killers down a side-street, and Warpfang was screeching orders at his hulking stormvermin. The others were occupied in similar fashion, readying their warriors for the clash to come. Bloodreavers carved the runes of Khorne in their flesh, and blood warriors clashed their blades in a savage rhythm.

Hroth grunted and ran his fingers through his tangled beard. ‘I have seen it happen. The Path of Skulls is not so straightforward as fools like Redjaw or Apademak believe. Khorne brooks no failure, no weakness, and there are only two endings open to men like us – glory or death.’

‘Anhur is destined to fight at Khorne’s side forevermore, Shieldbreaker. I have seen it,’ Volundr said. ‘It is given to me to forge the strong, to make of them weapons fit for the Lord of Skulls to wield in his eternal war. The Scarlet Lord shall ascend the eight thousand steps and join the Great Game, as is his fate.’

‘And what of the rest of us, war-smith? What have you seen for us?’ Hroth said. Volundr did not reply. Hroth laughed. ‘Aye, I thought that’d be the way of it.’ He looked up, and let the rain sting his flesh for a moment, before he said, ‘Well… I’ve followed him this far. It’d be a shame not to see how it ends.’

Still laughing, he left the war-smith standing in the rain. There was blood to be spilled, and skulls to be claimed. And Hroth Shieldbreaker intended to do as much of both as possible, before the end.

The stormfiend reared, warpstone armour rupturing as Orius Adamantine drove it back with a blow from his tempestos hammer. The strike obliterated one of the foul runes embossed on its crude cuirass, and drew greasy sparks. The hulking brute squealed in rage as Orius struck it again and again, keeping it away from the shieldwall of Liberators, who clashed with another of the creatures.

In the wake of the fall of the Gnawing Gate, the Adamantine had moved to occupy the central gateway and its surrounding ramparts. With the death of the monstrous structure, the skaven had massed and begun to launch attack after attack on the golden-armoured invaders.

Hissing hoses and whistling pipes rattled loosely along the stormfiend’s battered frame as it slashed at him with one of its vibrating grinderfists. He sidestepped the blow and chopped through the warpstone bracer it wore over one stitched forearm with his runeblade.

Its grinderfist smashed to the street as a nauseous brackish liquid jetted from the stump of its limb. The stormfiend shrieked and dropped its other fist down on Orius’ shoulder, driving him to one knee. The stones cracked beneath him as he struggled to rise, fighting against the beast’s strength. He was forced to drop his weapons as it hunched over him, pressing down on him, the grinderfist roaring only scant inches from his head. As he fought against its hideous strength, he caught sight of its fellow tearing through a retinue of Liberators. Armoured bodies flew into the air as the berserk rat-automaton tried to force itself a path through the Stormcast ranks.

In the wake of the stormfiends, skaven swarmed across the square towards the thin line of Liberators who occupied the ruined central portcullis of the Gnawing Gate. Prosecutors swooped low over the squealing tide, hurling their celestial hammers until the air was full of ash and blood, but the ratkin pressed forward. The assembled Liberators met the skaven charge without flinching, and hammer and sword flashed through the rain.

Orius saw Kratus swoop towards him through the curtain of rain, starblade black with skaven blood. ‘No, help the others,’ he shouted, as the Knight-Azyros drew close. Kratus didn’t hesitate. He banked left and hurtled towards the second stormfiend with a snap of his blazing wings. Satisfied, the Lord-Celestant caught hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hands, and gave a convulsive heave. Warpstone armour bent beneath his fingers as he lifted the whirring grinderfist up, away from his aching shoulder. The stormfiend’s tiny eyes bulged within its helm, and it raised its wounded arm as if to batter him with it.

Orius shoved the grinderfist away and lunged for his hammer. He scooped it up, even as the stormfiend struck at him again, and twisted around. His hammer sang down, crushing the brute’s tiny skull in its envelope of warpstone. It dropped to the ground, where it lay twitching. Orius recovered his runeblade and made to step over the dying beast.

But as he did so, a stinking steam spurted from its pooling blood, rising up into the air. The steam coalesced into a leering grimace – a thing of brass teeth and rolling eyes, of obsidian horns and red scale. It lunged for him, only to shred into tatters and wisps. Orius turned, and saw more of the phantasms rise from the blood which stained the stones of the square, then writhe and fade as quickly as they had come. Daemons, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them – such creatures were drawn to slaughter as flies to filth, but had they simply been called by battle, or was it something else?

Orius forced the thought aside. The creatures were gone, and there were more solid enemies to hand. He started towards the second stormfiend. Kratus had jammed his sword into the brute’s back, occupying its attention. The Liberators retreated, dragging the wounded with them as the stormfiend staggered about, clawing uselessly for the winged warrior perched on its back. Kratus would kill it, in time, but Orius was in no mood to wait.

The Lord-Celestant stalked towards the brute. As the stormfiend reeled in his direction, arms spread, Orius charged forward. Blade and hammer snapped out, and the brute slumped to its knees with a shrill whine. Orius drove his runeblade up through its jaw into whatever passed for its brain, finishing it off. He tore his sword free and turned.

The skaven were in retreat, falling back in a disorganised rush amidst a babble of terrified squeals. They climbed over one another, bit and clawed at each other, nearly killing themselves in their haste to escape the warblades of the Liberator retinues who pursued them. Orius watched the ratkin flee and then turned, his hammer held high, signalling his Judicator retinues to cease firing. The Judicators had taken up position on the slumping ramparts of the Gnawing Gate, where they could watch the streets to either side.

The Liberators marched back into position. There were gaps in their ranks. He’d lost several warriors since they’d arrived. The skaven seemed determined to retake the Gnawing Gate, and had attacked again and again, coming in greater numbers each time. Regardless, they had been driven back with every attempt, leaving mounds of hairy corpses in their wake. But his warriors could not hold out forever. If Moros and the others didn’t reach them soon, the skaven would simply swamp them in numbers too great for even the Stormcasts to resist.

The thought faded into irrelevance as he heard the tell-tale sound of Tarkus’ battle-horn. Orius sheathed his sword and strode towards the shattered portcullis. He felt his heart lift as he caught sight of Galerius’ standard, swaying above the column of approaching Stormcasts. ‘You are late, Moros,’ he called, as he stepped to meet the Lord-Relictor.

‘My apologies, Lord-Celestant. The Bloodbound sought to bar our way in a most churlish fashion,’ Moros said, taking Orius’ proffered hand. ‘We set them to flight, though I know not where. I suspect they’ll soon regroup, however.’

‘Then Gorgus will handle them,’ Orius said. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant perform his function, as we shall perform ours.’ He turned and gestured with his hammer. ‘The Bridge of Smoke lies in that direction. It’ll be a slog, though.’

‘When is it not?’ Tarkus interjected. The Knight-Heraldor laughed. ‘Let them stand in our path. We shall grind them under, all at once or piecemeal, it makes no difference.’

‘It makes all the difference,’ Moros snapped. He looked at Orius. ‘The air is thick with daemon-stench, Orius. A storm is brewing somewhere in this city… not a storm as we know it, with cleansing rains and celestial fury, but something fouler. I can feel it. It weighs me down.’ The Lord-Relictor looked past Orius, towards the distant shape of the Sulphur Citadel.

‘A doom comes to Klaxus, and if we are not prepared it shall claim us as well.’

CHAPTER FIVE

The Scarlet Lord

Anhur crushed the skull carelessly in his fist.

The crumbled shards of bone tumbled from his hand to the bloody stones, there to gleam wetly in the weirdling light cast by the ever-spinning facets of the Black Rift. The Scarlet Lord turned. A jolt of pain rippled through him. It had started not long after his confrontation with Skul’rath, and grown steadily worse in the hours since. He felt as if his skin were too tight on his muscles, and as if he might burst the seams of his armour at any moment.

Victory at the cost of pain, he thought. Such had been his mantra since he had fled Klaxus and the Tephra Crater. Pain was the coin of Khorne’s realm, and the Scarlet Lord paid it willingly. He had paid it over the course of centuries, without hesitation. ‘How much time, Pazak?’ he growled.

‘Some, much, a little,’ the sorcerer said tersely, as he wove his thin fingers in arcane gestures. He stood on the lip of the crater, shaping the magics that would wrench apart the flesh of the world. The air about him was thick with souls and daemons. Neither sort of apparition had any substance, but that would change in time. The ghosts grew thinner and the daemons stronger, as they battened on the blood and pain.

Innumerable daemon-spirits suddenly raced forward through the steamy air, as if drawn from throughout the Sulphur Citadel. Anhur turned, following their path, and watched as Pazak’s blightkings spilled the blood of the latest batch of prisoners across the swelling expanse of the flesh-shroud, down in the crater. Do you feel nothing for them, then? These are your folk, a small voice murmured, deep in the back of his mind. They are Klaxians, Anhur…

‘Victory at the cost of pain,’ he muttered. Klaxus and its people had become weak, and it was his duty – the duty of a king – to purge them of that weakness. He would buy the glory of future generations with the pain of this one. He would forge them into a blade worthy of Khorne’s hand. Klaxus would rise as the world descended.

A thrill of impatience raced through Anhur, and his grip on his axe tightened. He longed to bury it in unresisting flesh, to cleave bone and shatter armour. To give in, at long last, to the joyous entertainments of the red road, and become as Apademak or Hroth. To fight forever, and think of nothing save fighting. To drown slowly in seas of gore, as all that had been Prince Anhur, Keeper of Ytalan, was worn away by the ceaseless bloodstained tide.

Anhur swung his head towards the doors to the chamber. He could hear the sounds of battle, the splitting of stone and the screech of metal. More, he could hear… the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his soldiers, killing them by the dozen. The yellow, crystalline war-plate of the knights ignored what few blows were struck in return as they strode forward, killing all who stood between them and their prey… He could hear Oros calling for the retreat, even as he dragged Anhur away from that hissing doom… They had failed… FAILED…

Anhur howled. The sound drove the daemons into a silent frenzy. ‘I still live,’ the Scarlet Lord roared. ‘And I will not fail this time. I still live… I…’ He trailed off, as another spasm of pain gripped him. He clutched at his chest. Things moved within him, twisting into new shapes. Bones cracked and sprouted jagged spurs, filling the hollows of him with nests of pain.

‘Not beast, not god, less than a man,’ he murmured, as the pain receded. He pressed the flat of his axe to his brow, and listened to the maddened whispers of the battle-spirit bound to its edge. It hissed in the language of the great fire-wyrms, demanding that he hurl himself into the cauldron of war. He tore the axe away and turned. ‘Oros is coming, Pazak. But slowly, too slowly,’ he said. ‘One might think he doesn’t wish to face me again.’

‘I doubt that’s the case,’ Pazak hissed. Bloody steam hissed and coiled about his arms like a gaseous serpent. ‘Two sides of the same blade, you are.’

‘You had best be correct,’ Anhur said. ‘He must be here in time. He must see what is to come. He must know that it was all worth something, in the end.’

‘He won’t get very far, if Volundr catches him. The war-smith is as determined to see this through as you are,’ Pazak said. He glanced at Anhur. ‘He won’t risk letting the Stormcasts get close, if he can get away with it.’

Anhur gestured impatiently. ‘Volundr carries out my will. He stoked Apademak’s rage, and casts the embers of my Gorechosen before the enemy. I have subsumed the Tephra Crater in the conflagration of war, to draw Khorne’s eye. But war alone is not enough,’ he said. ‘It must have purpose – the fire must burn hottest here.’

As he spoke, the smoky shapes of daemons capered about him, as if feeding on his growing rage. Anhur ignored them. ‘I will deliver not just a skull to Khorne, but the skull of my friend, my greatest enemy, my rescuer and betrayer. There is a debt between us and it must be paid. Only then can I ascend to my rightful place.’

Anhur threw back his head and spread his arms, allowing the daemons to crowd close about him. They clutched at him with phantasmal talons. ‘Come and fight me, Oros! Anhur stands waiting – hurry, Hound of Ytalan! The Scarlet Lord awaits you, son of Sigmar…’

Daemons rose from the broken bodies of the dead Bloodbound, and slashed at the Stormcasts with inhuman ferocity. Liberators stopped what they were doing and fell instinctively into defensive stances. They raised shields and held warblades angled so as to thrust into scaly bodies. Bolts hissed in their runnels, ready to be loosed from thunderbolt crossbows as Judicators swung their weapons up to take aim at the daemonic shapes capering towards them through the falling rain. But no daemon-blade connected, despite the savagery of the assault. And no sound emanated from those ghastly shapes, save the whisper of blood pooling on the stones of the street and the steady drumbeat of the storm.

‘Hold fast,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘They can’t hurt you, but if you let them distract you, something else surely will.’ His words echoed out over the wide avenue, reaching the ears of every Stormcast. Those who had become distracted from their labours by the sudden appearance of the insubstantial daemonic shapes immediately went back to work.

‘Blasted nuisances,’ Gorgus muttered, eyeing the nearest of the daemonic shades. They came and went like shadows, rising from the detritus of battle before fading away once more. But they were staying longer each time, and they were appearing more often – a sure sign that the membrane between worlds was growing thin, as Lord-Relictor Moros claimed. At his feet, his Gryph-hound growled, the feathers on its neck fluffed out and as stiff as quills. ‘Easy, Shrike. Nothing there for you to get a beakful of, save some foul-smelling air,’ Gorgus said, stroking his companion’s angular skull.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high. The light washed across the street, and the daemons cowered back from the golden rays. Their lean shapes came apart like a morning mist in the heat of the day. When he was satisfied that they had been driven back into whatever netherworld they had emerged from, at least for the moment, he lowered the lantern and cast his keen gaze over the street.

The vast bulk of the Gnawing Gate was still visible behind them, and he could just make out the Judicators stationed on its sagging ramparts. Their golden war-plate glinted in the light of the conflagration, which even now consumed the western districts of Uryx, despite the heavy rains. Indeed, he suspected that the storm was the only thing keeping the flames from sweeping over the inner city. He looked up, letting the rain splash across his mask and helm.

The storm was a grand thing, he thought. As savage and as powerful as the one that had marked his proving quest into the grim winterlands of the Boralis Mountains. Gorgus smiled at the thought. As an aspirant, he had scaled those storm-tossed peaks and braved the madness-inducing mists that clung to them, and returned to Sigmaron a Lord-Castellant.

‘And not alone, eh, Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. Those first few days, Shrike had hunted him through the crevasses and crags at the head of a pack of screeching Gryph-hounds – before they had come to an arrangement. ‘Bit off more than you could chew, didn’t you?’ Gorgus said. Shrike snapped at his armoured fingers, not quite playfully. Gorgus laughed, and turned his attentions to the defences his warriors were constructing.

The Avenue of Ten Skulls stretched from the Gnawing Gate to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. It was the most direct route to the heart of the crater-city, according to Orius. As far as Gorgus was concerned, Uryx was a rat warren, and a confusing one at that. But he had faith in the Lord-Celestant – Orius would guide them to the enemy, and then to victory.

Buildings had been demolished along either side of the avenue by the lightning hammers of the Retributors, creating improvised ramparts and bulwarks of rubble. Taller structures were left standing, so as to provide makeshift watchtowers and firing positions for his Judicator retinues. Now, the avenue was being divided into easily defensible killing fields by the strategic application of rubble. Anything that could be used to break up the momentum of a massed charge or a steady advance.

That was the best way with the Bloodbound, Gorgus knew. He’d fought the slaves of Khorne often enough since the Adamantine had come to the Felstone Plains. He knew their way of war as well as his own. They relied on momentum – the sudden charge, the unrelenting assault. They sought to come to grips with the foe quickly. On the plains or in the geyser fields of the Hissing Gates, the Adamantine had been forced to rely on formation and discipline to deny the foe his true strength. But here, in this crowded city of stone and roots, they had a wealth of options. They could alter the map, and channel any sizeable force of Bloodbound towards heavily defended strongpoints, where their numbers and ferocity would avail them little.

Thunderhead Brotherhoods had been stationed at these points, there to ensure the sanctity of the Adamantine lines and to repel any attack. They were also in place to ferry any refugees they found back towards the Mandrake Bastion, and safety. Hundreds of survivors had come stumbling from the jungle and the outer city, seeking sanctuary from the flames and the roving bands of skaven and bloodreavers. Many were led to safety by the Prosecutors winging their way out along the flanks of the advancing Warrior Chamber, on the orders of Orius himself.

Shrike’s head came up, and the Gryph-hound gave an interrogative squawk. Gorgus turned and chuckled. ‘But speak, and they shall appear…’ he murmured. An old bit of folk-wisdom, left over from his mortal life.

A ragged group of Klaxians stumbled along the avenue, shepherded by a number of Liberators. Prosecutors swooped overhead, keeping a sharp eye out for the enemy. ‘More of them,’ a nearby Judicator said.

‘Aye, and heartening it is,’ Gorgus said, extending his halberd towards the Stormcast. ‘It means our enemy is not half so diligent as we feared, Pyrus.’

‘But our lines are stretched thin as it is, Lord-Castellant,’ Pyrus said, undaunted. ‘How can we protect them all, if they keep coming?’ Gorgus smiled. The Lord-Castellant encouraged those warriors under his command to speak their mind, when appropriate, and Pyrus did so often, and at length, but never without cause.

‘How can we not, Pyrus?’ a Liberator spoke up, as the Klaxians were ushered into the centre of the avenue, where the bulk of the Stormcasts were at work. Korus, Gorgus thought, putting a name to the voice. If Pyrus was the voice of respectful challenge, then Korus was a rock of devotion. In him was a faith unwavering in the Stormcast cause. ‘Why else are we here, if not to protect the innocent, and smite the guilty?’

‘We are here to win victory in Sigmar’s name, Korus,’ Pyrus said. ‘This city – this kingdom – is steeped in the taint of Chaos. Even these innocents bear its mark, on their souls if not their bodies. Sigmar commands that we stamp Chaos out, wherever it lurks.’ He gestured towards the frightened huddle of Klaxians. Gorgus looked at them. Men and women, young and old. Children as well, though not many. All frightened, many wounded and some sick. They had not eaten in days, he thought, and fear had its claws deep in them. One of the children – a girl, her face marked by filth and bruises – met his gaze.

‘Sigmar is not simply the voice that thunders from the clouds, Pyrus. He is also the quiet voice that speaks within. The voice stripped of pride and bluster, leaving behind only that solitary light of purpose – we fight, brothers, to free these folk from the chains that bind. Chains of evil and malice, of fear and cowardice, of Chaos,’ Gorgus said.

He sank to one knee and extended his hand towards the girl. ‘If we do not show them mercy, if we do not show them kindness, even in the midst of war, then we merely exchange one form of fear for another,’ he said, as the child stepped forward hesitantly. She took his hand and he scooped her up. One of the women, her mother he thought, made a noise, but it subsided as her companions held her. They could see that he meant the child no harm. ‘They have lived in the dark for so long. Would you deny them the chance to see the light?’

Pyrus bowed his head. ‘No, Lord-Castellant. Better to die, than that.’

‘Yes, my brother. Better to die than to allow even one mortal soul to be lost to horrors of Chaos, if we can prevent it,’ Gorgus said. And we have all done so once already, otherwise we would not be here now, arrayed in sigmarite, he thought, as he looked down at the girl. For a moment, another child’s face superimposed itself over hers, and Gorgus felt an old pain rise anew. Shrike leaned against his leg, chirping softly, and Gorgus shook his head, banishing the memories before they could take form. The past was dust, and his mortal life with it.

‘Do not fear, child. We are the storm, and we have come to wash Klaxus clean,’ he rumbled. He looked up, as a shout echoed suddenly from farther up the street, in the direction of the Gnawing Gate. He saw a small group of Stormcasts – a Judicator and several Liberators – making their way towards him. The Judicator was helping one of the Liberators to walk, and all appeared to be wounded.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator called. ‘The enemy is upon us!’

‘Crasus, what has happened?’ Gorgus asked, as he handed the child to Korus. The Liberator held her awkwardly, as if afraid he might crush her tiny body.

‘The foe comes, Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator said, as he eased his burden down. The Liberator groaned and clutched at his side. Blood stained his golden armour. ‘They’ve broken through, pushed us back from the upper streets – they’re between us and the Gnawing Gate. My retinue harries them from the rooftops, but they do not slow, no matter how many we kill.’

‘Courage is the one virtue the foe have in abundance,’ Gorgus said, as he knelt beside the wounded Stormcast. He cast the glow of his warding lantern over the battered Liberator, and where it shone flesh healed and armour was restored. The warrior straightened, cleansed and reinvigorated by the holy light.

‘What are their numbers?’ Gorgus asked.

‘A few hundred, now. They gather in the side streets, and more flock to join them as they come… beast packs and lone warriors, straggling warbands and worse,’ Crasus said. ‘It looks like the remnants of every force we’ve smashed asunder since we started pushing out from the Mandrake Bastion. They do not seem to be organised. It is as if some instinct is driving them forward. They’re not far behind us. I…’ He trailed off as the sound of horns cut through the rain and wind. Monsters roared in the dark.

Gorgus chuckled harshly. He’d expected as much, though not so soon. Unless they were eradicated utterly, the Bloodbound always returned. Once they recovered their courage, they attacked. There was no grand strategy, no tactical masterstroke… simply blind malevolence, driving them towards those who had defeated them.

‘Chaos filth. The more you sweep it aside, the faster it congeals,’ he said, as he rose to his feet. He helped the newly healed Liberator to stand. ‘They wish to strike our rear. To surround us and drown us in bodies. We must teach them that the Adamantine do not fall for such ploys so easily. Crasus, take these Klaxians in hand – guide them to the Gnawing Gate. They’ll be as safe there as anywhere. Pyrus, Korus – help him. Rejoin your retinues when you can.’

Stormcasts snapped to attention. The sound of horns rose higher and higher, and was joined by howls and bellows. The noise rose from the streets all around them, as if the enemy were converging from all sides.

‘The rest of you, lock shields and man the bulwarks! The enemy comes and I would not have him find us wanting,’ Gorgus roared. ‘They seek to break our lines, Adamantine. What do we say to that?’

‘We shall not break,’ the Stormcasts cried, as they moved into position. Liberators sank to one knee behind the lowest of the improvised bulwarks, and set the rims of their shields atop the piled stones. Judicators took position behind them, or else scaled those buildings that still stood in order to gain higher ground. Retributors and Decimators fell in around Gorgus. He would lead them in repelling any enemy who threatened to get past the shields of the Liberators. Overhead, Prosecutors sped towards the approaching enemy to slow their advance and shatter their courage.

The very stones trembled with the noise of the approaching warhorde. The tramp of feet and hooves joined the clatter of weapons and the thump of barbaric drums. No, the enemy did not lack for courage, Gorgus thought. Such was the madness that gripped them, they would keep coming until the last of them was dead.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus shouted, over the noise of the approaching Bloodbound. ‘We shall hold. We shall push them back; we shall be the bastion upon which they break. Hold fast, Adamantine.’ He thumped the ground with his halberd. ‘Hold fast!’

Apademak the Hungry led his warriors forward with a scream. Slivers of stone and splinters of wood jutted from the battered flesh of the slaughterpriest, and blood oozed down his looming frame. He had not bothered to bind the wounds he’d sustained at the Plaza of Six Pillars. His blood would whet Khorne’s appetite as well as any. ‘Forward,’ he howled. ‘Blood and skulls for Khorne. Blood and skulls!’

All around him, warriors and beasts charged in his wake, driven into a frenzy by his words and by their own shame. They had been defeated by the Stormcasts, driven back in disarray, and no true follower of Khorne could bear such disgrace. The broken standards of at least three tribes of bloodreavers and the tattered banners of several beastherds rose above the mass of screaming killers. A pitiful force, by any estimation, but it was all that the slaughterpriest had been able to gather after he had clawed his way free of the rubble in the Plaza of Six Pillars. Khorne had given him a weapon. It was not up to him to say whether it was worthy or not.

He roared, as memories of his failure burned through him. He had been so certain that Khorne had preordained his triumph. But he’d been wrong, and the broken bodies of the tribesmen who’d followed him into that battle had lain everywhere, half-buried beneath the remnants of shattered walls and fallen trees, even as he had been. Unlike them, however, he’d survived. Others had been piled in heaps, left where they’d fallen by the victorious Stormcasts. Of the enemy, there had been no sign, save for the trail of destruction they’d left in their wake. Buildings had been collapsed and torn apart to make the barriers and bulwarks that closed off the surrounding streets.

The enemy were desecrating the city – turning it into a fortress for their use. They tore apart what had been offered up to Khorne and twisted it to their own ends. But he would put a stop to it. He would smash their rearguard and fight his way into the heart of the enemy force. He would take the heads of their chieftains and toss them at Anhur’s feet. He would–

Something struck him – hard. An explosive pain, which knocked him to his knees. Head spinning, arm numb, he saw golden figures behind bulwarks of toppled stone, heavy crossbows aimed in his direction. The crossbows snarled and explosions tore along the ragged line of his followers. Tribesmen and beastkin were hurled from their feet, but the survivors pressed forward.

Apademak bared his teeth in a snarl, and shoved himself to his feet. He whipped his arm around and sent his axe spinning towards the Stormcasts. One toppled backwards, Apademak’s axe buried in his chest. The others continued to loose bolts at the charging Bloodbound.

The slaughterpriest charged towards the remaining Stormcasts, hands spread. ‘I survive, dogs of Sigmar – I live! And I hunger,’ he roared, as he flung himself on the closest of his enemies. He smashed through a tottering barricade of stones, his bare fists hammering down, striking the warrior on the head. His flesh burned as it impacted the glowing metal, but Apademak did not slow his assault. Pain was nothing – there was only victory or death.

Apademak snapped the warrior’s neck and flung his body aside. As he rose to his feet, he saw the remaining Stormcasts retreating. He snarled in fury as he retrieved his axe and glared about him. For the first time, he realised that the Stormcasts had staggered their bulwarks, creating a killing ground. They were more cunning than he’d been led to believe.

His followers died in droves as they tried to navigate the impromptu maze. Every time they cleared one bulwark, the Stormcasts simply fell back to another. Each time it became harder and harder to dislodge them – they grew stronger and his warriors grew weaker. The Stormcasts were bleeding them, as if they were nothing more than beasts.

Crackling crossbow bolts shrieked perilously close, casting broken stones and dust into the air as they struck around him. Golden figures moved across the rooftops, firing down into the milling ranks of the Bloodbound, driving them back, breaking up the horde. Rage flooded him, and for a moment, he thought of nothing save hurling himself up after them. They might kill him, but he would reap such a tally before dying…

No. A cheap death. His failure would not be forgiven so easily. Only victory could erase that stain. The Stormcasts would be beaten, Anhur would be cast down, and all by his hand. He began to fight his way through the press towards the front of the battle line, chanting as he moved. As his booming voice pierced their battle-fogged minds, the tribesmen and beastkin nearby were drawn after him.

It was an old song he sang, older than the world, older than anything yet living, save the gods themselves. A paean to murder, sung by the warriors of the Age of Myth. It had been passed down through the generations that followed, like the echoes of a death scream. It set fire to the blood of man and beast alike, and called to the berserker in every soul. Warriors shuddered and spasmed as they followed him, bodies contorting with uncontainable fury. Beastmen howled and tore at their own flesh, so eager were they to spill blood.

His chanting rose above the fray, and he knew that it would carry through the streets, riding along the winds of war. More warriors would come, following his song – hundreds of them. Every warrior left in the city and not already engaged in battle would come at his call – not just the Eight Tribes, but all of the others: blood warriors and skullreapers, wrathmongers and deathbringers. Every warrior who paid homage to the Blood God would hear and come. Such was the gift given to every slaughterpriest. He spoke for Khorne, and the ears of his true servants could not help but hear. His voice would pierce even the rumble of the storm, and reach the ears of Khorne himself.

Apademak raced forward, vaulting chunks of rubble and the dead alike. Crackling bolts punched into the ranks of those behind, but he ploughed on, heedless, his chant never faltering. It was all so clear now. It had been a trick. Treachery – that was the only explanation for his failure. The enemy was stronger than he thought. He had been goaded into this trap. Anhur had sent Volundr to prod him into a headlong assault, so that the Stormcasts might do what Anhur himself lacked the strength to accomplish. He feared Apademak, feared that he would draw Khorne’s attentions from unworthy Anhur. But he had failed.

Apademak lived, and Anhur would regret it.

He crashed into the shield wall, using his greater strength to bull the Stormcasts aside with shoulders and elbows. None of his warriors could have managed it, but Apademak was blessed by Khorne. His chant rose to a fever pitch, and those Stormcasts nearby suddenly convulsed, steaming gouts of blood jetting from the seams of their armour. They gurgled and fell, drowning in their own blood, as his axe reaped a ghastly toll. Sizzling arrows pierced his flesh as he staggered on in pursuit of the retreating foe, hurling hymns of massacre after them.

Apademak fought on, a living beacon of the Blood God’s power. As he chanted, more Stormcasts died, and his warriors pressed forward, growing ever more frenzied in their efforts. Any who stood against him were slaughtered, their bodies reduced to flickering motes of blue. The world grew thin, like frayed cloth, and he felt Khorne’s hand on his shoulder, driving him ever forward. Blood dripped from his pores and scorched the stones of the street where it fell. He roared in fury, and could see the embers of bloodlust in the steel-hard souls of his foes flicker in response. Not even these enemies could resist the pull of battle.

The slaughterpriest extended his axe towards the ranks of the Stormcasts. His chant rose, and the embers flickered and flared. The shield wall began to buckle as warriors broke ranks.

‘Come to me,’ he snarled. ‘Come, warriors – come, dogs of Sigmar. Apademak is hungry and only an ocean of blood can satisfy him.’ First one Stormcast, then another started forward, drawn irresistibly towards him. One by one, they began to succumb to the suicidal fires of the battle-fury he’d stoked in their veins.

He threw back his head and roared in satisfaction as the shield wall disintegrated and the organised line of battle became nothing more than struggling knots of berserkers. But his triumph was short-lived. A winged Stormcast swooped low, a blazing hammer coalescing in his hand as he did so. Apademak twisted aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have removed his head, and struck, embedding his axe in the mechanism on the Stormcast’s back. He was dragged off his feet and away from the battle by the warrior’s momentum. The Stormcast hurtled upwards at a steep angle, trying to dislodge the slaughterpriest.

Apademak hauled himself up and wrapped one long arm around the Stormcast’s throat. ‘You wanted this fight,’ he growled, ‘do not think to flee it now!’ He tore his axe free as they shot higher and higher. The streets of Uryx spread out far below them. Winged shapes closed in from all sides and Apademak laughed wildly – they thought to isolate him, to draw him into the air, where he was helpless. The Stormcast clawed at his arm, and the slaughterpriest tightened his grip. ‘But I am never helpless – I am Apademak. I am the blessed of Khorne!’

Metal buckled and flesh smouldered as Apademak slowly crushed the winged warrior’s throat. Then, with a sharp wrench, he snapped the Stormcast’s neck. Apademak shoved away from the dissolving carcass, and flung himself at another Stormcast. A hammer, wreathed in lightning, struck his side as he crashed into the warrior. Smoke boiled from the wound, but Apademak ignored the pain. Khorne was with him, and he would not falter.

‘See me, Lord of Skulls! See me, Gorequeen,’ he shrieked, hurling his words into the teeth of the storm. ‘See your most devoted disciple at his labour.’ His thumb crunched through the right eye-slit of his foe’s mask, then he drove his axe down through the hinge of one wing. As the warrior spiralled, off-balance, Apademak thrust himself towards another of the Stormcasts. His axe sheared through crest and helm to split the unlucky warrior’s skull. He pushed away from the tumbling corpse, even as it exploded into a crackling ball of blue lightning, and fell towards his next opponent. The remaining Stormcasts hurtled up to meet him.

As he plummeted, his heart thumping like a war drum, he could see something vast striding towards Uryx from the horizon. It stank of a million battlefields, the air quivered with the weight of its tread, and it trailed red clouds behind it as it tore through the storm. In one enormous hand it clutched a titanic sword, and in its other, an immense net, filled with the skulls of all the dead of the Tephra Crater.

Khorne had heard him. Khorne was coming, and Uryx would drown in blood.

‘Come kings of weakness, let me crown you with iron,’ Apademak roared as the wind whipped past him. He slammed into one of the warriors, knocking him away from his fellows. A hammer crashed against his head and shoulder. Bone cracked and he tasted blood. He reared back and drove the haft of his axe into the Stormcast’s face, crumpling the metal mask as they spun end over end. Metal-clad fingers clawed at his throat and Apademak laughed. His axe bit into his opponent’s neck, tearing through the golden armour. Blood spurted and the body beneath him went limp.

He tore his axe free and fell towards Uryx, still laughing.

Lord-Castellant Gorgus fought in silence. No war song breached his lips, no shout of exultation or effort broke his taciturnity. He fought like a craftsman, wasting no movement, spending no more energy than was required to do the deed. His halberd snapped out, its sigmarite blade lopping through tattooed limbs or scarred necks with ease. Crimson-stained armour tore like paper beneath its bite, and the bloodreavers fell away from him like wheat before the scythe. Shrike, never far from Gorgus’ side, darted amongst the Bloodbound, beak tearing at hamstrings and slicing through tendons.

Behind Gorgus came a retinue of Decimators. The enemy sloughed away from their advance, reduced to twitching gore by whirling thunderaxes. Bloodreavers fell back, their frenzy paling in the face of inexorable destruction. Beastmen bounded through the press, slaver trailing from goatish jaws, but they too succumbed to the relentless efficiency of Gorgus and his warriors. The stones of the avenue were stained a deep red when the first tribesman turned to flee. Then went another and another, scrambling back and away.

Gorgus slashed upwards, bisecting a howling gor as it leapt at him. As the two twitching halves of its body crashed down, he turned and bellowed. ‘Back in line! Reform the shield wall.’ Across the avenue, Liberators fell back from the fleeing foe and locked their shields, ready to repel the next charge. And there would be a next charge. The Bloodbound were in no mood to give up. Gorgus led his Decimators back through the shield wall, his warding lantern hanging from the blade of his halberd.

Judicators and Retributors were busy hauling stones in an attempt to repair the bulwarks shattered by the last attack. The enemy had nearly broken through, despite everything. What made it worse was that it wasn’t in any way, shape or form an organised assault. The Bloodbound had been driven into a frenzy by something – or someone – and now they were being drawn from throughout Uryx like flies to dung.

So far, it had only been tribesmen and beastkin, but his remaining Prosecutors had seen skaven scurrying through the nearby backstreets, and bellowing packs of blood warriors and skullreapers converging on the Avenue of Ten Skulls. His force was about to be cut off from the rest of the Chamber and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘Curse that slaughterpriest,’ Gorgus muttered. The brute had broken the shield wall, and his foul sorceries had driven disciplined Stormcasts into a berserker rage. By the time Gorgus had been able to dispatch a retinue of Prosecutors to remove the monster from the battlefield, it had been too late. Now his carefully orchestrated defensive measures were in danger of coming completely unravelled.

Where the slaughterpriest was now, he didn’t know. And so long as he’s not here, I can’t say that I care, he thought. He signalled for the Liberators to fall back to the newly rebuilt bulwarks. They were ceding ground to the enemy, but he couldn’t afford to leave his retinues scattered out, not now. Too many had fallen in that last assault. And still no sign of reinforcements, he thought, scanning the black sky above. Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, but no bolt of deliverance had yet appeared.

Smoke rose above the rooftops, resisting the efforts of the rain to disperse it. The fires were drawing closer, consuming Uryx street by street. He thought of Crasus, leading his tiny band of Stormcasts and refugees to the Gnawing Gate, and wondered whether they had made it. He hoped so. He considered sending Prosecutors with orders for the scattered Thunderhead Brotherhoods stationed back along the Avenue of Ten Skulls to pull back to the Mandrake Bastion. Cut off as they were, there was no way to reinforce them, if they should require it.

He dismissed the idea with a twitch of his head. ‘They’ll have to hold as best they can, eh Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. ‘To abandon the city now would be admitting defeat before the final blow has fallen. No, let them hold as we shall hold.’

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up and laughed. ‘Ha! There’s a fine sight – ho, Kratus! Come to toil with us honest craftsmen, instead of playing the zephyr?’

The Knight-Azyros dropped gracefully from the sky, his crackling wings folding behind him. His armour was streaked with smoke and grime, and it bore the marks of battle, as did the armour of the Prosecutors who followed him down. As ever, Kratus was the most reliable line of communication between the staggered brotherhoods of the Adamantine, lending aid where necessary, and bringing word when danger threatened. It had been Kratus who had scouted ahead along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, and made note of where the enemy congregated. He and his Prosecutors had routed entire warbands to clear a path for Orius.

Kratus gestured, and Gorgus laughed again. He had little difficulty understanding the Silent One’s battle-cant, simple as it was.

‘They made it then? Good. Crasus always was dependable,’ he said, with some relief. ‘What of the rest of the line?’

Kratus gestured again, and Gorgus nodded. The line of battle was holding, but only just. The enemy were drawn to the largest battles. They would ignore the isolated Thunderhead Brotherhoods until they had defeated all other foes.

‘So we still hold their attention, then. Well, Sigmar willing, we shall hold it a bit longer. You’ll need to take word to Orius and the others, let them know that we are cut off. I’ll follow when I can, but for now they can’t expect any support. They’ll have to press on to the Bridge of Smoke without us.’

Kratus nodded sharply. They clasped forearms. Then, with a snarl of lightning, the Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors were hurtling skyward once more. Gorgus watched him go, and then turned as the war-horns of the foe sounded anew. The Bloodbound had regrouped, and were charging again. Howling tribesmen darted through the rain towards his warriors, bloody axes and cleavers raised.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus roared. ‘Stand fast, Stormcasts – STAND FAST!’

Phastet of Charn crouched on the rooftop beneath the canopy of dying plants that stretched over the Street of Vines, and watched the sky. Rain pattered against the dull leaves and dripped down onto her ash-streaked skin, but she ignored it. Her long fingers stroked the smooth surface of her new axe. She had claimed it from the body of her fellow deathbringer, Kung of the Long Arm, as was her right. The daemon in the axe had not been used to her at first, but it was growing more comfortable as the hours ran by.

She looked down at the weapon. They said that Kung had carved it himself, from the bones of his brother. She didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it was a very good axe. It would serve her well, when the time came.

‘Soon,’ she murmured, as the single yellow eye set high in the blade blinked inquisitively at her.

Phastet stretched, letting the rain play across her bare arms and face as it spilled down through the canopy. The thick vines which stretched from one end of the street to the next had been shaped and grown by sorcery, and had once possessed a diabolical life, snatching birds from the air, and often devouring the scaly apes which used to make them their home. Now, however, they were merely strands of dull vegetation, rotting through and dropping to the cracked stones of the street below. Like the rest of Uryx, the Street of Vines was dying. A shame, she thought, I should have liked to have seen them in full flower.

She tilted her head, inhaling the thick smell of smoke and rotting vine. The fires were drawing ever closer, and soon they would sweep through the inner city. She grinned, pleased at the thought. Cities were tombs for the not-yet dead. Only the weak sought to encase themselves in stone and wood. The strong fought for their place, rather than making it. She would be pleased to leave Uryx when the time came. There were orruks in the deep jungles, or so the skaven claimed, and gargants had been sighted along the eastern rim of the crater, prowling the volcanic crags there. They would make good hunting, once the lightning-men were defeated.

Her scouts had spotted the winged ones, flying through the rain, far out on the flanks of the advancing Stormcasts. They were coming this way, and in a hurry. Hurry meant distraction, and Phastet smiled. Distracted prey was easy prey.

Orruks were easy to distract. You dangled bait and they rushed off, fighting one another in their haste to reach it. Then you slipped in behind them and cut their legs out from under them or broke their backs. It didn’t do to kill too many of them, for they only kept their flavour when cooked alive. And their skulls made for satisfying totems.

But these Stormcasts were not gratifying prey at all. They vanished when they died, leaving nothing but the blood on your blade and your warriors broken at your feet. They were unnatural, and there was precious little pleasure to be had in killing them. But Khorne demanded their death regardless, and Phastet had never denied the Lord of Skulls his due.

She had hunted his foes and slain them in his name. She had bent knee to Anhur for that same reason, the day he led his warriors through the Ashdwell. She had fought beside him at the Sun Gate, and seen the truth of him as he braved the Tollan Cannonade, riding a daemonic steed into the teeth of the foe’s artillery. A thousand warriors had died there, erased in an instant, but Anhur, alongside Skullripper and the Shieldbreaker, had survived to ravage the noble Tollan gunners in their silken finery.

Khorne’s hand was on the Scarlet Lord, and any who couldn’t see that were fools, no better than unblooded youths. Those like Redjaw and Apademak barked and growled at any who dared overshadow them. Phastet had no quarrel with shadows. Shadows were useful things – they helped you to kill your prey and hide your trail, so that the enemy grew to fear you. You could flourish in shadow, and you could grow strong on the leavings of larger predators.

She and her tribesmen would grow mighty in Anhur’s shadow. They had reaped a great toll since crossing the Felstone Plains and entering the crater-kingdoms. And they would reap mightier tolls still, when the Black Rift yawned wide at last.

For now, however, she was content to aid Anhur in her own small way. She would blind the enemy so that he walked into the trap her fellow deathbringer, Baron Aceteryx, had set, unaware of the forces gathered beyond the Avenue of Ten Skulls in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. The Stormcasts were like orruks in that way – they saw only the enemy straight ahead, and took no note of those to the sides or behind, confident in their ability to bull through anything.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sky for a brief moment, revealing the winged shapes passing close overhead. She grinned and signalled to her warriors with a piercing whistle. Bloodreavers rose from the thickest sections of canopy, clutching chains and hooks. Her tribesmen had learned the art of bringing down flying prey in the deeps of the Ashdwell, hunting the great red-furred bats that lurked there in the dark. It was merely a matter of timing.

The hooks were hurled upwards to snag arms or legs. They only needed to bring down one or two – the rest would follow. A winged Stormcast faltered as iron hooks snared him. Bloodreavers roared and heaved, leaping to pull as one on the chain. The Stormcast jerked from the air, crashing through the canopy before slamming into the street below. Two more followed him, before the rest turned on the hunters. Hammers of lightning hurtled downward, tearing through the canopy and smashing bloodreavers from their perches. But that had been expected. Death was the price of victory.

Phastet leapt from her perch as the broken, smoke-wreathed bodies of her warriors fell to the ground around her. Their brothers and sisters burst from hiding, and charged towards the downed Stormcasts. The howling bloodreavers closed in on the dazed warriors, axes and swords raised. One of the golden-armoured warriors fell, his body hacked apart by the cannibalistic tribesmen. Phastet beheaded a second, her new axe screaming in delight as it separated the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

She whirled, her gory axe raised. ‘Here I stand, fully alive,’ Phastet cried. ‘Here I stand, Khorne – ready to kill and die, in thy name. Send me foes, send me death, whatever be thy will – here I stand!’

Kratus the Silent burst through the canopy of grey vines that obscured the street below, followed closely by his remaining Prosecutors. Two of the fallen were already dead, their bodies returned to the storm. But the third still lived, despite the chains that tangled him. The Knight-Azyros drew his starblade as he sped towards the fallen Stormcast. Bloodbound converged on the warrior as he struggled to free himself. More savages clambered through the canopy like spiders, blades clutched between their teeth.

The ambush had been well planned, for all that it was a thing of brute simplicity. Had he and his warriors been mortal men, they would have died the minute they pierced the canopy. The bloodreavers raced through the street in untold numbers, and hurled themselves onto the Prosecutors from the wooden ledges of the nearby buildings and the canopy of vines, swarming over them. Chains snagged limbs, grounding several of the winged warriors. Ropes lassoed wrists and necks, dragging the Prosecutors off balance.

Kratus alone avoided being snared and he dropped from the air with a sound like thunder. The stones of the street cracked and burst asunder at the sudden impact. So too did the bones of the closest bloodreavers as a blow from his wing sent them tumbling. He whirled and chopped through the chains holding a trapped warrior. Spears hurled from above crashed against his sigmarite war-plate, only to clatter away uselessly.

The Prosecutor gasped out his thanks as Kratus hauled him to his feet. The Knight-Azyros gestured to the sky, and the recovered warrior hurled himself into the air without hesitation. Kratus turned and sliced open the throat of a charging bloodreaver. More raced towards him, leaping in to attack with wild yells and guttural prayers. He killed them all, painting the air with their blood.

When the last of them had fallen, Kratus tore his celestial beacon from his belt and flipped its aperture wide, filling the street with a blazing radiance. Bloodreavers screamed and burned as the light swept over them. Flesh blackened and turned to ash. As Prosecutors shrugged themselves free of crumbling corpses, Kratus swept his bloody sword towards the sky in silent command. They could not afford to become bogged down. In the close confines of the street, they could not take advantage of their speed and manoeuvrability.

Prosecutors sprang upwards, their wings stirring the ashes of their foes, as more bloodreavers closed in from all sides. Kratus raised his beacon, casting its light over the charging warriors, searing them from existence. Their momentum carried them past him, their bodies wreathed in all-consuming flame. He would burn the infestation from this place, and then join his Prosecutors. A sudden hiss from above caused him to turn.

An axe skidded down the curve of his chest-plate, filling the air with sparks. His celestial beacon clattered from his grip as he fell backwards. Kratus rolled aside as his attacker dropped down, driving her axe into the stones where his head had been. The axe shrieked like a dying cat as it split the stones of the street.

The deathbringer was lean-muscled and clad in leather and crude armour. Her flesh was painted with ash and soot, and her face was split by a monstrous grin that stretched from ear to ear. Barbaric tattoos covered the visible portions of her skin, and her hair was threaded through with bones. She wrenched the daemon-weapon loose, and slashed at him again. Kratus backed away, trying to get enough room to get airborne again. She grinned at him, her face nearly splitting in two, and drew a smaller axe from her belt.

‘Pretty wings,’ she cooed. ‘Will they still crackle when I hang them from my lodge-pole, little bird?’ Kratus tensed, sword held low. She threw back her head and howled. Before the echo had faded, she was bounding towards him. He interposed his sword, and daemon-blade crashed against sigmarite with a keening shriek. Twisting the starblade, he hooked the deathbringer’s axes and tore them from her grip, even as his wing snapped out. She leapt back, thrown off-balance by the feint.

Kratus slung the weapons aside and dove towards his assailant, starblade extended. She hurled herself out of the way, spitting curses. With a flap of his wings, Kratus was airborne. But not for long. Iron chains and hooks shot out from the ruins all around him, entangling him. He had bought the others time to escape, but it appeared he wasn’t going to be so lucky.

‘Trapped, pretty bird,’ the woman crowed. ‘Just like the others. We will tear you apart, one feather at a time, until all that is left is blood and bone, hey?’ She spread her arms. ‘But I know the way of it now. I won’t kill you, not all at once.’ Her razor grin stretched across her ash-smeared face. ‘Meat always tastes better carved from something that can still scream anyway.’

At her shouted command, many hands hauled on the ropes and chains, trying to drag him down. Wings snarling, he fought to stay aloft. He caught sight of his beacon, still blazing like the light of Sigendil. He dropped to the ground. Stones crunched beneath his feet as he began to fight his way towards the light, dragging the cursing, struggling tribesmen behind him.

A bloodreaver charged towards him and he flung his sword, smashing the barbarian from his feet. Then, he stretched his arms back and caught hold of the ropes and chains, gripping them tight. Before his captors could react, he flapped his wings and lunged forward, into the light of the beacon. Bloodbound screamed as he jerked them into the cleansing radiance. Ash filled the air.

Freed, Kratus retrieved his sword and turned, just in time to parry a blow from the deathbringer. Her screaming axe crashed down again and again, until their weapons became locked. He tried to force her back, but she was stronger than she looked. As they strained against one another, she leaned towards him and opened her mouth, impossibly wide.

Something thick and red lashed in her cavernous throat. It shot forward, and a circular maw of thin yellow fangs smashed against his mask. Acidic drool sizzled as it scorched his armour, and he jerked his head away before it could find his eye-slits. She wrenched his blade aside and they broke apart.

With a scream, she lunged at him. He caught her by the throat as her tongue lashed at him. Gripping her throat, he swung her towards the light of his beacon, blocking her axe with his sword. She shrieked and squirmed to no avail as he plunged her into the celestial glow. The axe in her hand began to keen like a thing in pain.

Heat washed over him as he held her struggling form in the light. She clawed at him, but gradually her struggles grew weaker, and finally ceased altogether. Kratus released her and stepped back. The blazing light enveloped her body, and soon there was nothing left of either the deathbringer or her axe, save blackened bones and greasy ash.

Breathing heavily, Kratus retrieved his celestial beacon and sprang into the air.

Horns blared and drums thumped as the forces of the Scarlet Lord started forward, up the Avenue of Ten Skulls, a stinking sulphurous mist swirling about their legs. Volundr marched among them, his anvil balanced on his shoulder, its chains looped about his arm and torso. The skullgrinder moved without haste. Warriors of the Bloodbound flowed around him like a red tide, driven by ferocity and fear in equal measure. They loved Khorne and feared him, as was the proper way of things.

Behind them, in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, Hroth Shieldbreaker and Warpfang made ready to greet the Stormcasts. That they would break through the force advancing towards them was a foregone conclusion. But they would bloody themselves in the doing, and be ripe for the slaughter. Anhur waited, ready to lead his Scarlet Axes in delivering the deathblow, when the time was ripe. Volundr had no fear that the Scarlet Lord would grow impatient… Anhur was cannier than most, and not prone to haste.

Not like that fool, Apademak. Volundr grunted in annoyance as he thought of the slaughterpriest. The Hungry One was impatient and greedy. He was a hollow thing, a fire that sought to expand beyond its hearth. If allowed to burn free, his madness would spread to others, like the egotistical Redjaw or the treacherous Baron Aceteryx, who needed little prodding to turn on his fellows. Thus far, Anhur had suffered no true challengers to his position – the Shieldbreaker had little ambition, save to indulge in war, and no other deathbringer was strong enough to challenge the Scarlet Lord. But Apademak… Apademak thought Anhur was weak, the way an axe sees weakness in a sword. Volundr shook his head.

Luckily, Apademak was on the other side of the enemy, and too far away to interfere in things any further. Perhaps the Stormcasts had even done them a favour and killed the man-eater, though Volundr doubted it. Whatever his faults, Apademak was no weakling. Still, he would have to be dealt with, eventually. Nothing could be allowed to endanger what was to come, least of all one of their own warriors.

The sky was filled with fire, smoke and rain. As he walked, Volundr watched the orange glow rise over the tops of the roofs. In its light, he saw something that might have been movement, and in his bones he felt the thunder of Khorne’s approach. The Blood God was drawing near to Uryx, hungry for the feast to come. Daemons screamed silently in the shadows and loped, barely visible, through the ranks of tribesmen. Volundr could feel their longing to join in the carnage to come. Soon enough, he thought. Soon and then forevermore.

That was the price demanded, and the price Anhur had agreed to pay. Eight kingdoms given over to Khorne. The eight kingdoms of the Tephra Crater, sacrificed on the altar of war. Volundr laughed harshly, and those bloodreavers nearest him edged away. That was the price of glory, the price of war unending. Anhur had given himself, his warriors, his folk and his kingdom over into Khorne’s keeping. He had given his past and his future into Khorne’s hands, and would be rewarded accordingly, with an eternity of slaughter beneath the stars.

Anhur would make a fine weapon for Khorne to wield in the eternal wars of the gods. Like Valkia before him, or the Bloodwrath, the Scarlet Lord would serve as a piece in the Great Game, in service to the Lord of Skulls forevermore. Volundr had known that the first moment he laid eyes on the princeling of Klaxus, as he had fought his way south, away from the crater-kingdoms. Anhur had been without purpose then, bereft of his kingdom, and his allies. Alone save for his most loyal retainers, and his boundless rage.

Volundr had sensed that rage, and tracked its bitter scent across the Felstone Plains and the grasslands of the Caldera. He had come upon Anhur in battle against the horseclans there, and given him aid. He had guided him through fire and massacre, showing him the way to victory. In Anhur was a monstrous cunning, only barely chained by tattered nobility. And now, at long last, the last shred of that woebegone prince was fading, leaving only the savage purity of the Scarlet Lord.

He would guide Anhur up the eighty-eight steps, and see any danger to his apotheosis crushed. He had invested too much effort into crafting this weapon to allow jealousy or old foes to tear down all that he had built. Anhur would enter the fires of the Soulmaw and transcend the Mortal Realms, as had so many others under Volundr’s tutelage. But the Scarlet Lord would be his greatest creation.

And what then, war-smith? What next for Volundr of Hesphut, what next for the Skull-Cracker, he thought. Another weapon, he suspected. Khorne always needed weapons, and the skullgrinders were his weaponsmiths. He stroked the runes embossed on the brass plating of his anvil, aware of the raging heat contained within its blunt shape – the heat of Khorne’s own forges. The heat of weapons yet to be shaped, of furies without purpose.

There were some among Anhur’s Gorechosen who might yet ascend to those heights. The Shieldbreaker was exalted among the deathbringers of the warhorde. In him were all the virtues of the Bloodbound, and few of their vices. The Huntress too had potential, should she survive. Berkut was too lost to the song of slaughter, and Apademak to his own lusts. Redjaw was a fool, but lethal. Baron Aceteryx matched them all for guile, if not strength. So many possibilities, for a true craftsman.

He looked down at his hands and felt again the heat of the blazing chains he had reeled from the smoky air to loop about the anvil he carried. Each link was a soul torn weeping from the Screaming Sea of Khorne’s realm. He stretched the links tight between his fists, thinking of all that was yet to come. He looked up, scanning the faces of the nearby Bloodbound; each one was an ingot of malice, ready to be hammered and tempered into something greater.

Some would not survive. Some materials were fit only to heat the furnace. But others… So many possibilities, he thought. So many weapons, waiting for the touch of the hammer and the kiss of the fire. It was his duty, his honour, to wield that hammer and stoke that fire.

Volundr felt the air turn hot. He glanced to the side, and saw eight hulking shapes stalking through the ranks of the Bloodbound towards him, their chains clattering, a crimson haze rising from their twisted red limbs. Monstrous and swollen with bitter strength, a hellish ichor sweating from their pores, the wrathmongers approached him reverentially. Bloodbound and beastkin alike scrambled from their path, desperate to avoid the attentions of the blessed of Khorne. The wrathmongers were battle-madness made flesh, and to tarry too close to them was to drown in that madness.

‘We… come,’ one grunted, in a voice like the thudding of iron on bone. He was a bulky thing, scarred and smeared with dried blood and worse substances. His helm was a single chunk of brass, marked in its centre by the rune of Khorne, and topped by a crest made from a skull and dangling spinal column. ‘Come to… to fight at your side, war-smith. Come to… come to fight!’ The wrathmonger twitched and staggered back, his wrath-flails rattling as he threw back his helmeted head and screamed. His companions screamed with him, and their voices momentarily silenced the clamour of the horde.

Panting, the wrathmonger glared at Volundr. ‘Fight with us, war-smith. Fight… fight fight fight…’ he gibbered, spittle oozing from beneath the rim of his helm, as the others joined in like insane children. Volundr let his anvil tumble from his shoulder and strike the ground. At the hollow thud, the wrathmongers fell silent.

He studied them for a moment, considering. They were weapons too. Not so strong as Anhur, but like Apademak, they could be wielded to the Scarlet Lord’s benefit. ‘I will fight beside you,’ he said. ‘I will wield you in Khorne’s name, my brothers, if that is your wish.’

He clenched his free hand, and tore his palm. He held out his hand, his fingers red and dripping. The wrathmongers crowded close, mewling in eagerness as he marked them in blood with the rune of Khorne. Volundr laughed, as he anointed the wrathmongers. ‘Yes… I will forge you into something greater.’

The Avenue of Ten Skulls echoed to the tromp of sigmarite boots, as Lord-Celestant Orius led his chamber into the heart of Uryx. The column was composed of the bulk of the Adamantine’s retinues; those not seconded to Lord-Castellant Gorgus or left to guard the Mandrake Bastion and the Gnawing Gate now marched along the avenue towards the Bridge of Smoke, under Orius’ command. They were a sword, to be thrust into the foe.

And not for the first time, Orius thought, as he led his chamber through the rubble-strewn street. He had led warriors this way once before, he knew, though he could but dimly recall the circumstances. Flashes of memory showed him scenes of battle, as he and those who followed him fought their way through the personal guards of the priest-kings and clashed with the sulphur-knights along the broad avenue.

Everywhere he looked it seemed as if a new memory waited to pounce. He heard the cries of dying men, and the sound of blades crashing together. He could smell death and smoke and fear, all mingling in this place. He caught sight of ghostly shapes that fought and fell, just out of the corner of his eye, and some part of him knew that these were the final sounds Oros of Ytalan had heard, before his end.

…the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his companions, killing them one by one… He could hear Anhur calling for them to stand, to fight, even as Oros dragged him away from that hissing doom… If Anhur fell, the rebellion was doomed… Only Anhur could lead them… only Anhur…

But Anhur hadn’t. He had fled, abandoning his people, and sought new fields of conquest as Klaxus lurched on beneath the heels of the priest-kings. Orius felt the embers of his anger stir within him. Anhur had fled again and again, but not this time. This time, there would be no escape. This time, Anhur would pay for his crimes.

‘They’ve lost sight of Kratus’ beacon,’ Moros said, startling Orius from his reverie. The Lord-Relictor gestured with his staff to the Judicators on the rooftops above, who called down to the column of Stormcasts marching below. ‘Something has happened,’ Moros continued. ‘An ambush, perhaps.’

‘Should we go to his aid?’ Tarkus asked. The Knight-Heraldor sounded eager. Though they had met the enemy more than once during their advance, the battles that followed had been over far too quickly for the herald’s liking, Orius knew.

Before Orius could reply, a winged shape dropped to the ground before the vanguard of the column in a crackle of lightning. The Prosecutor’s golden armour was streaked with blood and grime as he rose to his feet, his shimmering wings folding behind his back. Orius held up his hammer, signalling for the column to halt in its advance. He recognised the warrior as one of Kratus’ retinue, and said, ‘What news, brother?’

‘Lord-Celestant Orius, Lord-Castellant Gorgus is cut off,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The enemy has pierced our lines.’

Orius restrained a curse. If Gorgus was cut off, so too was the rest of the chamber. They were well and truly outnumbered now, not to mention surrounded. ‘What of the Silent One?’

‘We were ambushed, my lord,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The Knight-Azyros sent us ahead, while he stayed to deal with the foe.’ He hesitated. ‘I… I do not know whether he yet lives. They were many, and he but one.’

‘Aye, and his one is worth their many.’ They seek to blind us, he thought, to surround us and batter us, until we become bogged down, unable to advance. The Bloodbound had the advantage of numbers, and time was on their side. Whatever was going on, whatever scheme Anhur was perpetrating, it was close to fruition. If they allowed the Bloodbound to delay them, there was no telling what horrors might arise… but if they advanced unsupported, they might fail regardless. He caught Moros’ eye.

‘Time is not on our side,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘When is it ever?’ Orius said. He had made his decision. He clapped the Prosecutor on the shoulder. ‘I must ask you miss out on the glories to come, brother. I need you and the rest of your retinue to take word to my fellow Lord-Celestants and apprise them of our situation. If we fail to take the Sulphur Citadel in time, they must know something of what they shall face.’

‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant,’ the Prosecutor said, crashing his fist against his chest-plate. The winged warrior turned and sprang into the air. Followed by the rest of his retinue, he hurtled west towards the light of the fires that flickered on the horizon.

Orius turned to Tarkus. ‘Tarkus, take the vanguard,’ he said. ‘We must press on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. We are close, and we must not slow our pace. Not now. Range ahead, break the enemy where you find them. Move fast, but not without caution. Do you understand, Knight-Heraldor?’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ Tarkus cried. He lifted his horn and blew a signalling note as he quickly departed to lead his warriors forward. The vanguard would probe the strength of whatever force waited for them ahead, and break it, if possible. Orius turned to the remaining members of his auxiliary command.

‘Galerius, we shall lead the shield wall. Moros…’

‘I shall hold the centre,’ the Lord-Relictor said. From the centre of the column, Moros would be able to lend aid to either Gorgus or Orius at a moment’s notice, whichever might prove necessary. If Gorgus could not hold back the enemy, then Moros would advance to meet them. But if Gorgus won through, then he and Moros together could march to reinforce Orius and the rest of the Chamber as they advanced.

Orius turned to Galerius.

‘Speak, Knight-Vexillor. We are like the grindstone. The enemy will be ground beneath us. Speak, Galerius – show the standard.’ As he spoke, he raised his sword, and as one, the front ranks of the chamber began to march forward. ‘Let the enemy hear us coming, my friend, so that they know who has defeated them.’

‘Stand true, stand fast, Adamantine,’ Galerius cried, as he strode beside Orius. ‘Let no shield-arm dip, no sword-arm falter. We fight in Sigmar’s name, and he watches us, my brothers, he watches us and he sees how we hold his standard high.’ He struck the front of his chest-plate with the flat of his hammer. ‘We wage war in his name, Stormcasts. Cherish every breath you breathe here, cherish every ache accrued in his service, cherish the sound of sigmarite as it hews through hell-forged armour. Stand fast, my brothers, stand fast. We shall not move from our path, shall not bend nor break!’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK,’ the Stormcasts bellowed in response.

‘We are Adamantine – we shall not break!’ Galerius roared, striking the ground with his battle-standard and cracking the stones. ‘But the foe shall. They shall break and break again, until nothing remains. We are Adamantine, and nothing can stand against us!’

I am coming for you, Anhur, Orius thought, as he led the cheering warriors of the Adamantine forward. I am coming, Scarlet Lord, and nothing shall stand in my way…

CHAPTER SIX

Carnage among the Ten Skulls

Baron Aceteryx, former warden of the Scorian Bastion, held up his raw and glistening gauntlet, forestalling any sound or movement on the part of the warriors who crouched around him in the rain. Formerly warriors of the elite Scorian Guard, they had once been pledged to stand watch along the ancient bastion for which they’d been named. Now, like their master, they were pledged to the service of the Blood God.

Like him, too, they were all clad in oozing, scabrous armour, mystically crafted from the muscle and meat of their murdered kin. A sign of betrayal and godly favour, all in one. The armour wept blood, but was as hard as iron. They waited, spread out over the root-encrusted rooftop overlooking the square below, ignoring the pelting rain and the clutching growths which squirmed beneath them.

With the winged scouts of the foe distracted by Phastet and her savages, Aceteryx and his blood warriors had taken to the rooftops lining the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Here and now, in the Square of Four Fangs, they would strike and cut the Stormcast advance in two. More of his warriors crouched ready and waiting across the avenue for the signal to attack. But they would not wait for long. It had been too long since they had collected the skulls of the foe.

Aceteryx knew well how they felt. It had become a hunger in him. A need greater than any he’d ever experienced. It took all of his concentration to remain calm at moments like this. Then, he thought with bitter humour, I’ve never been one to take the cautious path. He rubbed his breastplate, smearing the blood with an unconscious gesture as he watched the Stormcasts troop past in formation.

Their column had spread out, with the vanguard moving ahead, and the bulk of the warriors marching more slowly behind. Berkut and the others would handle them. But this smaller force was his. It was moving to support those Stormcasts still battling Apademak’s cannibals farther back along the avenue. The foe had stretched themselves thin, hoping to maintain their momentum without abandoning their slower elements or endangering their control of the central thoroughfare. Not enough warriors, not enough time, he thought, in amusement. They were overconfident, or simply desperate.

Either way, they are our prey, Aceteryx thought, and smiled beneath his skull-faced helm. He reached up and stroked its contours – it had been his brother’s skull, and it was his brother’s scalp that adorned it as a crest. His brother had been prey as well. Weak, and fit only for the butcher’s block. All of his kin had been weak. Too weak to survive in a world fit only for predators. Eat or be eaten, he thought.

That was why he had done it, in the end. They had held out for so long, throwing back every invader who dared attempt to take the Scorian Bastion. Even as the lands the bastion had been built to protect flared out like dying campfires in the dark, consumed by the storm of Chaos that engulfed the kingdoms of the Felstone Plains, the folk of the bastion had held. Aceteryx had held. And what had it gotten him?

Nothing. Every battle, every assault, wore him down a bit more. More empty places in the line, more cracks in the wall, more wailing, useless peons, weeping for fallen sons and daughters. As if tears would bring them back. As if despair would fill the cracks in the stones and repair shattered shields and chipped blades. The only respite was in battle.

It had begun to weigh on him, like the ache of a wound that never healed. That ache was still there, but at least now he could lose himself in the joy of slaughter. He could bathe in gore, worrying about nothing save his tally of skulls. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, carved from his wife’s femur. He could almost hear her voice as he gripped it. Her whispered endearments, her choking pleas, her final anguished screams.

Those screams had been Anhur’s price. Victory at the cost of pain, the Scarlet Lord had said. Aceteryx could still remember meeting Anhur beneath a flag of parley. The dull rumble of the Scarlet Lord’s voice as he spoke of what awaited them all, and of the glories that could be theirs, if they but opened the bastion. Of a life without despair, and a chance to be something greater than the last baron of a forgotten fortress in a burning world.

And now I am Gorechosen, he thought. Now, his foot was on the stair to the greatest glories of all. Apademak had spoken of Anhur’s weakness, as had Redjaw and others besides. Murmurs of discontent had swept the warhorde since their retreat from the Hissing Gates. Many had seen Anhur’s gesture of mercy, and few approved of such blasphemy.

The moment of glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him was near. All that was required of him was to seize the moment, as he had at the Scorian Bastion. And to do so before the others, to cut down Anhur and claim his place for himself.

He rose to his feet, sword and flail in hand. I will be a baron no longer, but a lord – Lord Aceteryx, he thought, liking the sound of it. His blood warriors rose with him, growling in anticipation. He gestured to what he assumed was the leader of the Stormcasts – a tall warrior, clad in baroque raiment and wearing a skull-shaped helm. ‘That one stinks of magic. He is mine,’ he growled. And then, with a roar, Baron Aceteryx leapt from the roof.

Lord-Relictor Moros led his warriors through the Square of Four Fangs, head bent, his reliquary staff clutched in both hands. They marched to lend aid to Lord-Castellant Gorgus, and to free up the rear elements of the chamber to support Lord-Celestant Orius and the vanguard as they pressed on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

Moros ignored the sounds of his warriors on the march, and the hollow sound of the rain striking his armour. Instead, he listened to the murmur of the lightning that pulsed in the belly of the great clouds that congregated above the Tephra Crater, and Uryx in particular. The words of Sigmar, and more besides, were in the growl of the storm, and he listened intently, finding meaning in every rumble of thunder.

Moros could almost hear the cries of those of his warriors who’d fallen in the assault so far, as they were drawn upwards into the divine tempest that thundered eternally in the skies above Sigmaron. There was pain there, aye, but a chance to rise and fight again in Sigmar’s name. To fight until the old foe was driven back from the threshold of the Mortal Realms once more. And then…?

Moros’ mind shied away from the thought. It was not for him to consider the future. Only the spirits of the dead concerned him. It was his duty as spirit-warden to ensure that should his fellow Stormcasts fall in battle, their spirits would heed only the call of Sigmar and ascend back to the heavens, rather than descending into some other realm or, worse, become lost to the winds of Chaos. He looked up, watching skeins of azure light that only he could see rise from the city and stretch towards the tempest above. Every thread belonged to a living Stormcast, and marked their connection to Azyr. The life-chain, as the folk of the lagoon-city of Po – his folk, once – had called it.

Moros remembered more about his mortal life than some, and less than others. He suspected other Lord-Relictors did so as well. They had been chosen by Sigmar not for the strength of their sword arms, but rather the strength of their spirits. In quiet moments, he retreated into his memories of the Argentum Sea, seeking out the brightest to examine and study. He drew strength from them, even as he sought to understand them. The whirr of clockwork and the smell of warm silver waters, the murmur of voices and the glimpse of a woman’s face as she laughed, her cheeks powdered with gold-dust and silver threads twined intricately through her hair. Who was she? Did she still live?

He shook himself slightly. A foolish question. She was dead. If she and all his people were not, would he be clad in gold and azure? A shout drew him from his reverie and he turned to see red-armoured shapes dropping into the square from the rooftops all around the marching Stormcasts. They fell to the ground and lurched up, stumbling at first as they raced towards his warriors, but picking up speed as they drew close. Blood warriors, he realised, as he swept his staff up. ‘Form a phalanx,’ he cried. ‘Adamantine – shields to the flanks. Protectors, to me!’

His Liberators moved to obey, individual retinues wheeling about and joining together to form a bulwark against their screaming attackers. His Protectors moved to surround him, waiting for further orders. They were outnumbered but he was confident that they could hold. Another distraction, he thought. They were being isolated, split from the others. The same had happened with Lord-Castellant Gorgus and with the Knight-Azyros, Kratus. Drawn away, separated, leaving the rest of the chamber without reinforcements or support.

More and more it seemed as if Anhur had chosen the ground for his final stand well. He’d led them into Uryx, and was now gnawing away at their strength, preventing them from simply smashing through the obstacles in their path. Too clever by half, that one, he thought grimly, as the blood warriors crashed into the Stormcast line with a ragged howl.

The blood warriors hacked and hewed at their foes with wild abandon, substituting ferocity for discipline. The air shimmered eerily with the heat of their rage, and Moros could see the ghostly shapes of daemons lurking about the edges of the battle, capering in glee. The creatures seemed more solid now than before and that disturbed him. If the Bloodbound were to suddenly find their ranks bolstered by such creatures, even the Adamantine might not be able to hold them back.

The combatants struggled back and forth through the rain. Only a few blood warriors had managed to slip through the quickly formed cordon of sigmarite, and Moros and his Protectors made short work of them. But as he struck down the last of them, the Lord-Relictor heard a roar, and saw a Liberator fall, his body burning away into motes of crackling light. His killer thrust himself into the gap in the shield wall and smashed a second Liberator from his feet with a blow from a flail of iron and brass.

‘Ha!’ the warrior bellowed, in a voice like splintering bones. ‘Is this all you have to offer Baron Aceteryx, dogs of Sigmar? Am I doomed to feast upon scraps? Where are your champions, your true warriors?’

The deathbringer wore armour composed of glistening red plates that more resembled chunks of raw meat than any metal, and they were edged with bone. They, and the long, basket-hilted sword that the warrior carried in one hand did more to identify him than any bellowed challenge. The Scorian Traitor, Moros thought, as the fallen Liberator blocked a slash from that deadly blade. There were many stories of atrocities in the Felstone Plains, but among the worst of them, whispered to their Stormcast rescuers by newly-freed slaves and refugees, was the tale of the Scorian Bastion, and the treacherous Baron Aceteryx. Moros started forward.

Aceteryx swept his flail of brass and iron down, tearing the shield from his foe’s grip. As the golden warrior tried to rise, Aceteryx drove his blade through a gap in his armour, killing him instantly. Lightning flared and the deathbringer stepped through it. ‘Is there no challenge to be had here?’ he laughed, as his followers raced past him, and the shield wall broke apart into a riotous melee.

Moros slammed his staff down. Shockwaves of lightning swept out, smashing nearby blood warriors from their feet. ‘Here is a challenge, traitor,’ Moros said, his voice carrying in the sudden silence after the lightning.

Aceteryx looked at him, and raised his flail in a mocking salute. ‘Traitor? You know me then, skull-face?’

‘I know you. Traitor. Liar and murderer. Your soul is marked by your crimes, and the ghosts of your victims cling to you. Can you feel their weight, Baron? Can you hear their cries?’ Moros said, sweeping his staff out in a wide arc. ‘When you fell, Aceteryx, the souls of your ancestors filled Azyrheim with the sounds of their weeping.’

‘Then imagine how they will wail when I tear your heart out and add it to my armour,’ Aceteryx snarled. He stamped forward with a duellist’s surety, sword extended. Moros caught the blow on his staff, but before he could reply in kind, the Baron’s flail crashed down against his skull, rocking him on his feet. He swung his hammer out, driving his opponent back, but not for long. The deathbringer darted forward, faster than Moros could react. His sword skidded off the Lord-Relictor’s breastplate, and Moros staggered.

He caught a blow from Aceteryx’s flail on his staff and ripped the weapon from the deathbringer’s grasp, hurling it aside. Aceteryx lunged forward with a snarl, slashing at him, driving him back. Moros retreated, trying to put some distance between them. All around him, he could see his Protectors locked in combat with Aceteryx’s warriors, their stormstrike glaives leaving sizzling contrails in their wake.

A wild blow suddenly knocked his staff from his hand, and set him reeling, off-balance. ‘Your head is mine,’ Aceteryx howled, raising his blade in both hands. Before he could strike, however, a winged form slammed into his back and sent him staggering. The Baron whirled, slashing out at his attacker. Kratus the Silent dodged the blow, his crackling wings flapping. Where the Knight-Azyros had come from, Moros didn’t know, but he was thankful for the distraction regardless.

Moros thrust himself forward and, as Aceteryx turned back towards him, he drove his warhammer into the deathbringer’s midsection. Warped armour burst with a sickening sound, and Aceteryx screamed in agony. Kratus moved to strike the wounded Chaos champion down, but Moros waved him off. ‘Help the others,’ he said. ‘This one is mine.’ Kratus nodded and was gone, with a snap of his great wings.

Aceteryx straightened, wheezing. ‘All I am is your death, fool–’ he began. Moros’ blow interrupted his taunt. The warhammer slammed crossways against the deathbringer’s helm, shattering the warped bone, and revealing the ravaged features of the man beneath. Aceteryx screamed as if he’d lost a limb, and clawed at his face. Moros gave him no opportunity to recover. He swung his hammer, shattering Aceteryx’s hastily interposed blade. He struck again and again, crushing joints and bones, until at last, Aceteryx sank down to his knees.

‘Your ancestors await you, Aceteryx. Prepare yourself for judgement,’ Moros said, as he raised his hammer in both hands, over his head.

‘Y-you have no right to judge me,’ the wounded deathbringer growled.

‘No. Not me,’ Moros said. The hammer fell, with a sound like thunder, and Baron Aceteryx, last guardian of the Scorian Bastion, fell with it. Moros looked down at the body, and felt a moment of pity. Once, Aceteryx had been a hero. But it seemed even heroes could not long resist the lures of Chaos unaided.

And that was why the Stormcast Eternals had come, the Lord-Relictor thought. Not just to Klaxus, or the wider reaches of Aqshy. Throughout the Mortal Realms, heroes still fought against the inevitability of Chaos. And the Stormcast Eternals would find them, and, Sigmar willing, aid them.

But first, they had to win this battle, and free this kingdom. He looked up. The last of the blood warriors had fallen to the glaives of his Protectors, but the berserkers had reaped a terrible toll before they met their end. Many Stormcasts had perished, leaving behind only smouldering patches of charred stone to mark their return to Azyr, while others were badly wounded.

He reclaimed his staff and raised it, murmuring the words to summon a healing storm. The falling rain began to shimmer with a celestial radiance, and where it touched the wounded Stormcasts, wounded flesh knit and damaged sigmarite flowed like water until it was whole once more. The Lord-Relictor turned to see Kratus watching him from nearby, one hand resting on the hilt of his starblade. The Knight-Azyros had been seeing to the culling of the wounded blood warriors with his usual pragmatism.

‘We feared you lost, Silent One,’ Moros said, as the Knight-Azyros approached. Kratus signalled sharply. Moros’ grip on his reliquary staff tightened as he interpreted the Silent One’s quick gestures. It was as he’d feared. The enemy had distracted them, and tried to cut them off from Orius and the others. The Adamantine advance had been stalled time and again. And now the bulk of the Bloodbound were massing in the wide plaza before the Bridge of Smoke – another distraction, he suspected. Another stalling tactic. ‘How many?’ he asked. Kratus gestured and Moros grunted in dismay. Orius and the others would be hard-pressed to punch through such numbers. Not without aid.

Decision made, the Lord-Relictor thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Gorgus will have to hold his own, then. I will not allow our brethren to be overwhelmed, not so close to our goal.’ He swept his hammer out. ‘On your feet, Adamantine – we must make haste. Our Lord-Celestant requires our aid, though he knows it not!’

The sun was beginning to rise behind the storm clouds as the Bloodbound raced along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, howling like beasts. They swept towards the golden ranks of the Stormcasts like a headsman’s blade. The ground shuddered beneath them as they ran, and the harsh blare of war-horns sounded above the din of their coming. The air shuddered with their savage chants as they drove forward through the hail of crackling arrows that gouged furrows in their ranks.

‘Blood and skulls for Khorne,’ Berkut roared, as he charged the Stormcast shield wall. ‘Rip their flesh and crack their bones, for the Lord of Skulls!’ The bloodsecrator raised his icon high, so that those who followed him could see it. The portal of skulls trembled in his grip as it soaked up the bloodshed. Soon, it would release those pent-up energies, and its reservoir of furious power would spill over to wash across the Avenue of Ten Skulls and the crater-city of Uryx. Perhaps even Klaxus itself.

The thought fired his blood and lent him speed. He longed to tear the veil between worlds, to see again the glories of Khorne’s kingdom in the moment of realmflux. The glimpses he caught of it, when in battle, reminded him of that long-ago pilgrimage to the Brass Citadel, across the fields of blood and bone. He had slain daemons with his bare hands, and drank deep from the boiling moat which surrounded Khorne’s citadel, and for his devotion he had been gifted the icon he now carried into battle.

Berkut could feel Khorne’s gaze on this place now. The skullgrinder, Volundr, had been correct; the Blood God was watching them, watching the Scarlet Lord. Now was the time to show the Lord of Skulls how they gloried in his name. Around him, the warriors of the Bloodbound raced forward with similar eagerness and longing. Barbaric bloodreavers of the Eight Tribes loped alongside crimson-armoured blood warriors and hulking skullreapers. Feral beastmen, their hairy hides daubed with blood, galloped in the vanguard, brutish voices beyond counting raised in praise of Khorne.

The golden shields of the enemy drew close, and he raised his axe and standard both as he chanted the Blood God’s name. A moment later, the Bloodbound crashed into the ranks of their foes with a sound like thunder, axes rising and falling. Dozens of warriors died in that moment, cut down or crushed between the shields of the foe and the ranks of their fellows behind them. The Stormcast lines held, but only just.

Berkut screamed as his great four-bladed axe bit down, gouging an opponent’s shield. One of the blades became lodged in the metal, and Berkut ripped the shield from its owner’s arm. The Stormcast staggered, and Berkut kicked out, catching the warrior in the chest. He fell backwards, leaving a gap in the shield wall, and Berkut seized the moment. Lashing out with his icon and axe, he forced the gap wider, driving the other Stormcast back, so that the warriors who followed him could break through. Slowly but surely, the shield wall began to split in two.

Berkut howled with laughter as warriors died and bodies fell. The blood ran thick on the stones. He slammed the haft of his icon into the ground. The bloodsecrator threw back his head and roared joyfully. Now was the time, in the moment of shattered shields and dying warriors. Now, NOW… The portal of skulls writhed in his grip and the great rune of Khorne glowed with a hot light. The light swelled and burst in violent pulses, and reality tore like silk.

The ground beneath his feet turned to blazing brass and the air filled with sulphurous fumes. The Bloodbound around him screamed and raged as they were driven into a killing frenzy. The energies of the Blood God’s realm infused them, giving them strength, forcing them on, even as the Stormcasts struck them down. Roaring blood warriors, their eyes wild with murderous fury, flung themselves onto the enemy. They barged through the ranks of the bloodreavers in an effort to come to grips with the foe, their rage burning hot enough to make the air shimmer.

Berkut joined them in the slaughter. Blue streaks of lightning crackled upwards as one foe after another fell. As he fought, he saw daemons stretch and claw as they rose from the blood and brass. They screamed at him, howling out prayers to Khorne. They were not free yet. The membrane of the world was too thick, too solid to allow them to slip through. Berkut hissed in frustration, even as he struck down another Stormcast, tearing the warrior’s head from his shoulders with a sweep of his axe.

He longed to fight alongside the children of Khorne once more, to revel in their incandescent glory as they piled the heads of their foes at the foot of the Skull Throne. That was the glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him. He had sworn to rip an unhealing wound in the flesh of reality, from whence the legions of Khorne could pour through and inundate the Tephra Crater and the Felstone Plains beyond.

A thousand kingdoms would drown in the daemonstorm they would unleash here, and Khorne himself would grow full and fat on the blood spilled in his name. Berkut bellowed the hymn of slaughter as he fought on. He knocked a Stormcast sprawling with a sweep of his axe, and pinned the fallen warrior with his foot. He raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. But as it fell, a blade, shining with a terrible light, interposed itself between the bloodsecrator and his victim.

Tarkus held the bloodsecrator’s axe for a moment. The scar-faced warrior glared at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘You dare?’ he growled. His eyes burned with a madness so pure that it was almost elemental, and red steam curled from his branded flesh.

‘Always,’ Tarkus said. He disentangled their weapons and stepped forward. His broadsword hummed as it sliced through the sulphurous air. The bloodsecrator parried the blow and stepped back.

Quickly, Tarkus reached down and dragged the fallen Liberator to his feet. ‘Back into line, brother. We will not break,’ he said. As the Liberator staggered back towards his retinue, Tarkus raised his sword. His heartbeat was steady as he met the bloodsecrator’s maddened gaze. It was as he had told Lord-Relictor Moros – he had been forged for this. To meet the champions of Chaos and strike them down. To rise and fight, whatever form the enemy took, wherever they stood, whatever their purpose. He was the sword of Sigmar, and no foe could stand against him. He had already claimed the scalps of a number of enemy chieftains, and, Sigmar-willing, he would claim yet more before the battle was won.

That had always been the way of it, in the Graklands. Constantly assailed by brayherds and savage orruks as they were, his folk had learned that to kill a chieftain was to cripple an army. And there had been no better killer than he who had been Tarka of the Grakdt. For a moment, Tarkus was there again, beneath the amber skies, amidst thorny grasses, the thump of orruk drums loud in his ears, and he duelled not a servant of Khorne, but a bellicose orruk chieftain, all slabbed muscle and yellowed tusks.

Then the bloodsecrator snarled, and the memories came apart like smoke on the wind. The air around Tarkus burned, and thick, cancerous strands of brass ran through the stones at his feet. The bloodsecrator was the cause of the sudden frenzy of the Bloodbound. Tarkus had fought his kind before – they fed on the fury of battle and channelled it in unholy ways, even as he raised the spirits and bolstered the courage of his fellow Stormcasts. Tarkus extended his blade in a gesture of challenge. Then, with barely a scrape of sigmarite on stone, he lunged forward. Axe and sword met with bone-rattling force as the Knight-Heraldor and the bloodsecrator traded blows back and forth.

As they fought, Tarkus considered trying to lift his horn from where it hung, strapped across his back. But he doubted his opponent would give him the time. The bloodsecrator lunged towards him, snarling unintelligibly. He stepped aside, and spun his broadsword, bringing it down across the bloodsecrator’s back. The brute staggered, but his armour held and he recovered almost instantly.

Around them, the battle had broken down into a scattered melee. The Stormcast vanguard had punched into the heart of the enemy forces flowing up the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Tarkus and his Thunderhead Brotherhoods had stalled the Bloodbound’s advance, and now bled them of momentum. The shield wall, shattered by the enemy’s charge, had broken up into independent phalanxes of Liberators and Judicators. Each knot of Stormcasts was an island of gold amidst a bloody tide, refusing to budge despite the fact that their foes threatened to sweep over them. Any of the Bloodbound who got past them would be easy pickings for the rest of the chamber as it advanced more cautiously.

Tarkus deflected a looping axe blow and drove his shoulder into his opponent’s chest, knocking him back a half-step. Phantasmal daemons clawed ineffectually at him as he brought his broadsword down, cracking the bloodsecrator’s shoulder-guard. Howling in incoherent fury, the warrior lashed out at him with his foul standard, driving him back.

Acting on instinct, the Knight-Heraldor chopped through the thick haft of the standard. Crimson energy ravened forth, burning everything it touched with molten talons. Stormcasts and Bloodbound alike fell to it, but Tarkus plunged through it, sword angled to take the stunned bloodsecrator in the side. He felt the blade of his broadsword ram home, even as the foul energies of the staff washed over him.

The bloodsecrator grabbed him by the throat, and swung him against the side of a building. ‘I… can see it…’ the Chaos warrior gurgled, as he scrabbled at the Knight-Heraldor’s neck. ‘It is… beautiful.’ Tarkus tore his blade free of the dying warrior and shoved him back. The bloodsecrator staggered, and sank to one knee, arm wrapped around his belly. ‘I can… see it,’ he croaked, looking at Tarkus, but not seeing him.

‘Then go to it, and find whatever damnation awaits you,’ Tarkus said, as he brought his broadsword down on the dying Bloodbound’s neck.

Redjaw the Resplendent slid forward, and thrust his spear, Lungpiercer, out, quick as a serpent’s strike. The broad blade of the spear drew sparks from his opponent’s shield, and the force of the blow knocked the Stormcast back. Redjaw whipped his spear up, and slid it over the rim of the shield. The tip of the blade punched through the eye-slit of his opponent’s mask.

The Stormcast stiffened and slumped forward soundlessly. The deathbringer jerked Lungpiercer free and spun, battering a second Stormcast off his feet with the length of the spear. Redjaw danced among the remnants of the enemy shield wall, thrusting and slicing wherever his fancy took him. Some fell to his assault, others were merely driven back. They were hard to kill, these lightning-men. Worse, it was hard to tally your kills when the evidence vanished before your eyes.

What glory, what glory, he thought as he whirled, his metallic cloak swirling about him. He drove the haft of his spear into a shield, and then the blade forward into a Stormcast’s back. Lungpiercer’s ensorcelled blade tore through the golden armour, not with ease, but a sight better than the weapons of the tribesmen he’d led into battle. Most of those were dead now, fallen so that he might reach the foe. He felt nothing for them. That was what lesser warriors were for – to die so that their betters might live.

Such had always been Redjaw’s way, since he had first stepped into the war-dance of his people, in the ever-burning forests of the Pyrdim. Move so that the flames could not burn you, move so that the ash would not fill your lungs, move through the dead and dying, let the weak shield the strong. Move, move, move, he thought as he brought Lungpiercer down like a club, driving a Stormcast to one knee. He jerked the spear back, dragging his opponent off his feet. As the warrior fell, Redjaw spun Lungpiercer and drove the blade down between his shoulders.

All around him, the same story played out in a hundred different ways. The golden-armoured invaders fought with a vigour that put even the most brutal tribesman to shame. They fought not as individuals, but as a single engine made of many parts. Redjaw shook his head and leaned on his spear, stilling the squirming of his dying opponent. It was madness, that was all there was to it. What glory was there to be had in such a method? If all fought as one, did they share equally in the triumph? He growled. Such a thing was anathema to him – Redjaw fought for the glory of none save himself. Khorne blessed only the most resplendent, most infamous warriors, those who caught his eye and held it.

And Redjaw of the Pyrdim was the most resplendent of all. Did he not wear a cloak of glimmering blood? Had he not danced among the bones of countless slaughtered gargants and tribesmen, had he not cast down the marble temples of the Skorch and pierced the multi-hued skull and four-lobed brain of the Ever-Changing Oracle? Was it not Redjaw who had tamed the copper-boned horses of the Caldera, and split the iron heart of the Steel Duke?

‘Aye, and more besides,’ he said, giving Lungpiercer a final twist. As he tore the blade free of the already evaporating body, he caught sight of Berkut. The bloodsecrator was locked in combat with one of the Stormcasts – this one in fancier armour than the rest. A blow from the warrior shattered Berkut’s portal of skulls, unleashing a mystical conflagration which momentarily obscured them both from sight.

The mystical fires cleared, and Redjaw saw Berkut sink to one knee as the Stormcast raised his sword. Berkut’s head rolled free and Redjaw grunted in satisfaction. One more empty place in the Gorechosen. He knew of others who would gladly take the bloodsecrator’s position, many of them loyal to him. A few more deaths and Anhur might find his Gorechosen peopled by enemies, rather than comrades. The thought pleased Redjaw no end. Even more pleasant was the thought of killing the warrior who had taken Berkut’s head – he radiated power. He was a champion among the Stormcasts, that much was obvious, and his skull would be worth much esteem for the warrior who claimed it.

He started forward, but a strong hand fell on his shoulder.

‘No. It is time to draw them in,’ the skullgrinder, Volundr, rumbled. He was surrounded by a group of seething wrathmongers, their grotesque forms dripping with the blood of the foe. Volundr, too, was spattered with the stuff, and his anvil was encrusted with brain matter and worse. Redjaw jerked free of his grip.

‘I doubt that they will let us go so easily,’ he snarled. The Bloodbound were locked in place, like a manacled hand, caught between the phalanxes of the Stormcasts. Whichever way they moved, weapons wreathed in lightning awaited them. In a way, Redjaw almost admired such precision. The foe were tenacious, and almost as unwilling to retreat as the Bloodbound. Indeed, the very thought of ceding ground to the foe sent a shiver of disgust through him.

‘They will have no choice. Go, my brothers. Teach them the meaning of fear.’ Volundr gestured, and the wrathmongers hurtled towards the closest knot of Stormcasts, howling wildly. The skullgrinder caught hold of the brass muzzle of Redjaw’s helm. ‘It is their duty to meet Khorne. It is ours to save what can be saved. We must pull back to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, so that we might draw the foe after us.’ Volundr laughed and released him. ‘Come! The Shieldbreaker and the vermin await us – would you be selfish, Resplendent One, and hoard all of the beautiful carnage to come?’

‘Aye, as would you, skullgrinder, if you were me,’ Redjaw snapped. Nonetheless, he raised his spear, signalling the closest of his subordinate chieftains to begin the retreat. Most would ignore him, too caught up in the killing as they were. They would stay and fight and die, as was proper. Redjaw would not be among them. Volundr and Anhur had promised greater glories to come, and Redjaw intended to collect upon that promise.

Slowly, reluctantly, he followed Volundr back down the avenue, surrounded by equally unhappy warriors. Whatever glories awaited them had best come soon. But as he left the battle behind him, the deathbringer marked the Stormcast who had slain Berkut.

You’re mine, he thought.

‘Forward – let no foe stay your advance,’ Orius Adamantine said, as the Stormcast shield wall pressed onward, through the Avenue of Ten Skulls. ‘For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ Liberators moved forward steadily at the Lord-Celestant’s command, pushing back against the tattered remnants of the Bloodbound who had, only a short time ago, bounded eagerly into battle. Caught between the advancing shield wall and the Thunderhead Brotherhoods, those who did not break and flee were swiftly obliterated.

When the shield wall pressed past each of the isolated Brotherhoods, those Stormcasts fell swiftly into formation with the rest of the chamber. The Liberators joined their fellows at the fore, beneath the glittering battle-standard held by Galerius, and the Judicators moved to add their volleys to those of the retinues marching behind. But not all of the Thunderhead Brotherhoods had survived intact.

As Orius and his warriors came to a halt near the end of the avenue, the crack of thunder and the glare of lightning revealed the fate of the rest of their brethren in gory detail. ‘Sigmar above,’ Galerius breathed.

The remaining Thunderhead Brotherhoods were locked in combat with a band of blood-soaked wrathmongers. Two of the beasts were already dead, but the remaining four fought against almost five times their number without any apparent fear. The muscle-bound monstrosities whirled their flails in lethal arcs, smashing the life from Stormcasts with every blow. Judicators circled the melee, searching in vain for a clear shot, as one by one the Liberators were crushed. The flails of the remaining wrathmongers crunched through armour like parchment, tearing the flesh and splintering the bone beneath. A crimson haze rose from their torn skin, and every wound they suffered seemed to drive them to greater heights of fury.

Orius caught sight of a familiar form in the thick of the fray, his broadsword flickering like lightning as he chopped through a bellowing wrathmonger’s midsection. ‘Tarkus,’ he muttered. Of course the Knight-Heraldor would be in the thick of it. A Liberator, armour crumpled and torn, skidded across the street to crash against the legs of the shield wall. His broken body hurtled skyward in a bolt of lightning a moment later, and even as the flash faded, Orius was already moving forward. Galerius and the Liberators moved to join him, but he waved them back.

The Lord-Celestant had fought wrathmongers before. He’d seen whole chambers torn apart by the dark curse which afflicted the brutes. Orius would not risk his warriors being drawn into such madness – he would see to the creatures himself.

He charged towards one of the wrathmongers. With a swift blow from his hammer, he shattered the creature’s knee. Ducking an awkward swing of its flail, he drove his sword up beneath its arm, and into its throbbing heart. Tearing his blade free, he deftly avoiding the spurt of ichor and kicked the dying wrathmonger away from the press of battle. ‘Shoot it,’ he shouted, signalling to nearby Judicators. Even as he spoke, he could feel the weight of the creatures’ rage pressing down on him. It clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to shatter the bulwarks of discipline which bound him. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar as he turned, searching for his next opponent.

Skybolts punched through the wrathmonger’s brass cuirass, ending its fury as Orius isolated a second. He lunged beneath the flying body of a Liberator and let his runeblade dance across his target’s ribs. The wrathmonger howled and turned. The stink of it assaulted his senses. It was not simply a physical odour but also a spiritual miasma – an infection of the mind and soul that reached out, seeking to snare him in its crimson coils. He could feel it stoking the fires of his rage, trying to entice him to surrender to the battle-madness. But he would not surrender. He would not break.

The wrathmonger’s flail thudded down, narrowly missing him. Orius pivoted and brought his blade down, severing the creature’s forearm. As it staggered, he rammed his hammer into its throat. Before it could recover, he drove his shoulder into its gut and shoved it back, away from the others.

This time, the Judicators acted without having to be ordered, and bolts of sizzling energy thudded into the creature’s back and head. Orius stepped back and let it fall. He turned, and was forced to parry a blow from Tarkus’ broadsword. The Knight-Heraldor roared wordlessly, and made to lash out again. He had been caught up in the wrathmongers’ fury, and was unable to tell friend from foe. Orius stepped close and drove the head of his hammer into his fellow Stormcast’s belly, dropping him to his knees.

Without slowing, he advanced on the last of the wrathmongers. The beast smashed a Liberator to the ground and swept its flails back to finish the hobbled warrior off. Orius stretched his hammer out, and as the flails tangled around the head, he twisted about, hauling the wrathmonger off-balance. It staggered back with a bellow of surprise. As it turned, Orius slid the point of his runeblade through the eye-slit of its helm. The creature stiffened, and then slumped, its weight pushing him back a step.

He extricated his sword and let the body topple. Already, the remaining Liberators were shaking off the effects of the savage miasma. Orius sheathed his blade and turned to extend his hand to the still-kneeling Tarkus. As he helped the Knight-Heraldor to his feet, Tarkus said, ‘I must – I did not see you, Lord-Celestant.’

‘You were caught up in the blood rage of your foes.’ Orius shook his head. ‘You should have let the Judicators shoot them from a distance, rather than charging in as impetuously as always.’

‘I thought – it was as if some force held my soul in its grip. I could not resist – I tried, but it was…’ He trailed off. ‘Is that what they feel? Is that what our foes feel, when they fight?’

‘The call of the Blood God is monstrously strong, Tarkus. It is like the waves of the sea, washing away even the sturdiest foundation over time. It seeps through the cracks in your discipline. If you are not careful, it will claim you, and I may not be there to drag you back.’

Tarkus shuddered. He looked at Orius, his eyes haunted behind the stoic features of his war-helm. ‘For a moment I could not tell whether you were friend or foe… I nearly took your head off. I nearly–’

‘But you didn’t,’ Orius said sternly, clasping his forearm. ‘And you are yourself once more. Now sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. The enemy are on the run, and I would let them know that we are on their heels.’ He raised his hammer, and the shield wall started forward once more. Tarkus sounded his battle-horn as the last of the Stormcast vanguard fell into formation, and the Adamantine left the Avenue of Ten Skulls behind.

Their path expanded, spreading out into a vast, semi-circular plaza which jutted out over the smoky waters of the sulphur lake. The plaza was strewn with dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles stood upright from the stones, their fleshless bounty staring blindly out over the yellow waters that separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Thousands of standards and banner poles, each bearing the rune of Khorne, pierced the plaza like arrows in a dead man’s back. As the Bloodbound retreated through this grisly artificial forest, they were swiftly absorbed into the ranks of the massive force arrayed before the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. Undisciplined lines of fur- and iron-clad tribesmen, red-armoured blood warriors and bellowing beastmen stretched across the plaza, alongside more orderly phalanxes of black-furred, heavily armoured stormvermin. Barbaric standards fluttered in the rain, alongside the rat-gnawed banners of the skaven.

The enemy lines pulsed like a thing alive as the Stormcasts marched into the plaza. Individual warriors pelted from the Bloodbound ranks towards the Adamantine, but were cut down by the bolts of the Judicators before they could cross the gap between both forces. Orius counted the standards of at least six distinct tribes, and more warriors were flooding into the plaza from the surrounding streets.

‘They were waiting for us,’ Galerius said as the shield wall spread out before them, ready to resist the enemy charge. More Liberators moved into formation behind the front rank, ready to take the place of their fallen brothers, or to relieve them when they grew fatigued. Judicator retinues moved to the flanks, accompanied by Retributors. Their fire would drive the bulk of the enemy towards the centre of the line, where retinues of Decimators waited for their moment to counter-attack. Tarkus was with them, the winding call of his horn filling the air – the Knight-Heraldor would lead the attack, while Orius and Galerius held the line. The Retributor retinues would serve to anchor the flanks of the shield wall, preventing any enemy attempt to lap around them.

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not us. Look – beyond them. The Sulphur Citadel.’ The fumes rising from the lake made it hard to see the citadel, but it was clear that something was happening. The bulky fortress-temple was surrounded by a halo of greasy light, which pulsed in various shades of red and brown and black, like a wound going septic. Worse, the air above the citadel and the plaza was filled with monstrous phantoms – daemons. Thousands of them. They flocked above the heads of the warriors gathered in the plaza, crouched on rooftops or racing through the air. Watching. Waiting.

‘By Sigmar’s hammer,’ Galerius said, as ghostly daemons began to arise from the stones like mist and caper between the two armies. ‘Why do they not attack?’

‘They are not here yet,’ Orius said. ‘But they will be soon, I fear. We must win this battle, Galerius… or we may lose the war.’

‘Here they come, just as he predicted,’ Hroth Shieldbreaker said. Bloodbound streamed into the plaza in disarray, their chieftains and champions bellowing useless orders. The Stormcasts had broken them, as Hroth had known they would. It was what the foe did – they were like gilded millstones, grinding flesh and bone to pulp. He admired that sort of ferocity. ‘Relentless,’ he said, ‘Like a storm.’ He peered at the crowd, trying to spot Volundr or Berkut. He saw Redjaw, shaking his spear over his head, and frowned. He’d hoped the deathbringer would meet his fate in the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

‘No-no, just man-things, same as any other,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered. The skaven warlord stood beside him, at the foot of the Bridge of Smoke, weapons in hand. The creature’s tail lashed in agitation. ‘They die easily enough, yes-yes.’

‘Feel free to prove it, vermin,’ Hroth said, extending his hand. ‘Go ahead and scurry into battle, if you like.’ He grinned at the skaven, as it eyed him suspiciously. ‘But first, send a runner to Anhur – he’ll want to be here, at the kill.’ He gestured towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘That’s what this is all in service of, after all.’

Warpfang scrubbed his muzzle and fixed Hroth with a red eye. ‘I do not understand,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is not the way the Bloodbound usually wage war, yes-yes?’

Hroth chuckled. ‘There’s war, and then there’s war, vermin. Not all battles are waged with axe and blade, and not all wars are won on the field.’ He looked down at the skaven. ‘The Scarlet Lord has been waging this war since he first took up arms in Khorne’s name, and now, here, it ends. Or so some say. In truth, I am but a simple man and seek only those pleasures familiar to me.’ He rested his hands on the weapons dangling from his harness. ‘Go to your rats, Gorechosen. We will meet the enemy, and together, you and I will pile their skulls in the centre of the plaza.’

Warpfang hesitated. The skaven looked up, at the roiling clouds far above, and then at the flames which flickered beyond the rooftops of the buildings which surrounded the plaza. ‘I do not think we will meet again, man-thing,’ Warpfang said, as he licked the glowing fang which had given him his name.

Hroth gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘No. Probably not, vermin. Die well, Kretch Warpfang.’

‘Warpfang will not die, man-thing,’ Warpfang said. Weapons over his shoulders, the skaven warlord scuttled away, to join his stormvermin. Hroth watched him go and snorted. The rats would break before the Bloodbound. They would scatter into the crater-city and vanish into their holes the moment they realised that the enemy wasn’t going to break. That too was part of Anhur’s plan. Or so the Scarlet Lord claimed. His head must be about to burst, filled as it is with so much cunning, he thought sourly. Still, better to serve a cunning lord than a foolish one.

He examined the Stormcast ranks as they moved into the plaza, moving with a precision he couldn’t help but envy. They were disciplined. Even more so than the Firewalk duardin. Horns brayed and drums thumped all along the battle-line, as the Eight Tribes grew restless – with the enemy in sight, it would soon be impossible to control them. Solitary bullgors and frenzied champions broke ranks, charging towards the enemy, only to be felled by crackling arrows loosed from behind the shield wall.

Best to get things started, he thought, smiling grimly. Hroth drew his axes – long-hafted shield-crackers, fashioned in the style of the great boarding axes of the ice-raiders of Gjoll. Heavy, compact blades, free of adornment save for the rune of Khorne etched on their hafts. He spun one with a twitch of his wrist, and extended it. ‘Now we come to it, my brothers,’ he cried. ‘Now comes the drawing down of all your days, to the sharp end of memory and that last, bright pain.’ He spread his arms. ‘The enemy we have prayed for stands before us, and the burning waters at our back. Will you die a straw death, or deliver your skull to Khorne in person?’

The warriors around him roared in reply, shaking their weapons at the storm-tossed sky. Feet and hooves stamped on the stones as swords and axes thumped shields. Hroth laughed and clashed his axes together. ‘NO!’ he cried. ‘No straw death for the servants of the Scarlet Lord! The foe have come a long way to meet us, Bloodbound – let us greet them with the respect they deserve.’ He swung his axes out, and at the gesture, the Bloodbound gave a great cry and surged forward as one, racing towards the glittering shield wall of the Stormcast.

Tarkus sounded his horn again and again, until the Knight-Heraldor thought his lungs might burst. From behind him came the hiss-crack of shockbolt bows and thunderbolt crossbows, as Judicators fired over the heads of the Liberators in the shield wall. The Bloodbound pounded closer, paying no heed to the explosions which tore through their ranks and threw them back time and again. Tarkus looked around, meeting the gazes of the Decimators gathered about him.

‘When the moment comes, we must be quick,’ he said, trusting his words to carry. ‘We must strike and strike and strike, until we have gutted the enemy. Only then will I sound the call to break and retreat. But we must be sure to do so, for our brothers need our axes. We are worth twice their number, but the enemy are three times ours. The shield wall will not hold for long if we cannot cut them down to size. We are the fists of the Adamantine, the edge of the executioner’s axe and the steady hand that removes the enemy’s head. You are the last moment made flesh, the destroyer paladins, and the enemy fear you above all things. Let us remind them of that, my brothers. You are the Axemen of Azyr and you shall not break.’

‘We shall not break,’ the Decimators intoned. Tarkus nodded in satisfaction, and turned his attention back to the approaching enemy. The hammer blow would fall hardest on the centre of the shield wall, thanks to the efforts of the Judicators. But that was as it should be.

The ground beneath his feet trembled as the Bloodbound drew closer. Explosions rocked the plaza as the Judicators continued to fire. Rain fell steadily, and he closed his eyes, taking a moment of solace in its comforting rhythm. The gods spoke through the rain. That was what his folk had believed, before he’d been chosen to ascend. Sigmar spoke through the rain and the thunder, the hiss and the roar. In every storm was a song of war and hope.

Tarkus opened his eyes, and the song of the storm was gone, replaced by the crash of iron and brass colliding with sigmarite. The Bloodbound slammed into the shield wall like an avalanche of flesh and steel. The Liberators held, but only just. The sheer weight of the foe was deforming the line, creating breaches in the wall. A blood warrior toppled through, between two Liberators. The Bloodbound snarled as he rose, and buried the edge of his axe in the back of a Liberator’s neck. Tarkus drove his broadsword through the berserker’s chest before the warrior had a chance to free his weapon.

He raised his horn as he placed a boot on the dying warrior’s head and, as he withdrew his sword, he blew a single, dolorous note. The Decimators snapped to attention, and the breach in the shield wall grew wider. Liberators stepped back, and the Axemen of Azyr surged forward, Tarkus at their head. Soon, severed limbs and heads were flung skywards as they went to work. Tarkus pressed forward, fighting to keep his footing on the gore-slick stones.

Something hissed, and he turned. The wide blade of a spear scraped across his shoulder before he batted it aside. Its wielder withdrew it quickly and stabbed at him again. This time, Tarkus was quick enough to catch it with the edge of his broadsword and he twisted his wrist, pinning the weapon a hair’s breadth from his belly.

‘Quick one, aren’t you?’ the spear’s wielder growled. Clad in a shimmering red robe and a brass helmet shaped like a hound’s snarling muzzle, the Chaos warrior laughed. ‘Or maybe Berkut was just too slow?’

Tarkus strained against the spear, fighting to keep it trapped. He said nothing, as his opponent fought to twist his weapon free. The battle swirled on around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound fighting and dying. The warrior laughed again, and with a wrench of his shoulders, he tore his weapon loose and sprang back in a swirl of robes. ‘Redjaw, lightning-rider,’ he said.

Tarkus cocked his head. ‘What?’

‘My name, Stormcast. So you can tell Khorne who claimed your head – I am Redjaw the Most Resplendent, Redjaw of the Pyrdim… Redjaw, deathbringer and Gorechosen,’ Redjaw said, as he lifted his spear over his head. ‘It is only right that you know my name, since I have sought you out especially. I see you carry a horn,’ he added, chuckling. He swung his spear about, the holes in the blade emitting a hollow moan. ‘Are you a minstrel, then, lightning-rider?’ Redjaw whirled towards Tarkus in a blur, his red cloak flaring out as he whipped his spear about in a complicated pattern. So swiftly did he move that Tarkus could barely follow him, and when he struck, the Knight-Heraldor almost missed it.

Tarkus jerked his head aside, and the foul blade scraped against the side of his helm. He swayed, and his broadsword swept around. Redjaw stabbed his spear into the ground and lifted himself up, avoiding the sword’s arc. His feet crashed against Tarkus’ chest, staggering him. The deathbringer dropped to the ground and uprooted his spear, slashing it out in the same motion. Chunks of rock spattered Tarkus as the blade screeched along his breastplate and gouged a scar across the face of his helm.

The deathbringer backed away, laughing. Angry, Tarkus lunged after him. They duelled back and forth for a moment, twisting and turning, matching each other blow for blow until Redjaw drove the weighted haft of his spear into Tarkus’ temple and knocked him back a step. Tarkus reacted on instinct, snatching hold of the spear’s haft, as Redjaw pulled it back. He jerked his opponent forward, and their helms connected with a dull clang. Tarkus pivoted, and rammed his shoulder into Redjaw, knocking him off his feet. He’s drawing me away, out of position, Tarkus thought, as Redjaw hit the ground. Not intentionally perhaps, but it was happening all the same. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into a duel, rather than rallying his warriors to hack themselves a path back to their brethren. He’d left his brothers open to attack. He’d been foolish to follow the deathbringer. Even as he’d been foolish to attack the wrathmongers. Anger at his failure pulsed through him.

Determined to give his foe no chance to recover, Tarkus swung his broadsword down. Redjaw rolled aside with desperate speed, and Tarkus’ blade caught only the folds of the Chaos champion’s cloak. Redjaw rose with a roar, but Tarkus smashed aside his spear. They traded blows, moving back and forth, as around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound clashed.

The Decimator retinues had shattered the heart of the enemy, scattering them, but the Bloodbound were so undisciplined that it mattered little. The assault had devolved into a brutal melee, where numbers counted for more than skill. Need to get back – bolster the shield wall, Tarkus thought. He made to draw his horn from where it hung across his back.

‘I will have your head,’ Redjaw roared, as he lunged forward. Tarkus spun and stepped aside, avoiding the spear’s blade as he caught the haft. With a single stroke, he chopped through the iron stock. Redjaw staggered back, lifting the broken weapon in confusion. Tarkus lunged forward and drove the blade of the spear into its wielder’s midsection. The deathbringer gasped and clawed at his arm. Tarkus shoved him back and let him fall.

‘No. You won’t,’ he said, as he turned to rejoin his warriors. But his heart sank as he surveyed the battlefield. The shield wall was crumpling, despite the efforts of the Decimators. The foe were too numerous. The ranks of the enemy had simply lapped around the Decimators, filling in the gap they’d created with fresh bodies. Now, they were cut off and out of position.

Tarkus raised his battle-horn and signalled a call to arms. We will not break, not because of me, he thought, as the Decimators rallied to him, and they began to fight their way back towards their brethren. We shall not break!

Volundr stormed forward into the golden ranks of the foe, his anvil whirling over his head. He brought the brazen anvil down, obliterating a Stormcast from the neck up in a shower of blood and bone. As the warrior’s corpse came apart in a scatter of lightning, the blades of nearby Bloodbound began to glow as if red-hot.

As the skullgrinder waded into the fray, he laughed in pleasure. Redjaw had done his job well – the deathbringer had drawn out the enemy axemen, and left the shield wall exposed to the full fury of the Bloodbound. If the Resplendent One survived, Volundr thought he might take him in hand, after all. Khorne might have a use for the vainglorious fool.

But for now, he had his eyes set on other matters. The enemy had their champions, even as the Bloodbound did. Heroes and captains, to whom the lightning-riders looked for courage and orders. Killing them would not break the Stormcasts, but it would please Khorne greatly. The death of any hero was sure to draw the Blood God’s interest.

And Volundr had chosen his quarry with a craftsman’s eye – unlike the Bloodbound, the Stormcasts had only one battle-standard, and the one who bore it was worthy prey indeed. The standard bearer stood at the forefront of the disintegrating shield wall, exhorting his warriors to greater efforts. Volundr saw the golden standard begin to glow with an azure energy and he felt the air turn cold as he smashed a Stormcast aside.

The sky above split with a sound like tearing metal and comets of cerulean fire rained down from the storm-ravaged skies, striking throughout the plaza with earth-shattering force. Volundr staggered as a nearby blood warrior simply vanished, his war cry cut short by a sudden impact. Blood and screams filled the air as the heavens loosed their fury on the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. More comets shrieked down, tearing craters in the plaza, and reducing howling warriors to little more than a red mist. Broken bodies tumbled through the air, and gobbets of smoking meat struck him as he plunged forward through the barrage, ignoring the slivers of stone and metal which embedded themselves in his bare arms.

Volundr charged through the smoke and dust, and hurled himself at the Stormcasts. A warrior was smashed to the ground, and a second sent twisting into the air, and then he was face-to-face with his quarry. Volundr roared and slung his brazen anvil out.

The Stormcast standard bearer turned aside at the last moment, avoiding the blow that would have pulped his skull. Volundr turned, letting the chain wrap itself around his arm as he guided the spinning anvil towards his opponent a second time. The anvil pulverised stone as the Stormcast swatted it aside with a desperate blow from his hammer. Volundr pressed his attack, turning, bending, letting the chain slide through his grasp as he moved.

The anvil crashed against the Stormcast’s chest, denting the metal there and knocking him from his feet. Volundr swung the anvil down in a vicious arc, but his foe rolled aside. The skullgrinder tore his weapon free of the ground in a spray of rock, and caught the Stormcast in the back as the warrior tried to get to his feet. Volundr paced after his foe, as the Stormcast staggered, leaning against his standard for support.

‘I… shall not break,’ the Stormcast said, as he turned to face the skullgrinder.

‘All things break,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Especially men.’ He swung the anvil down again, shattering the standard and sweeping its remains from its wielder’s hands. Lightning crawled across them both as the skullgrinder caught his opponent in the chest with a boot and drove him flat. Before the Stormcast could do more than grab at his leg, Volundr lifted the anvil in both hands and brought it down on his foe’s skull. Golden armour burst, and bone splintered, and then he was surrounded by a gush of blue lightning as it careened upwards, back into the storm clouds from which it had first emerged. As his vision cleared, he heard the blare of brass horns and turned to see the banners of the Scarlet Axes rising above the fray.

Anhur had come. The Scarlet Lord had come to taste battle as a mortal warrior one last time.

Volundr threw back his head and laughed as his choler rose within him. A blessed rage, a loving wrath, a righteous anger given outlet at last. He heard a familiar roar and saw, over the heaving surface of the battle, the bulky shape of Anhur storm forward, into the midst of the enemy axemen. Stormcasts were sent flying by a single sweep of Anhur’s black axe, or knocked flat by the merest brush of his shield.

The Scarlet Lord roared again, his axe sweeping out to lop off limbs, remove heads and shatter weapons. None could stand before him, though many tried. They were not cowards, these Stormcasts, and that made them the best of enemies. Axes struck sparks from Anhur’s great daemon-headed shield and glanced from his heavy armour as he bulled forward into the thick of the fighting, his hand-picked blood warriors at his side.

Volundr spread his arms as Anhur was lost to sight and the battle surged back and forth around him. He gazed upwards. Past the clouds, beyond the curtain of pelting rain, he saw a vast shape loom over the crater-city. Two eyes like hellish suns gazed down, piercing the fog of storm and war with ease, searching. ‘See him, Khorne,’ Volundr growled, stretching a hand up towards those fiery eyes. ‘See what I have made of him, oh Lord of Skulls. See the blade I have forged for thy hand, see and know that he is worthy of ascending!’

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the black clouds writhed in the grip of the reddening sky. Volundr lowered his arms and turned, searching for more prey. A familiar figure caught his eye. Apademak, Volundr thought, as the looming figure tore through the press of battle. The slaughterpriest struck Bloodbound and Stormcasts alike in his frenzy, and those drawn in his wake did the same. Maddened bloodreavers attacked their fellows, hacking and chopping at their fellow tribesmen as they charged after the Hungry One. Volundr looked up, and saw the monstrous muzzle of Khorne leering down through the roiling clouds, eyes alight with savage interest. The Blood God was watching… waiting. Something was happening. Something…

Anhur. No… NO.

That thought pealing in his head, the skullgrinder started after the slaughterpriest.

Orius saw Galerius fall to the monstrous Chaos champion, but could do nothing save whisper a prayer for his fallen brother. He was too far away to take vengeance, and surrounded by foes of his own. Blue lightning ripped upwards, carrying the Knight-Vexillor’s spirit back to Sigmar’s soul-forges. The Stormcasts fought on, their resolve unwavering. Death was not the end, for the fallen could be forged anew, to rise and fight again. Galerius would carry the battle-standard of the Adamantine once more. But today, his loss was a grievous one.

Moros would soon arrive, if Sigmar was willing. Thus bolstered, the Stormcasts might yet succeed in driving the foe from the field. But only if they could hold out against the swelling tide of the Bloodbound. More and more tribesmen and skaven were flooding the plaza from the inner city, racing into battle with reckless abandon. Already, the shield wall had shrunk, apportioning itself into several distinct phalanxes. And these were steadily being driven apart by the sheer numbers of the enemy. He parried a whirling axe and removed its wielder’s head before turning to face the next foe.

The skaven were massing on the flanks, seeking to swarm the shield wall even as it splintered. Everywhere he looked, the forces of the enemy heaved like a red sea. Blood warriors and tribesmen crowded around, each seeking to be the one to bring him down. We shall not break, he thought, as he hacked down a snarling beastman. We shall not–

‘Oros!’ a voice boomed, cutting through the din of battle, like a sword through flesh. ‘Where are you, Oros of Ytalan?’

Orius crushed a blood warrior’s skull with his hammer and turned. A heavy shape ploughed through his Retributors, axe whirling. ‘Come to me, Oros,’ the massive warrior bellowed. ‘Come to me, my friend – Anhur is here, and he would have words with thee!’ Anhur was much as Orius remembered, from their too-brief encounter at the Hissing Gates. A savage heat radiated from the Scarlet Lord’s armour, pounding upon the air, and the daemonic face emblazoned on his shield twitched and squirmed, gnashing its brass teeth in impotent fury.

Orius made for the Scarlet Lord, his steps quick. Warriors, both Stormcasts and Bloodbound, scrambled out of their path. They met with a thunderous impact as Orius swung his hammer down on Anhur’s shield and parried an axe-blow with his runeblade. ‘I am here, monster. Speak, and be damned,’ Orius said.

‘Oros, you are a welcome sight for my eyes. Here we are again, at the beginning of the end,’ Anhur said, as he drove forward, his axe slashing down. Orius parried the blow with his hammer, and stabbed out with his sword. Anhur turned the blade with his shield. ‘The same as before, always the same,’ the warlord continued, as he forced Orius back.

Orius said nothing. His hammer slammed down against the monstrous shield, filling the air with a hollow sound. Sword and axe crashed together in a burst of sparks. ‘Then, it has always been thus, has it not?’ Anhur said, smashing his shield into Orius. ‘You pursue me to the very gates of death and beyond, Hound of Ytalan… and for what? Vengeance?’

‘Justice,’ Orius said. The word burst unbidden from his lips as he whirled his hammer about and brought it down, crumpling a portion of his foe’s shield. The grotesque face emblazoned there screamed in agony as the force of the blow knocked Anhur back a step. ‘Justice, Anhur. Justice for our people. Justice for those you abandoned.’

‘Those who abandoned me, you mean,’ Anhur snarled. He swept his axe out in a vicious arc, nearly gutting Orius. The two warriors broke apart. ‘They were weak – they lacked the stomach to do what was necessary, lacked the will to fight, the strength to win.’ He pointed his axe at Orius. ‘Even you, my friend. Even you, in the end.’

Orius shook his head. ‘You would simply have replaced one monster with another,’ he said, as the broken memories of the man he had been rose and spun in the storm of his mind. ‘Our people would have still been slaves.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘They would have been kings.’ He rushed forward, his axe hissing down. Orius charged to meet him, and they spun about, trading blows. ‘I will make good on my promise, Oros! I will make our people strong – Klaxus will reign supreme,’ Anhur roared.

‘Oros of Ytalan is dead,’ Orius said. Sword and hammer locked with axe, and for a moment, the two warriors leaned against one another. ‘He died, leading those you abandoned. I am Orius Adamantine, and I am the will of Sigmar made manifest.’

Anhur made a sound, deep in his throat. A laugh, Orius thought. There was nothing human in his opponent’s gaze… only the red light of war. Anhur shoved him back. He was strong, stronger than Orius remembered. It was as if the slaughter about them were feeding him. He tore his axe free of Orius’ weapons and chopped at him, more quickly than before. Orius was hard-pressed to block or avoid the strikes, and more than once, the black axe scored a mark on his war-plate. Each blow that landed rocked him back on his feet.

‘Sigmar is no better than the priest-kings we sought to cast down, Oros,’ Anhur said, as Orius backed away. ‘He is the lie-that-speaks, a pretender to a throne born of falsehood.’ He spun his axe lazily. ‘A delusional potentate. Where was Sigmar, when we fought to save our people, eh? Where was he when those who ruled in his name burned our folk in offering?’

Orius said nothing. He had no answer. When the great gates of Azyr had slammed shut, the faithful had been left bereft of Sigmar’s guidance. Some, like the Klaxian priest-kings, had perverted his word into something unrecognisable. Something more like the promises of the charnel gods. Sigmar had seemingly abandoned them, and in his place they raised up a monstrosity bearing the God-King’s face.

Around him, the battle surged to and fro. He caught sight of his warriors, locked in combat with skaven and Bloodbound. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, and the crackle of Moros’ lightning, and took heart. He met Anhur’s gaze and said, ‘And how is the beast you serve any different? You say you wish to raise your – our – folk up. And so you have. They rise, but in the form of smoke, from a thousand pyres.’

Anhur hesitated. ‘Not all of them,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

‘No, some still live. As meat for monsters,’ Orius said. ‘Klaxus is no more. You might be king, but your kingdom is a slaughterhouse.’

Anhur screamed and lunged forward, bashing his shield into Orius. They slammed back into a pillar. Orius’ hammer caught Anhur in the side, and as the warlord twisted away, the Lord-Celestant’s runeblade chopped into the rim of the daemonic shield. Orius tore the shield from his opponent’s arm with a wrench, and Anhur staggered back, off-balance. Before the Lord-Celestant could press his advantage, however, a hairy shape crashed into him.

The skaven was bigger than most, and bulky with muscle. Its halberd and mace crashed against him, and Orius was forced to defend himself. ‘Warpfang kill,’ the creature howled. ‘Die-die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’

The skaven moved like lightning, leaping from shattered pillar to toppled statue, driving Orius back through sheer, frenzied momentum. He slashed at the creature, and it flung itself over the blow. Its feet slammed down on his shoulder and then it was behind him. Even as he whirled, its mace crunched down against the side of his knee. The sigmarite held, but it hurt nonetheless. He backed away, weapons raised. Skaven closed in from all sides, racing towards him.

Over the heads of the scuttling vermin, he saw Anhur being pulled away from the battle by a burly warrior, and for a moment, he could hear the sibilant whine of the war-horns of the sulphur-knights as they advanced across the plaza, and Anhur’s gasping protests as Oros dragged him towards the Avenue of Ten Skulls and then a skaven blade dug for his heart and reality snapped back into focus.

Shaking his head, Orius slew the ratkin. But the rest closed in, urged on by the creature called Warpfang. All around him, he could see that the battle was turning against the Stormcasts. Worse, he was cut off from the rest of his chamber. He could hear Tarkus’ horn, and hoped the Knight-Heraldor could salvage something. If they could just hold the plaza until Moros or Gorgus arrived, the Adamantine might yet win the day. Even if I am not here to see it, he thought, as halberds and crude spears stabbed at him from all sides.

Then, as swiftly as a summer storm, lightning streaked down throughout the plaza, and winged shapes hurtled through the air. Celestial hammers spun from golden gauntlets to pulverise uncomprehending Bloodbound, as fresh warrior retinues marched into the plaza to join the fray. The Prosecutors banked and swept out, savaging the ranks of the foe from above. The skaven about him stared upwards, distracted by the sudden arrival of these new enemies. Orius lunged forward, and the skaven gave way as his hammer shattered skull after skull.

More crowded forward, but these too began to edge back as a winged shape dropped from the sky to join the Lord-Celestant. Kratus the Silent whipped his starblade out in a tight pattern, splintering the spears that were thrust at him. As the skaven scrambled backwards, Kratus raised his celestial beacon and flipped its aperture open. As the pure, cleansing light of the beacon blazed forth, those skaven not instantly incinerated retreated in disarray.

Orius saw Warpfang loping at the head of his fleeing horde, and felt a twinge of regret at failing to kill the creature. He shook the thought aside, and turned. The newly arrived Stormcasts had joined with his own warriors and were slowly but surely reforming the shield wall and driving the Bloodbound before them. Winged Prosecutors swooped low over the field, preventing the enemy from regrouping, even as Tarkus and his Decimators harried them back towards the Bridge of Smoke. He looked at the Knight-Heraldor. ‘As ever, Silent One, your arrival was most timely.’

‘And he did not come alone,’ Lord-Relictor Moros said, as he stepped over the smouldering bodies of the skaven. ‘I was moving to support Lord-Castellant Gorgus when the Silent One warned me of your peril. We came as fast as we could, but the enemy were great in number between here and there, and all of them moving this way.’

‘You are here now, and that is all that matters, my friend,’ Orius said. ‘Together, we can push them back. They thought to trap us – well, we’ll show them that Sigmar’s chosen cannot be beaten so easily as that.’

‘Fall back – across the bridge,’ Anhur roared. Those Bloodbound not actively engaged with the enemy or too far lost to the battle-madness flooded across the bridge at his command. The skaven were retreating as well, albeit away from the bridge, and away from that hideous radiance rising from the centre of the plaza.

Hroth shook his head. ‘The vermin are abandoning us,’ he growled. He hefted his axes. ‘I should take that treacherous rat’s tail for this.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘Let them be. They will divide the attention of our foe. They cannot pursue us while the skaven still lurk nearby, ready to take advantage of any distraction. Warpfang will flee, in time, but until then, he and his ratkin are still of use.’ He laughed and struck the rim of his recovered shield with the edge of his axe. ‘Besides, the brute saved me the embarrassment of dying at my moment of triumph. He’s earned his freedom.’

He turned and caught Hroth by the shoulder with his shield hand. ‘Get across the bridge, Shieldbreaker. I would have you at my side when the Black Rift opens. I need you to keep our warriors in check, to keep them from spending their lives uselessly, while I meet my destiny. We must hold the foe on the bridge until the last moment.’

‘Is it soon, then?’ Hroth growled eagerly. ‘After all this time… have we done it?’

‘Aye. We’ve done it. Can’t you taste it, deathbringer? The air is thick with the stink of blood, and Khorne himself watches over us,’ Anhur said, lifting his axe towards the sky. ‘Soon, this crater will drown in blood… and I will take the Hound of Ytalan’s head in celebration.’

Hroth was about to reply, when he saw Volundr forcing his way towards them, through the flow of retreating Bloodbound. The skullgrinder flung out his hand, as if in warning. Hroth heard the hiss of an axe cutting the air and whirled, shoving Anhur aside as he did so. As he turned, he saw Apademak charging towards him through the press of battle, his axe whirling.

‘Step aside, Shieldbreaker,’ the slaughterpriest roared. ‘Khorne demands the skull of his false servant, and I shall be the one to give it to him!’

Without thinking, Hroth lunged. He crashed into the slaughterpriest and sent him stumbling. Apademak spun, quicker than Hroth had thought possible, and his axe sang as it parted the deathbringer’s armour with ease. Pain thrummed through Hroth, and he bellowed in agony. Apademak glared at him, a snarl contorting his features. ‘Fool,’ he growled.

‘No,’ Anhur rumbled. Apademak turned, his eyes widening. Anhur’s axe flashed down, but the slaughterpriest was too quick. Before Apademak could strike back at the Scarlet Lord, however, Volundr interposed himself.

‘I warned you, Hungry One,’ Volundr said, as he stepped forward, swinging his anvil as if it weighed no more than a feather. ‘I told you that this was about more than battle. More than your hunger.’

‘Khorne favours me,’ Apademak roared. Bloody froth spilled down his lips and chin. He extended his axe towards Anhur. ‘You flee! You leave the field of battle, your tail between your legs!’ He sounded outraged and eager in equal measure.

‘War is not waged in only one way,’ Anhur said, readying himself. Apademak’s scarred head swung back and forth, as the slaughterpriest tried to keep both warriors in sight. ‘I do what I have to do, for victory.’

‘No more excuses,’ Apademak howled. ‘No more lies – die!’ He bounded forward, and his bloodreavers followed in his wake. Volundr was among them a moment later, his anvil whirring up and down to crush skulls and splinter bones. Hroth, on his feet, if only barely, fought alongside the skullgrinder, killing the berserk tribesmen with abandon. As he fought, he watched as Apademak hurled himself at Anhur.

Their axes met with a shriek of metal on stone. Apademak was swollen with fury, and he hunched over Anhur, muscles twitching, eyes bulging. Anhur met his mad gaze and slowly began to force the slaughterpriest back. Apademak gibbered with rage, and tried to stop Anhur’s advance, but to no avail. Despite his size, despite his god-gifted strength, Anhur continued to push him back step by step. Finally, the Scarlet Lord shoved Apademak back and away.

Hroth buried his axe in the skull of the last of the bloodreavers. As he tore it free, he saw the slaughterpriest lunge forward once more. Anhur interposed his shield and bashed his opponent in the face, shattering his teeth. Apademak staggered back and Anhur swiped his axe across the Hungry One’s shin. Bone cracked and Apademak howled. He staggered forward, and his axe crashed against the daemon-face embossed on Anhur’s shield. Brass teeth sank into the metal of the axe, and the face twisted with bestial glee as it tore the weapon from Apademak’s hand. Apademak made to rise, but Anhur’s axe swept down to meet him.

‘You were never my equal, Hungry One,’ Anhur said, as he wrenched his axe free of Apademak’s sternum. ‘But you fought well, for all that.’ The slaughterpriest sank to his knees, blood pouring down his chest to join that already spread across the ground. Apademak smiled weakly, as if in gratitude, and then toppled forward, to lay face down in the blood.

Hroth lurched forward and spat on the body. ‘Treacherous fool,’ he wheezed, glaring at the dead warrior. Apademak’s strike had split his armour and the flesh beneath, and he could feel his life’s blood pouring down his legs. A wave of weakness swept through him, and he stumbled. Volundr caught him.

‘He has paid, Shieldbreaker,’ Anhur said, softly, as he moved to help. ‘We have exacted a red toll from his cursed flesh. Here, give me your arm…’ He stooped, as if to loop Hroth’s arm over his shoulder. The deathbringer shoved away from them both.

‘What, and leave this moment to another? No,’ Hroth said. He turned towards the advancing Stormcast. ‘I have earned this, Scarlet Lord. Let it be my gift to you, on this day of days, in return for when you warded my broken body with your shield at Orrux. Khorne himself watches us, and I shall give him a mighty show, my lord – I shall be given a place in his warhost for what I do here today.’ He swept a hand out. ‘Go – Volundr, take him to his destiny. I shall hold them here, for as long as I am able.’

Anhur stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, he raised his axe in salute. ‘Die well, Shieldbreaker,’ he said, solemnly. He turned and strode onto the bridge, the skullgrinder following him. Hroth turned away from them, and cast his gaze over the advancing Stormcasts. They marched quickly, but with caution, striking down those remaining tribesmen or skaven who sought to bar their way. Hroth clashed his axes together. ‘Worthy foes indeed,’ he muttered.

He felt some disappointment that he would not live to see Anhur’s ascension. And that all that they had built – this warhorde, the alliances among mighty lords and champions – would all come tumbling down, thanks to Apademak’s treachery. Already, the chieftains leading their forces across the bridge would be eyeing one another, gauging their chances to ascend to the Gorechosen. With Anhur and Volundr distracted by the ritual, without him or Apademak or even Berkut to keep them in line, the warriors of the horde would tear each other apart, even as the enemy advanced.

That had always been the way of it. Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, only that it flowed. ‘And even the strongest blade can break,’ he muttered, as the warriors of the storm thundered down upon him. Watching them approach, he readied himself to do what he did best. Axe in either hand, the Shieldbreaker stood waiting, and when the first of the Stormcasts reached him, he struck them down. The air was filled with the scream of lightning, as golden bodies fell. The deathbringer bellowed with laughter as he fought, even when his axes shattered on sigmarite shields and he was forced to use his fists.

‘See me, you gods and savage spirits – see Hroth of Gjoll, Shieldbreaker, deathbringer!’ he roared, as he caught a blade in his hands and tore it from its owner’s grip. He booted the Stormcast in the gut and chopped down, splitting the warrior’s skull. The hilt of the blade burned in his hands, searing his flesh, but he ignored the pain. Swords pierced his armour. Hammers shattered his bones, but still he continued to fight. It was all he had known, all he wished to know. This moment was the best moment, the only moment that mattered.

The warhorde would splinter and fragment. Anhur would rise or fall. But none of that mattered. It was as if he had been waiting his entire life for this, since that day at Orrux. Since he’d felt the rumble of the duardin engines in his shattered bones. Since the day that the Scarlet Lord had stood between him and an unworthy death, ground beneath iron wheels. You saved me from death that day, Hroth thought, as he struck down his foes, but I go gladly now. A death for a death. That is the way of it, the way it must be. Khorne demands the skull of every man, and freely given.

Finally, gasping as a sword tore its way through him, he staggered, and threw his head back. His blood pooled on the stones. His strength fled, but still, he stood. He spread his arms as the final blow fell. ‘See me, for I fight in your name. I am Hroth Shieldbreaker – BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’

Orius stepped forward and crushed the dying warrior’s skull with a blow from his hammer, even as the brute howled out his death-song. The deathbringer’s armoured body sank to its knees and slowly toppled over with a clatter, leaving the way onto the bridge clear at last. The Chaos warrior had taken too many Stormcasts into the dark with him, and the air still throbbed with the roar of lightning. Orius could see Anhur’s forces retreating along the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke, moving slowly but steadily towards the Sulphur Citadel. Still running, Anhur, he thought.

‘Does he truly think to make a stand there?’ Moros said.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s trying to draw us onto the bridge for some other purpose,’ Orius said. The Bridge of Smoke was an expanse of wrong angles and unsettling undulations, rising and falling like the waters of the lake below. He could hear the screams of those Bloodbound too slow to react to its changes, as they were devoured or sent plummeting into the choking waters below. A thing of madness, like everything else in this city, he thought bitterly.

‘It won’t last much longer,’ Moros said, testing the bridge with his staff. ‘I can see the spells which hold it together coming unravelled as we speak. It’ll soon come apart, like everything else in this blasted city.’

‘It will hold long enough,’ Orius said. ‘We must cross, my friend. We are out of time, and the fate of our endeavour lies with us.’

‘Perhaps we should wait, at least for Gorgus. Strike as one chamber,’ Moros said. He looked up at the sky. ‘I know I spoke of haste earlier, but this skirts the edge of foolhardiness… Anhur is cunning. This could be a trap.’ He gestured to the southern edge of the plaza, where the last of the skaven had vanished. ‘Even now, the skaven might be regrouping for another assault. We could well be caught between them.’

‘Possibly.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘What do you remember, from before Moros?’ Orius asked, softly. ‘When you were not Lord-Relictor, but instead a mortal man.’

Moros hesitated. Then, he sighed and said, ‘I remember the way the women came and went through the piazzas, clad all in gilded finery, followed by their clockwork servants. I remember the way the wind used to howl past the watchtowers of shimmering silver, and the way the copper grasses rustled. I remember riders approaching…’ He shook his head. ‘Scattered moments, no more substantial than raindrops.’

‘I remember Anhur,’ Orius said. ‘I remember what he did, and what fate befell we who followed him. I will not allow him to escape, Moros. This ends today. Here, in this place where it should have ended so many years ago. It may be foolhardy, but something tells me that we must chance it. We must. Or else all has been for nothing.’ He tightened his grip on the haft of his hammer and stepped onto the rippling surface of the bridge.

As he did so, a growl of thunder echoed out over the city. Orius looked up. The sky behind the clouds had taken on a strange hue, like steel streaked with blood, and for a moment, he thought he saw something vast and misshapen trying to break through the barrier of the storm. Thunder rumbled, but it was no longer a hammer stroke. Instead it was the bay of some monstrous hound.

All around the Stormcasts, half-formed insubstantial daemons began to writhe, their mouths open in soundless shrieks, agitated by something. Lightning the colour of molten brass split the sky, like the downward stroke of some colossal sword upon the body of a fallen foe, and the streets of Uryx trembled, as if in pain. Orius could almost hear the reverberation of the imagined blade, and worse besides… the booming footfalls of its wielder.

The daemons could hear it as well. They reared, in their chains of cooling meat and spilled blood, and groped towards the sky as if in supplication. With a second peal of malignant thunder, the rain turned hot and it hissed sickeningly where it struck the sigmarite war-plate of the Stormcast host. ‘Something presses against the threshold, Orius,’ Moros said, almost shouting to be heard over the pounding rain. ‘The storm itself sickens.’

‘Then let us cure it. Call the lightning, Lord-Relictor – remind whatever horror approaches of the power of Sigmar!’ Orius growled.

Moros struck the ground with his staff, and bellowed the ancient words of his battle-hymn. The air took on the tang of new-forged steel, as azure lightning thrummed down, striking the plaza again and again, reducing the Bloodbound dead, and the daemons clinging to them, to crackling pyres. The lightning hammered down again and again, reducing every corpse to ashes and setting nearby buildings ablaze. It crawled across the armour and weaponry of the Stormcasts, driving all weariness and doubt from them.

Orius studied the crackling haze that crawled along the length of his runeblade. He caught sight of his reflection in the polished blade – the face of Sigmar, wrought in unblemished sigmarite. He turned. ‘The foe believe that Klaxus is theirs, by right of conquest and slaughter,’ he said, trusting his voice to carry to every living ear in the plaza. ‘They believe that they can withstand the Adamantine, where all others have failed. They think to break us.’

He raised his runeblade and hammer, bringing them together with a resounding crash. Lightning streaked down, striking the sulphur lake and stirring the acidic waters, and a bolt struck his crossed weapons. It crawled down his arms and across his armour, only fading when he wrenched his weapons apart.

‘They are wrong,’ he roared. ‘We shall not break.’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK!’ his chamber bellowed, in reply.

Orius nodded in satisfaction, and extended his runeblade towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘Forward Adamantine, for Sigmar! For Azyr, and the Realm Celestial!’

CHAPTER SEVEN

To Cross the Bridge of Smoke

Kratus the Silent swooped upwards through the smoky air, high over the crater-city of Uryx, his blazing wings cutting through the red rain. His starblade drawn, the Knight-Azyros twisted and rolled, turning in the air so that his keen gaze fell upon the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge had been crafted by sorcery; formed by the priest-kings of Klaxus from the raw essence of sulphur rising in clouds and geysers from the eternally boiling lake below. Now, like the rest of Uryx, it was beginning to crumble. The corrupt magics which had held it together were slowly unravelling, causing the bridge to writhe as if in agony.

Along the bridge’s rippling span, the golden-armoured Stormcasts of the Adamantine clashed for a third time in as many hours with the remnants of those Bloodbound forces which had been driven from the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. But more enemies were flooding into the plaza behind the advancing Stormcasts even as Kratus wheeled through the air above. Skaven, beastmen and bloodreavers were streaming through the crumbling streets of Uryx like ants from a disturbed hill, all converging on the central plaza before the bridge. Every foe yet living in the crater-city and not already engaged with the Stormcasts was hurrying to join this battle.

Kratus wheeled overhead, and directed the Prosecutor retinues flying nearby to head off the newcomers. The winged warriors swooped away, and Kratus dove low, over the heads of those Stormcasts still occupying the plaza. Lord-Castellant Gorgus raised his halberd in greeting as Kratus drew close.

‘What news, Silent One?’ the Lord-Castellant called as he approached, accompanied by his bodyguard of Protectors.

The Knight-Azyros dropped onto a broken pillar. All around him, Stormcasts laboured to construct bulwarks from broken statues and shattered stones, or else toppled those few remaining Khornate icons and trophy-poles. The Lord-Castellant’s forces had arrived just as the main body of the chamber moved onto the Bridge of Smoke. Since that time, the Adamantine advance had stalled at the centre of the bridge as the ferocity of the Bloodbound defenders and the unnatural proportions of the structure acted against the Stormcasts. Now the crimson gloom of the day was giving way to the dark of night, and the rain mingled with the blood on the ground, forming a strange mire.

Kratus gestured sharply in response to Gorgus’ question. Gorgus nodded. ‘Aye, my scouts reported as much. Closer than I thought, though.’ The Lord-Castellant turned and squinted. ‘Closer than either of us thought – look.’ He gestured with his halberd. Kratus turned and saw skaven advancing into the plaza from the west, despite the best efforts of his Prosecutors to deter them. The ratkin squirmed through barriers and burst from beneath the stones of the plaza, rising from hidden tunnels. Liberators moved to meet them, shields locked.

‘They’re testing our defences,’ Gorgus said. He stroked the narrow skull of his Gryph-hound as he spoke, and the animal chirruped softly. ‘Fifth time since I arrived. Nothing serious, but they’re an effective distraction – we can’t move out of the plaza and onto the bridge to support the Lord-Celestant while they’re gnawing at our flanks. Not committed enough to warrant digging them out, but not weak enough to ignore. If you see a hundred of them, there’s sure to be a thousand who see you.’

Kratus nodded, knowing that Gorgus spoke the truth. He looked around warily, imagining beady red gazes in every shadow and behind every pillar or fallen statue. The skaven were more numerous than the Bloodbound. Indeed, their numbers were seemingly limitless – he had seen them for himself as they poured out of the jungles and outer streets of Uryx in great, squealing hordes. Where they came from, and where they went when they inevitably retreated, was still a mystery.

He gestured and Gorgus shook his head. ‘No. No sign of reinforcements yet. We’ve heard from the other chambers though. The Stormforged have taken the citadel of Ytalan, at least, and the Wrathsworn are still burning a path through the crawling jungles of Vaxtl. The Beast-Bane have cleared the western slope, but they’re finding it a hard slog through what’s left of the Raxulian Dukedoms.’ Gorgus looked up. ‘And Sigmar holds the rest of the chambers in reserve, I suspect.’

Kratus motioned sharply and Gorgus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aye, or it could be because he believes we need no help. You may have the right of it, Silent One. I– Down!’ The Lord-Castellant dragged Kratus aside as something black whizzed through the space his head had occupied.

The Knight-Azyros whirled about. His starblade sliced through the hairy form of a skaven assassin as the beast leapt at him. More of the creatures, clad in soot-blackened rags and cloaks, bounded out of the shadows, gleaming blades clutched in their paws. And not just assassins – armoured, bulky stormvermin bearing crude polearms and iron-bound shields loped towards them, screeching triumphantly.

At their head came their verminous warlord, brandishing a mace and a chopped-down halberd. Kratus recognised it instantly from their abortive encounter at the Gnawing Gate. The red-armoured creature charged towards Kratus with a snarl.

‘This time you die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’ the skaven howled as it lashed out at him. Kratus leapt upwards, easily avoiding the bite of the halberd. Warpfang twisted away from his riposte, and swatted at him with its mace. The creature was quicker than most of its kind, Kratus realised, not to mention a better fighter. They spun and fought, trading blows that never quite connected as Gorgus led his Protectors against the rest of the skaven.

As Kratus parried a blow from Warpfang’s halberd, he saw Gorgus sweep three skaven off their feet with a blow from his own halberd. The Lord-Castellant turned and swatted a leaping assassin from the air with his free hand. His Gryph-hound caught another by the back of the neck and shook it viciously, snapping the squealing creature’s spine. Warpfang’s mace glanced off the crest of Kratus’ helm, and he cursed himself for losing focus.

The Knight-Azyros drove the skaven warlord back with a flurry of blows. But as he pursued it, the world suddenly shook and somewhere, a bell tolled. Not in the city, for Uryx had no bells or bell-towers. Nor did it sound from anywhere within Klaxus or the kingdoms of the crater. It was an unnatural sound, some atavistic shred of Kratus whispered, echoing up from the dark places between worlds. It was not like the mournful tolling of the Bell of Lamentation in high Sigmaron, but instead a grisly, ponderous knell, like the cracking of a hundred-thousand bones on night-black altars. It was the ringing of uncountable axes against innumerable shields, the agonised groan of dying kingdoms and burning empires.

As the echoes faded, the bell tolled again, drowning out even the clangour of battle. As one, the remaining skaven began to slink away. Kratus turned to find the warlord watching him. It raised its mace in a mocking salute, and cackled wildly. Its green fang shone eerily as it backed away from him, into the shadows it had emerged from.

‘Too slow, lightning-rider,’ it hissed. ‘Too stupid. But fun. Maybe Warpfang lets you live, yes-yes? Fight again, yes-yes? Or maybe not.’ Then, with a last mocking titter, it vanished, and the bell continued to toll.

The skaven messenger squealed as the Scarlet Lord caught it by the throat. Anhur lifted the wriggling ratman off its feet and snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. Its message had not totally displeased him, but the urge had been unbearable. Pain hummed against the base of his skull like the flutter of moth-wings. His armour creaked when he moved, its buckles and clasps straining to contain the thing he was becoming.

He stood in the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, with his remaining Gorechosen and his favoured blood warriors. The Scarlet Axes waited in silence for his orders. The only sign of their impatience was the occasional scrape of an axe across a chest-plate, or a low growl. The chamber was filled with a harsh glow, like the reflected light of a hundred fires. It emanated from the spinning facets of obsidian which formed the hell-engine known as the Black Rift, and had been growing steadily brighter since his return.

Anhur stared up at the spinning facets of obsidian. He could not tell where one ended and another began now. A black mandala whirled in their place, drawing in light and heat. Phantom shapes fought and clawed free of that howling void, bounding into solidity one after the next. He could feel the power of it soaking into him, changing him.

But into what? His hand fell to the pommel of his sword. How often had he wielded that sword in defence of Klaxus? And I defend it still, he thought, but the notion rang hollow. He shook himself and looked at Pazak and Volundr. The sorcerer and the skullgrinder met his gaze steadily. ‘The skaven intend to retreat into Uryx. And the enemy crosses the Bridge of Smoke,’ he said, as he dropped the still-twitching body of the ratman to join the heaped corpses of the sacrifices which lay scattered about. ‘I must go. I must return to the battle.’

Warpfang would be making his last sally now, but it was nothing more than a distraction. The skaven knew that the end was approaching, and they had little wish to see things play out to their inevitable conclusion, glorious as it was. The canny little warlord intended to fight his way out of the crater-city. He would retreat into the tunnels and caverns of the crater rim, before returning to the Hellwarrens of the Ferruslands with his slaves and plunder. Anhur almost wished him well. The creature had held up his end of the bargain, at the very least. More than I can say for some of my other champions.

The loss of the Shieldbreaker… hurt. He had been counting on Hroth to maintain discipline amongst those forces gathered in the citadel and on the Bridge of Smoke. But now that task had fallen to lesser chieftains. Already, the greatest of his remaining champions were allowing themselves to become distracted by the desire to replace the fallen members of his Gorechosen. Mighty paragons of violence though they were, they lacked the sense to see that there were more important matters to settle first.

Soon enough, however, it wouldn’t matter. The Stormcasts sought to cross the Bridge of Smoke. His remaining forces had stymied them thus far, but they could not do so forever. His perception had narrowed to a sharp point, like the tip of a blade, and he could see only what lay ahead. There was no more time for strategy or delay, only the crush of bodies and strength matched against strength. Something tensed within him, and he grunted in pain.

He could hear the roar of battle echoing through the chamber. Every fibre of his being – of the horror growing within him – longed to hurl himself into the fray, and deal death until nothing living remained in the city. To slay and slay until the Tephra Crater overflowed with blood, and the Felstone Plains drowned in an ocean of red.

‘Warpfang has done what he could, Anhur,’ Pazak said. ‘He has delayed them long enough, in any event. Let your chieftains earn their keep. They can hold the bridge for a few moments without you. Let the strong rise and the weak fall, as the gods will it.’ He shook his head. ‘If you get yourself killed now – after everything we have done… then what was it all for?’

‘Is that concern I hear in your voice, sorcerer? Is the infamous solicitude of Grandfather Nurgle welling up in you, Pazak?’ Anhur said, as he retrieved his shield from the dangling chain he had hooked it to. The broad, triangular shield was made of beaten brass and crudely shaped iron. The monstrous face embossed on its surface rolled its eyes blindly in their metal sockets as he slid it onto his arm. ‘Do you fear for me?’

‘No,’ Pazak said. ‘I fear for me, if you fall. You might have spared me, but whoever steps into your place may not be so considerate, Anhur. I would not die here, in service to another’s plans.’ His hand fell to the hilt of the curved pox-blade sheathed on his hip. ‘And I would rather not see my efforts go to waste…’

Anhur laughed. ‘Would you rather die now, then?’

‘No, oh most puissant Scarlet Lord. Death would not agree with me, I fear,’ Pazak said. He looked up, at the Black Rift. ‘I have fed this place the blood of eight hundred Klaxians, as the ancient rites decreed, and the membrane between realms frays… It is opening, Anhur. I can feel it in my marrow. Can’t you feel it? Or has your burgeoning apotheosis rendered your wits as dull as those of your blood-drunk followers?’ The sorcerer looked at him. ‘Why do you think I summoned you from the field?’

‘He is right, Anhur. Do you see that light? It is the glow of Khorne’s forges,’ Volundr rumbled, glaring at Pazak as he spoke. The skullgrinder dropped a heavy hand on the Scarlet Lord’s shoulder. ‘Do you hear the cries of his children? Look about you… Your hour has come at last, my brother. There is no need to fear that battle will pass you by, for here is the end of all such weaknesses and worries.’ The war-smith swept out his other hand, indicating the daemons which squirmed and strained at the air.

Anhur looked around. As the light of the rift fell upon them, red shapes tore their way free of the amniotic blood layering the floors and walls. The noise of their birth filled his head – it was the sound of iron splitting flesh, and of stretching wounds which wept raw, red tears. He had thought that the sounds were only in his head. ‘Then… it’s done?’ he croaked.

‘It is done. We have won,’ Volundr said. ‘You have won, Anhur!’

Anhur clutched at his skull as the pressure swelled… He could hear the tread of some far-off colossus, drawing ever closer. He could hear the howls of daemons and those souls lost to the pull of Khorne’s cosmic madness. Brazen horns brayed in the deeps and drums made from the flesh of the damned were pounded with cracked femurs. The world shook, as something awful marched out of the void and into the light of the world.

‘Lo, the Black Rift opens,’ Pazak howled, as the air pulsed with a foul light. It was a light born not of the clean cosmos, but instead the light of a daemon star. The cruel hell-light which flickered arhythmically in the dreadful void between the kingdoms of the damned. Anhur raised his hand to shield his eyes, and was momentarily deafened as the facets of obsidian scattered and then came together with a thunderous crash. They slammed together so hard he feared that they would shatter, but instead, somehow, they slid into one another, combining in an impossible shape with eights facets and eight edges at once.

A pulse of crimson light rippled outwards from the Black Rift, spreading through the chamber and passing through its walls. And then, in the silence which followed, a bell tolled. The sound grew louder and louder, as if it raced across some inconceivable distance. The echo of its knell shook the Scarlet Lord to his marrow, and he felt something within him scream in triumph.

‘He comes,’ Volundr roared. ‘The Broken One comes!’

Eight times, the unseen bell tolled. Eight times the great noise rolled forth to shake the air and the earth. Anhur fought to keep his feet, even as his warriors were knocked sprawling. Eight times the echo of that barbaric knell rang out across the Tephra Crater and its embattled kingdoms. And as the last echo faded, a hand, as wide across as Anhur himself, and knotted with inhuman muscle, stretched out from within the swirling facets of obsidian.

The stink of vast forges, of molten brass and spoilt blood, flooded the chamber as the monstrous shape of Skul’rath the Broken, Skul’rath of the Fifth Host, dragged himself bodily into the world. The chamber shuddered as the bloodthirster’s brazen hoof slammed down, cracking the stones of the floor.

‘Rejoice, for I am come!’ the daemon roared. ‘Rejoice, for Klaxus dies today!’

As the last echo of that measureless tolling faded, the silence which had fallen across the Bridge of Smoke broke. The Bloodbound charged towards the Stormcast shield wall again, scrambling across the undulating surface of the bridge in an undisciplined mass. Chieftains and deathbringers sought to outdo one another as if the battle were nothing more than a contest of skill, urging their followers on to greater speed.

The yellow substance of the bridge spread and contracted like smoke on the wind as they raced towards the enemy. With little warning it would expand suddenly like a fog bank to subsume whole groups of tribesmen and blood warriors into its length. Their bodies floated in the solid-smoke gullet of the bridge, slowly dissolving or occasionally sliding out to tumble into the lake below. Some few managed to cut themselves free to stagger on, reeking of sulphur.

The Stormcasts, too, were forced to anticipate and ward themselves against the unpredictable nature of the battlefield. More than once, their shield wall had to compensate for its contractions with grim efficiency, even as unlucky golden-armoured warriors were dragged into the semi-opaque substance of the bridge. Yet still they pressed forward, driving the Bloodbound back with relentless precision. The only respite for either side came when the contortions of the bridge momentarily separated them, or else made combat all but impossible – an event which was becoming more common as the magics which held the bridge together faded.

‘Lock shields,’ Lord-Celestant Orius snarled. ‘Hold them, Adamantine, hold them and push them back – for Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor, and signal the Judicators to concentrate their fire on the left flank. We must break them, and quickly. Moros!’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said, as he directed a retinue of Retributors forward to deal with any Bloodbound who managed to get past the ragged shield wall. ‘Speak and it shall be done.’

‘That sound… like a bell,’ Orius began. As the Judicators shifted their fire in response to Tarkus’ winding signal, the left flank of the Bloodbound began to disintegrate. Boltstorm crossbows loosed volley after volley of crackling shafts of energy which reduced bloodreaver and blood warrior alike to ruins of flesh and blackened armour.

Moros nodded wearily. ‘Whatever our foe came to Klaxus for has begun, I fear.’ He gestured with his warhammer. ‘Have you noticed that all of the daemons are gone? As if something called them away.’

Orius looked around. The Lord-Relictor was right; the phantasmal daemons which had shadowed the Adamantine since they’d entered Uryx were nowhere to be seen. ‘That was a summoning knell, wasn’t it?’ he asked, feeling a chill. He had faced daemons before, in the Furnace Lands and in the degraded ruins of Cinder, but it was never an easy battle – they were unnatural things, predatory shadows of un-reality which fought and killed with a glee that outstripped even the berserk excitement of the Bloodbound.

The Lord-Relictor nodded. ‘I can hear it, on the wind. Like a million running feet, drawing ever closer. They are lean and a-thirst, and they are coming this way.’

Orius shook his head. ‘Let them come. We will break them, as we break their mortal followers. Summon a rain, Moros. Wash the fatigue from our minds and limbs,’ he said. ‘I will not be stalled again – we must push them all the way back to the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, preferably before this bridge vanishes like a morning mist.’ He raised his hammer, signalling for the nearby Decimator retinues to move forward. ‘We will carve them piecemeal if we must.’

He turned his attention back to the left flank. Rank after rank of Bloodbound fell to the volleys of the Judicators, and, for a moment, the bulk of their host shifted away from the lethal rain. And that moment was all the Stormcasts needed. ‘Left rampart – forward,’ Orius said. The left of the shield wall began to march forward, swinging to the right in order to contain the right flank of the enemy. As they pushed the dazed tribesmen back, the Decimators surged out to join the melee. The axemen charged into the mass of Bloodbound warriors seeking to fill the gap left by their fellows. Soon, blood slopped across the bridge from side to side as the Decimators laid about them in well-trained harmony.

‘Tarkus – call them back,’ Orius said, as the pressure on the shield wall slackened. Behind him, Moros began to chant softly. As the Knight-Heraldor blew his horn, Orius lifted his runeblade. ‘Shield wall – advance and hold.’ The Liberators strode forward into the gap created by the Decimators, shields still locked rim-to-rim as the steadily falling rain soothed aching muscles and sharpened fatigued senses. Warblades and warhammers finished off the wounded as the Stormcasts advanced over a carpet of the dead and dying.

A shout caught Orius’ attention and he turned to see Gorgus hurrying towards him, shadowed from above by Kratus and his Prosecutors, as well as several retinues of Stormcasts, who moved immediately to add their strength to the shield wall.

‘Did you hear that?’ the Lord-Castellant growled, as he joined Orius. ‘Whatever it was, it sent the skaven scuttling for their filthy warrens. The plaza is secured.’

‘I heard. And good. I fear we’ll need solid ground to fight on, before the end of this,’ Orius said. ‘Something has happened. Anhur came to Klaxus for a purpose, and I fear he has achieved it.’ The rain slackened momentarily, before redoubling in intensity. Moros grunted in disgust and Orius saw that the rain was leaving red streaks on the Lord-Relictor’s armour.

‘It’s become blood,’ Moros said, harshly. Orius turned towards the Sulphur Citadel, and saw that the last bastion of the priest-kings of Klaxus was glowing with an infernal light. Every stone and rampart, every terrace and pillar, was outlined in an eerie haze which stung his eyes. The air stank, and not just from the boiling sulphurous lake below.

As he watched, a cloud of something spewed from the dome at the citadel’s summit, rising and spreading like oil on water. The cloud became a wave which flowed endlessly from the uppermost point of the Sulphur Citadel to fill the skies and cast a pall of darkness over the two armies locked in battle below.

‘What in the name of Sigmar is that?’ Tarkus said, pointing at the spreading cloud with his sword. ‘Some new sorcery?’

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not sorcery. It is death – the death of Klaxus, and of us, unless we raise and lock shields, Adamantine!’ he roared as the cloud stretched down towards them. Swiftly, the Stormcasts did as he commanded, until the shield wall resembled a curved rampart of solid sigmarite. The cloud sped down towards them, splitting, revealing itself to be a wave of hundreds of screaming bloodletters, tumbling through the rain-soaked air.

The wave of daemons slammed into the shield wall, hacking and clawing at the Liberators in animal fury. Judicators began to fire, picking off the red-skinned monstrosities as they tried to climb over the uppermost line of shields, and Retributors moved to crush any who made it over. Decimators wielded their axes in whirling arcs as daemons swarmed over the sides of the bridge and sought to envelop the Stormcasts.

Through the gaps in the shield wall, Orius could see more daemons racing across the bridge towards them, carving a bloody path through the ranks of the Bloodbound. Though the daemons struck them down, some Bloodbound sought to follow them, bellowing out the name of their fell-handed god in lunatic joy. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ Orius shouted. ‘Take not a single step back. We shall not break.’

Everywhere the Lord-Celestant looked, a daemonic face leered at him; rising over the side of the bridge, dropping from the sky, clambering over the raised shields of his Liberators. For every daemon that was struck down by blessed sigmarite, three more pushed and fought to take its place. He parried a wailing blade and rammed his hammer between the gaping jaws of a bloodletter, shattering its fangs. His runeblade pierced its chest a moment later.

Tearing his blade free from its dissolving carcass, he heard the scream of lightning. He saw a Liberator fall back, already evaporating, a black blade sunk hilt-deep in his chest. A Judicator stumbled, and bloodletters hacked him down. He heard a roar, and saw a Retributor struggling against a trio of daemons, even as the bridge suddenly enveloped them. Golden war-plate and daemonic flesh both were reduced to nothing in mere moments. Elsewhere, bloodletters chopped at the bridge itself, releasing a steaming flood of fiery sulphur to splash at the legs and shields of the Liberators who strove to hold them back.

The members of Orius’ auxiliary command were equally hard-pressed. As he opened a daemon’s belly with his sword, releasing a spew of super-heated ichor, he saw Gorgus whirling his halberd in a complicated pattern, blocking dozens of blows that might otherwise have claimed his life. Tarkus parried a daemon-blade and drove his head into a bloodletter’s face, staggering it long enough to whip his broadsword across its throat.

‘We must stop them at their source,’ Moros said, as he crushed a bloodletter’s distended skull with a blow from his hammer. ‘Else they will overwhelm us, and any who come after us.’ He looked at Orius. ‘We must reach the Sulphur Citadel, and we must do it now!’

‘Go,’ Gorgus said. The Lord-Castellant swept his halberd out and bisected a trio of bloodreavers. ‘I am the wall, I shall hold them back. Leave it with me, Orius – go, and see this thing ended.’ He thrust the haft of his weapon into a bloodletter’s belly, and sent it staggering over the edge of the bridge. ‘I shall hold the line here. I am Adamantine, and I shall not break, just because the red tide laps at my shins.’

Orius nodded. Gorgus was right. And he had no time to argue. ‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ he said, as he turned back to Moros. ‘Can you clear us a path, Lord-Relictor?’

‘I will do better than that, Lord-Celestant. I shall make us one,’ Moros growled. He raised his staff in both hands, extending it far above his head. ‘The spells which bind this bridge are frayed and weak and therefore easy enough to bend to our purposes.’ Lightning carved a crooked trail through the daemon-haunted sky to strike the reliquary with a snarl. The Lord-Relictor shone with a terrible light, brighter than any fire. With a great cry, he slammed the ferrule of his staff down, and the bridge thrashed as if in torment.

His hands sprang from the staff as if burnt, and it remained upright like a spear rammed into a leviathan’s back. Lightning crawled down its length, stretching to shroud his hands even as he spread them out, his palms held parallel to the bridge. Lightning flowed down, tearing ragged holes in the ever-shifting surface of the bridge. Moros wrenched his hands up, and the strands of crackling lightning pulled taut, like shimmering chains, and the Bridge of Smoke… cracked.

The sound reverberated along the length of the mystical structure, vibrating up through the forms of every combatant, mortal and daemon alike. Moros, the chains of lightning wrapped about his forearms and hands, hauled back, widening the crack which spread from the point where his staff touched. It spread up the length of the bridge and daemons fell howling into the gap as the bridge writhed in seeming pain.

Moros caught hold of his staff once more, and twisted it to one side, like a labourer trying to split a stone. With a vast hiss, the sliver of the Bridge of Smoke broke away from the bulk of the bridge. Sulphur fumes rose thick into the air, and the bridge shuddered along its length as the sliver slid sideways, creating a bifurcated path. ‘We must hurry, Orius – I cannot control it for long. The magics are too unpredictable, and my strength is already fading,’ Moros called. He held tight to his staff, at the point of the sliver, shoulders tensed and legs braced.

‘Well, that’s one way of doing it,’ Tarkus said, with a laugh. He blew his horn, signalling for nearby retinues of Liberators and Retributors to break away from the battle. The Stormcasts hurried towards Moros’ new path as quickly as they could, smashing through any daemons who sought to bar their way. Once they reached the sliver, they joined the two retinues of Protectors who stood ready to shield them. Kratus and his Prosecutors hovered nearby, ready to accompany them. Orius moved to join them, when the air was suddenly split by the sound of great wings and a shadow fell over the Bridge of Smoke. He looked up.

Something massive fell through the air like a black comet, and when it struck, the Bridge of Smoke momentarily deformed as both Stormcasts and their foes were knocked sprawling. Yellow steam burst in gouts from the suppurating crater as the clamour of battle faded. All eyes were on the crater as a huge shape, horned and winged, rose from within the pall of smoke. Clad in brass and black iron, the bloodthirster set one steaming hoof on the bridge and uncoiled a barbed lash from about its wide torso. In its other claw it held an axe whose curved blade was made from the melted and merged bones of the slain.

Its dog-like muzzle peeled back from brass-capped fangs, and eyes like lit furnaces fixed on the Stormcasts as they regrouped. ‘At last,’ the creature rumbled. ‘At long last, I shall be avenged.’ The daemon rose from the crater and stood between the two armies. It extended its axe towards the Stormcasts.

‘I am Skul’rath. I claim right of challenge and I shall slay any who gainsay me,’ the greater daemon roared, snapping its barbed lash at those Bloodbound and daemons who drew too close. ‘I am Skul’rath of the Fifth Host and I demand a champion – a death for a death, whelps of Azyr. I am Skul’rath. Face me,’ the bloodthirster bellowed, striking the bridge with its axe. ‘Face the Child of Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun. Face he who broke the Morghast Host at the Battle of Screaming Skulls. Face Skul’rath, Prince of Chains. Face me, so that I might be avenged!’

Orius made to step forward, but Tarkus caught his arm. ‘No, Lord-Celestant. You and Moros go. This is my task. I am Knight-Heraldor, and I was forged for this.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Go, my lord. And Sigmar watch over you.’

‘You as well, Knight-Heraldor,’ Orius said, as Tarkus strode through the ranks of the slowly recovering shield wall towards the daemon. He looked at Gorgus. ‘Gorgus–’

‘Only with my death shall the daemon-tide pass into Klaxus,’ the Lord-Castellant said, setting his halberd. ‘And I have no plans to die today. Go and do what must be done. Tarkus and I shall hold their attention, while we can.’

Orius nodded and joined Moros on the sliver of bridge. ‘Go, Moros. Take us to the citadel before they realise what we’re about. More daemons fill the bridge with every moment that passes, and soon they shall flood into the city. If we cannot stop them…’

‘We will,’ Moros said. ‘Hold on.’ The chains of lightning which snapped and snarled about his arms grew even more frenzied. Then, with a sibilant groan, the sliver of bridge suddenly began to rear up like a serpent readying itself to strike. Daemons raced towards them along the edges of the bridge, screeching and snarling. Kratus and his Prosecutors dealt with a number of them, hammers singing out, but some made it past the winged warriors. As he readied himself to face them, Orius saw that Tarkus had reached Skul’rath.

‘You call yourself the Prince of Chains, but I know no creature by that name,’ Tarkus called out, his voice echoing loudly. ‘I know only Skul’rath the Tamed. Skul’rath the Broken.’ The Knight-Heraldor extended his blade towards the bloodthirster. ‘I know only the beast who was cast down by the warriors of our Stormhost, and fled the light of the Realm Celestial the day the first Stormcasts set foot in the Mortal Realms. I am Tarkus, Broken One, and I shall remind you of your place.’

The bloodthirster threw back its dog-like head and roared. It charged forward, shaking the bridge with every step. Its barbed lash snapped out, scraping across Tarkus’ armour as the Knight-Heraldor moved to meet his foe. Orius lost sight of them as a bloodletter hurled itself towards him, its blade held low. More daemons bounded up the curved shape of the sliver as it peeled itself fully from the bridge and rose ever higher.

He heard the whistle-crack of the Prosecutors’ wings as they swooped about the rising sliver, driving the daemons back. He saw Kratus defending Moros, his starblade whipping out in a wide arc to send red-scaled killers tumbling to the waters below. A Prosecutor hurtled by, his hammer smashing a daemon from the air as he swooped past Orius.

Orius traded blows with a bloodletter, until one of his Protectors managed to slide the blade of his stormstrike glaive beneath the creature’s guard and pierce whatever passed for its heart. The other Protectors whirled their glaives, weaving shimmering patterns of celestial energy which no daemon-blade could breach, defending those who clustered on the rising tendril of mystically solidified sulphur. The remaining daemons quickly found that they were unable to breach the web of glaives, and those that didn’t fall to the Protectors were quickly dispatched by the hammers of the Prosecutors.

The pseudopod of sulphur rose up alongside the bridge and began to stretch forward, expanding at Moros’ muttered command. ‘Hold fast,’ Orius said. At his words, the Stormcasts hunched forward, crouching as the sliver began to extend over the bridge, towards the Sulphur Citadel. He turned as they began to move, and saw Tarkus catch the bloodthirster’s axe on his broadsword. Do not break, brother, he thought.

The force of the blow drove the Knight-Heraldor to one knee. The daemon loomed over him. ‘I am Skul’rath and I am your doom, dog of Sigmar,’ the bloodthirster growled, its voice echoing across the bridge. ‘But rejoice, for I am a mighty doom indeed, and your skull shall be etched with the story of your end by Khorne’s own scribes.’

Tarkus shoved the axe back in a shower of sparks and flung himself aside with desperate strength, narrowly avoiding the blade as it chopped down into the surface of the bridge. Sulphur spewed upwards and the bloodthirster reared back with a roar of surprise. Tarkus clambered to his feet and lashed out at the daemon’s back. Skul’rath howled as the Knight-Heraldor’s blade tore through one massive wing, crippling the daemon.

The bloodthirster twisted, snapping its lash at its opponent. Tarkus staggered as the barbs tore at his armour. Orius tensed. No, he thought. The bloodthirster loomed over the Stormcast, and hacked at him with its axe. Tarkus blocked the deadly axe again and again, but every time with less speed. He was tiring, Orius knew. Tarkus was among the best of their Stormhost, but even he was no match for a creature like Skul’rath. Not alone.

The axe sped down and at last, the broadsword parted before its merciless descent. The cruel edge smashed into Tarkus’ chest and knocked him flat, and Orius’ heart sank. The bloodthirster wrenched its weapon free of the dying Stormcast’s torso and chopped down again and again, causing the bridge to shudder with every blow. Lightning exploded upwards, enveloping the beast and causing it to scream in agony. It staggered, smoke rising from its scorched hide. With a convulsive flap of its charred wings it shredded the smoke and reared back to let loose a roar of victory that echoed upwards.

As the echo faded, the Bloodbound lurched forward as one, howling in triumph. The daemons flowed alongside them as they raced towards the newly reformed Stormcast shield wall. Gorgus had not been idle while Tarkus fought his doomed duel. Orius’ grip on his weapons tightened as he fought the urge to hurl himself from the bridge onto the bellowing greater daemon below, even as he lost sight of it.

Instead, he looked at Moros. ‘Can we not go faster? Even Gorgus cannot long resist such a creature. We must seal whatever portal those creatures are emanating from before he is overwhelmed.’

‘We will not reach the citadel in time, Lord-Celestant, even like this – the very air is resisting us,’ Moros said, as the length of sulphuric matter trembled and shook as it plunged towards the citadel. It was moving swiftly now, and the air shrieked past. But even as it moved, it was losing integrity, melting back into the poisonous cloud it had been wrought from. The Stormcasts crouched on its surface crowded more closely together.

Orius cursed and looked up at his Knight-Azyros. ‘Kratus… do what you can,’ he called. ‘Reduce it to rubble if you must, but seal that rift.’ Kratus lifted his starblade in salute and, with a single crackling flap of his wings, plunged down towards the Sulphur Citadel. The Prosecutors followed him, summoning their celestial hammers as they dived on gleaming wings, like the wrath of Sigmar made manifest.

‘Oros is here,’ Anhur said. Daemons streamed past him and his warriors, racing towards the clamour of battle. They crawled jerkily across the walls or loped across the floors, moving between eye-blinks. He raised his axe. ‘The enemy is on our doorstep, despite everything,’ he said. It seemed that even Skul’rath could not keep the Hound of Ytalan from his throat.

The thought was a pleasant one, for all that it threatened everything he had worked for, these many centuries. Ah, my friend, here you are again, at the end. So it was, so it shall be, he thought. He glanced at his reflection in the polished blade of his axe and wondered if the Stormcast thought the same. He hoped so. Otherwise, what was the point of it all?

The chamber shook as a spike of power erupted from the obsidian plates. Red energies cascaded across the chamber, knocking several warriors from their feet. A crimson light began to seep from between the stones, casting weird shadows which danced and thrashed in a frenzy. Anhur turned as the sound of Skul’rath’s roar of triumph pierced the din.

‘Broken no longer,’ Volundr said. ‘His glory is assured. As is yours, Anhur.’

‘I should be out there,’ Anhur said. Pain gnawed at his vitals. He was reminded of his youth, and the folktale of the boy who’d swallowed a gryph egg. The creature hatched and chewed its way free of the unfortunate boy’s belly. I am the boy and the egg both, he thought. And something was chewing its way free of him. ‘If they reach this chamber–’

‘Then they will die. We have one foot in Khorne’s realm here,’ the skullgrinder said. He swept his thick arms out. ‘Look around you. See the legions of blood as they rise, ready to slay at your command. All that has come before was but a prelude. This is your army, Scarlet Lord. An eternity of slaughter awaits you, if you but take command.’

Anhur looked around at the daemons rising from the stones to race madly into battle. More and more of them, one daemon for every drop of blood spilled in Uryx, and in Klaxus. A thousand-thousand nightmares made flesh, freed to fight again in Khorne’s name. The blood of every man, woman and child in Klaxus stained him like a curse. Deep within him, something scratched at the walls of its swiftly crumbling cage. Is it as you imagined, Prince of Ytalan? Is this the day you dreamt of, in your long exile?

‘No,’ he murmured, trying to clear the sound of its gloating voice from his thoughts.

‘Yes. This is the moment when hammer strikes metal,’ Volundr said. ‘Klaxus is the forge, Uryx the anvil.’ He caught Anhur by the shoulders, startling the Scarlet Lord. ‘This is the moment of your forging, Anhur. The moment I was called to witness… I am a Forgemaster of the Soulmaw, and I say that you will be a weapon for Khorne. A weapon meant for greater wars than this. Wars which rage between the realms, amongst mad stars and within the audient void.’

Anhur shoved the skullgrinder away. ‘I will not cower here, while the battle is fought.’

‘What battle? This is the battle,’ Volundr roared. ‘This is the moment that all of this has been leading to. This. Moment. Here.’ The skullgrinder took a step forward, his chain clinking. ‘Choose wisely, Anhur of Ytalan, Prince of Klaxus. This crater will become a fiefdom of Khorne, a new bastion of the Brass Citadel. Your people will be reshaped, made whole and strong again, if you but have the courage to hold your course.’

Anhur looked at the skullgrinder, and then down at the axe in his hand. He stared at his reflection in its surface for a moment. ‘Will I still be Anhur, when it is done?’

Volundr looked away. ‘You will be what Khorne wills.’

‘And nothing more,’ Pazak said.

‘Quiet,’ Volundr growled.

Anhur looked at Pazak. The sorcerer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen my share of ascensions, Anhur. We are playthings of the gods, but there is a difference between a plaything and a tool. I have never betrayed you, and I will not do so now.’

Volundr took a step towards Pazak, but Anhur extended his axe between them. Before he could speak, however, the doors blew off their ancient hinges and winged Stormcasts hurtled into the chamber. Crackling hammers smashed through support pillars and tore Anhur’s warriors apart before they could react. Anhur raised his shield as a hammer spun towards him. The impact rocked him back on his heels, but his shield held true, though it screamed in agony as the celestial lightning washed over it.

As he lowered his shield, he saw Volundr hurl his anvil at one of the invaders. The brazen weight caught the Stormcast in the chest and punched him from the air. But the others continued their attack. Blightkings and blood warriors fell, their bodies lost amid the carnage of the ritual. One group of Stormcasts, led by a warrior carrying a shimmering beacon, swooped overhead, towards the Black Rift. ‘Defend the rift,’ Anhur roared. ‘Pazak – protect the rift!’

Pazak spread his hands as he stepped between the approaching Stormcasts and the spinning facets of the Black Rift. Cold, oily flames flickered along his fingers, and the air became greasy as the sorcerer stirred the pox-wind to life. He flung his hand out, unleashing a spume of green flame which scattered his opponents. One golden warrior was knocked from the air, his armour corroding and his flesh rotting as he fell.

As his remains struck the bloody floor, they came apart like an overripe fruit. Horrid, wriggling shapes squirmed from what was left, even as it evaporated in hissing strands of lightning. The wriggling things rapidly expanded in size, bloating and stretching into enormous flies, which swiftly lurched into the air. ‘Fly, sons of the Pox-King,’ Pazak screamed. ‘Fly and kill these gilded doves!’

The winged Stormcasts swooped and dove as the blight flies attacked, their hideous drone filling the air. Those who flew low to avoid the flies or the swinging of Volundr’s anvil soon became engaged in a desperate melee with Pazak’s remaining blightkings. Anhur caught one such Stormcast right between the wings with his axe, killing the warrior instantly. With every drop of blood he shed, the tremors of pain grew worse. He smashed aside a spinning hammer and split its wielder’s skull. He dragged the dying warrior from the air and continued to hack at him. He relished the feeling of flesh and metal parting beneath his blade.

Anhur tore his axe free of the dissolving Stormcast and turned to see the leader of the attackers hurtling towards the sorcerer, glittering blade drawn. The beacon the Stormcast carried blazed to life, and the sorcerer’s blightking bodyguards faltered in their attempt to head the warrior off. Smoke curled from their blubbery flesh as the light consumed them, and Pazak screamed in agony as the radiance set his mouldering robes aflame.

Anhur lunged forward, shield raised, and interposed himself between the sorcerer and his attacker. The metal grew hot, unbearably so, and the daemon bound to it wailed in pain and fear, but Anhur pressed forward to meet the Stormcast. ‘Find shelter, sorcerer,’ he roared, as his armour began to heat up. Pain spread through him. But he was used to pain. Pain was his oldest and dearest friend. Victory, at the cost of pain, he thought, as he took one step forward, and then another. Burning blight flies fell from the air to crash twitching to the floor on either side of him. He could see nothing, feel nothing save the heat.

Blind, every nerve raw and howling, he lurched forward and swept his shield out. He heard the sound of metal striking metal, and the light was snatched away. Smoke rose from his blackened armour as he whirled, following the sound. With blurry eyes, he saw the beacon rolling across the uneven floor, its light driving back the daemons that drew too close. He hurled his axe at the beacon, a roar on his lips.

The axe tore through the beacon with a snarl as savage as that of a fire-wyrm, and the light exploded outwards, washing across the chamber. Anhur staggered back, shield raised protectively over his face, but the light began to fade almost immediately. He heard Volundr cry out from behind him, and turned to see a golden shape shooting towards him. A glittering blade drew black sparks from his helm and breastplate. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but instead of drawing it, he wrenched his shield around to block a second blow. The Stormcast drove him back, lunging and thrusting, his sword seemingly everywhere at once.

At last Anhur smashed the sword aside, knocking it from its wielder’s grip, and caught the warrior’s throat with his free hand. He whirled and smashed the struggling Stormcast down against the floor, hard enough to crack the stones. He pressed his boot to the warrior’s chest, pinning him in place, and tore his shield loose. Gripping either side of the shield, he lifted it high over his opponent’s head, and then slammed the bottom rim down on the Stormcast’s neck. The razor-edge of the shield bit through metal and flesh, and the warrior’s struggles ceased as his head rolled free of his shattered neck.

Anhur looked around. The last of the Stormcasts had fallen, either to Pazak’s magics or to Volundr’s whirling chain. The skullgrinder met his gaze and nodded tersely. ‘It is time, Anhur. The air is thick with the song of war and you must rise up before it reaches its crescendo.’

Anhur nodded and gestured to Pazak. ‘Begin the last rite, Pazak. Call forth the eighty-eight steps and let us end this, for good or ill.’

Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet as his foe’s form at last dissolved into a burst of lightning. The citadel rocked, and chunks of broken stone tumbled down from the dome above. The Scarlet Lord slid his shield back onto his arm and reclaimed his axe.

‘At last,’ he said. ‘An ending… at last.’

‘Hold on,’ Moros cried, as the thrashing of the solidified sulphur grew worse. It twisted like a thing alive, even as the Lord-Relictor guided it towards the citadel. Some Stormcasts were hurled from its undulating length to tumble away into the boiling lake below. But the rest held on, anchoring themselves with warblades and thunderaxes, until, at last, the sliver of bridge pierced the great steps of the Sulphur Citadel like a spear.

The sound of tearing stone reverberated thunderously through the air, and a cloud of dust and stone shards was thrown up at the point of impact. Stormcasts were knocked sprawling. Orius rose from the rubble, his hammer snapping out to crush the helm of the first blood warrior to reach him. His runeblade took the second through the throat, and then he was storming up the steps, his warriors following close behind. Lightning hammers and stormstrike glaives crashed down, clearing a path for the Adamantine.

But even as the last of its mortal defenders fell, daemons charged down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel to meet the Stormcasts.

‘Kratus failed,’ Moros said, raising his staff.

‘But we will not,’ Orius said, as black hell-blades rang against sigmarite shields. Orius charged towards the shattered doors to the domed chamber at the temple’s summit. He smashed a bloodletter from his path and stepped through the doors, Moros and the rest of his warriors close behind. Daemons lunged at the Stormcasts from every direction, coming in waves of brass teeth and blades, only to fall to lightning or sigmarite weapons. Hammers crushed inhuman bone and pulped scaly flesh. Step by step, the Stormcasts fought their way towards the centre of the chamber and the flickering black rift which spun at its heart.

Orius felled a yowling bloodletter and saw three figures standing beneath the black rift. Two he recognised – Anhur, and the creature who had killed Galerius – but the third, a robed, diseased-looking figure whose arms were raised as he chanted a deplorable litany, was unfamiliar. ‘Anhur,’ he cried. ‘Face me, beast!’

The bulky shape of the Chaos warlord turned. ‘Ah… you do not disappoint me, Oros my friend. I knew you would find some way of reaching me, before the end. The moment I saw you at the Hissing Gates, I knew.’ Anhur made to step forward, but the hulking warrior beside him threw out an arm.

‘No,’ he rumbled, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. ‘We are too close now. You shall not endanger all we have worked for in the name of mortal pride. Continue your efforts, sorcerer. I shall deal with these interlopers.’ Daemons spilled out of the swirling rift and raced past them, charging towards the small force of Stormcasts with inhuman speed.

Orius struck down the first, and the second, continuing his advance, even as more daemons burst into reality. The hulking warrior joined them in their charge, his chained anvil whirling above his head. He smashed a Protector from his feet, and nearly did the same to Orius, before a cascade of lightning separated them.

‘Orius, close the rift. I will see to this creature,’ Moros said. ‘I know your kind, skullgrinder. A worker of terrible wonders. A maker of foul weapons.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Well, hell-smith… let us see what you make of the weapons of Azyrheim.’

With an inarticulate cry, the skullgrinder lurched forward, his anvil whirring out. Moros ducked aside and caught his opponent in the side with the haft of his staff. The skullgrinder staggered, but recovered swiftly. Moros stepped back. ‘Go, Orius – seal the rift!’

Orius turned back towards the rift as all around him his warriors clashed with the daemons emerging from it. He struck down a bloodletter and blocked a blow from another. As the daemon struck at him again, he twisted aside and punched the creature off its feet with his hammer. He stepped over its crumpled form. As he drew near to the coruscating rift, however, the robed sorcerer completed his conjurations with a liquid shriek. A moment later, steps erupted from the bloody floor; steps of flesh, muscle and bone rising out of the effluvium.

They unfolded with a sickening sound, erected on a scaffold of bone and ligament as Orius watched in horror. Faces rose from them, and moans and pleas for mercy that would never come slipped from blistered lips to claw at his ears.

‘Behold, the eighty-eight steps,’ Anhur said. He looked at Orius. ‘You have arrived too late, Oros. The way stands open before me, and I shall ascend to the Path of Skulls on steps made from the dead. I have sacrificed much to reach this point, and I know that there is still more to be given, but I am ready. Do you hear, Khorne?’ Anhur roared. ‘The Scarlet Lord stands ready. I will walk the red road and rise in your glory.’

‘No,’ Orius cried, as he stepped towards the Scarlet Lord. A wash of green flame swept out, separating them. The Lord-Celestant turned to see the sorcerer striding towards him, a sickly green light radiating from his graceless form.

‘Ascend, Anhur – rise up, and shake the dust of this world from your feet,’ Pazak said, as he flung out his hand. Black, cancerous strands of squirming matter shot through the air to ensnare Orius’ hammer. As he fought to tear the weapon free, more strands slithered about his sword arm and legs. ‘Go! I will tend to this fool,’ Pazak continued.

Orius roared and tore his hammer free. He swung it down, striking the ground. The floor beneath the sorcerer’s feet ruptured, and Pazak stumbled, unable to maintain his balance or his spell. As the tendrils faded Orius hurled his runeblade like a spear. The blade caught Pazak in the chest, and punched through his rusty cuirass and out through his back. He fell backwards, clutching at the blade.

The Lord-Celestant stalked over to the dying sorcerer. He set his foot on the creature’s arm and tore his sword free, then turned to see that Anhur was climbing the grotesque steps.

‘Orius, you must stop him,’ Moros shouted from behind him, narrowly avoiding the skullgrinder’s whirling anvil. The weapon tore through a pillar, scattering rubble across the chamber. ‘You must not let him enter that rift!’

At the Lord-Relictor’s words, Orius lurched forward. When his foot touched the first step, the raw flesh squirmed and smoke curled from its pores, as if the blessed sigmarite he wore pained it. Ignoring the screams of the steps, he climbed after Anhur. The Black Rift spun and the air shrieked around him. Daemons sped past him, down the stairs, growing solid as they touched the floor and launched themselves at his embattled warriors. There were too many of them for him to count, too many for his battered chamber to hold back. Unless he could seal the rift, Uryx, Klaxus, perhaps even the Tephra Crater itself would be lost.

‘Turn, beast. Turn, hound of slaughter,’ Orius said, as he climbed the steps. ‘Turn, Anhur. The ghosts of Cinder, of the Fire Domes, of Klaxus and Uryx, of those you slaughtered and those you left to be slaughtered, demand that you turn. Will you run away from me again? Turn, coward!’

Anhur stopped. His ragged cloak flapped in the searing wind. Then, with an almost convulsive motion, he hurled his daemon-faced shield aside. It struck the steps and slid away, screaming recriminations. Anhur turned. Orius stopped, just below him.

‘Coward,’ Anhur said, slowly. ‘No. There is no fear in me, Hound of Ytalan. Only purpose. But… you are right. Whatever Volundr says, you are right. A million ghosts stretch out before me, an army of the conquered, and you… their weapon.’ He laughed. ‘We are both weapons, now, Oros. We are both blades, forged in the same fire, but wielded by different hands.’

Anhur drew the sword from its sheath on his hip and brought it crashing against the edge of his axe. ‘Great men once held swords like these. Great men, who founded a great nation. Now they are dust and their names forgotten. But this blade is still sharp, Oros. My hand is still steady. I am still Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and you are still Oros of Ytalan, my friend, my champion. You are still the man who saved me from the swords of the sulphur-knights, and spirited me from Uryx, though I begged you to let me die. And that debt must be paid, else all this is naught but ashes. Come, my friend. Come, champion of Klaxus. Come and let us set it all to rights.’

And, with those words, the two warriors came together with a crash of steel.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Fall of the Sulphur Citadel

Orius Adamantine was not alone as he confronted the Scarlet Lord. In his wake and at his side came a thousand ghosts. The murdered folk of Cinder, of the Calderan Plains and the Firewalk were with him as he surged up the grotesque spell-born stairs, drawn from the charnel remains which decorated the great chamber. But loudest of all were the dead of Klaxus, who called for the head of the one who had once marched in their name.

The waters of the Hissing Gates shrieked upwards in boiling columns. Steam swept down, filling the air, as the Adamantine advanced in a shimmering line. The forces of the Scarlet Lord met them there, in the shadows of the immense geysers…

Anhur lurched to meet Orius, moving awkwardly as if some unseen wound pained him. Daemons clung to him like wisps of smoke, leering and laughing as the black axe fell through the air with an animal shriek. Orius twisted about, raising his sword.

Two figures, one gold and one crimson, charge towards one another through the boiling breath of the countless geysers. Their blades clash. And then, a moment of recognition, as the eyes of the duellists lock. A voice cries out…

‘Anhur,’ Orius roared as runeblade crashed against daemonic axe. The shock of the blow shivered up his arm, and sent his memories into disarray. He shook his head to clear it as he faced his opponent. He lashed out with his hammer, trying to drive Anhur back.

‘Oros,’ Anhur said, as he parried the blow with his axe. ‘All hope is gone, and the way is open.’ He shoved Orius back down several steps. ‘Welcome to the eternal moment, the sharp edge between victory and defeat, my friend.’

Orius glared up at the Scarlet Lord from where he crouched. Behind him, the Lord-Celestant could hear his warriors fighting against the daemons which continued to pour from the shimmering rift above the steps.

‘No,’ he said, taking a step. What happened to you, Prince of Ytalan? Where is the man I once knew? There would be no satisfactory answer to those questions, Orius knew. Chaos had claimed Anhur’s soul and whatever choices had led him down that dark path were hidden in the mire of the past. ‘I am no friend of yours, monster.’

‘But you were once,’ Anhur said. ‘We stood together in this place, against true monsters. Against those who would see our folk stretched on altars and fed to false gods.’ He gestured at the shifting facets of the Black Rift above them. ‘I will free our people, Oros. At long last, they shall be free of all suffering. They shall be reborn in fire and blood.’ He shuddered. ‘As shall I.’

‘My name is Orius. Oros of Ytalan is dead – he died, leading those you left behind. He is dead, as Anhur of Ytalan is dead. We are not friends, and we share no past,’ Orius said, as he took another step. Faces swam before his eyes, soldiers, rebels, heroes – men and women who had joined their rebellion and paid the price. Anhur laughed.

‘You said that before, but it is a lie. Your new life is a lie. You are still the man you were, as am I. We shall never be free of our past, while this debt is owed.’ He pointed his sword at Orius. ‘Look – see. I still carry the sword of Ytalan, the sword of my fathers, and their fathers before them. I am Anhur. I am king.’

‘You are a coward,’ Orius said and lunged up, hammer looping out. Anhur caught the blow on the flat of his axe and swung his sword. Orius interposed his runeblade. The tableau held, for a moment. ‘You left us, left them, to die in your stead.’ In his head he heard again the screams of the dying, the whispered prayers to Sigmar – the true Sigmar, rather than the debased caricature that the priest-kings worshipped – the clash of steel on steel and the hiss of the sulphur-blade as it cut towards his neck. He had died. But Anhur had lived.

‘I am no coward,’ Anhur snarled. ‘I wished to fight and die, but your hand – yours and no other – propelled me to safety. It was by your hand that I was denied my glorious end, and now you have the gall to call me coward?’ Axe and hammer slammed together with a sound like a scream. Swords clashed in a flicker of steel.

‘You are worse than a coward,’ Orius said. ‘You are an abomination.’

‘Aye, and more besides,’ Anhur said as their swords locked with a screech of metal. ‘The drumbeat of war is in my blood, as it is in yours, Oros. We are the sons of Klaxus – the last sons of Klaxus. I slew the old priest-kings, swept their ashes from the throne of the crater-kingdoms, and I will raise up something glorious in their stead.’

‘We are not the last, Anhur,’ Orius said, as he strained to hold his foe’s sword back. ‘As you yourself claimed, not all of our folk have been taken by the madness you unleashed. And while a single Stormcast lives, Klaxus shall survive. Her people will live.’ He thought of the refugees huddled within the stone ramparts of the Mandrake Bastion, those pitiful few, saved by the efforts of his Stormcasts. They will survive, he thought. My people will not go into the dark, not today, not while I yet draw breath.

‘A simple enough solution presents itself,’ Anhur said and shoved Orius back. Their blades separated with a scream. ‘But why speak of dread certainties, when there are more important matters to be discussed?’ Anhur turned away, startling Orius, and began to climb the steps towards the coruscating facets of the rift. He left himself exposed to attack, as if certain that Orius would not do so. ‘Since I recognised you at the Hissing Gates, I knew that our story had but one end. What began here must finish here. Whatever others might wish. A debt is owed and it must be paid. A life for a life, Oros.’

Orius pursued him up the steps. Whatever else happened, the rift had to be closed. Daemons raced past him down the steps, gaining substance as they drew closer to the floor. Phantasmal muscle bulked and swelled, darkening and becoming real as brazen claws struck the bloody stones. The bloodletters loped into battle with his dwindling retinue of Protectors and Liberators. Of those Stormcasts who had accompanied him and Lord-Relictor Moros in confronting the horrors of the Sulphur Citadel, a bare handful remained. Soon, they – and those Stormcasts who fought to hold the Bridge of Smoke – would be overwhelmed.

Moros was somewhere nearby, locked in battle with the monstrous skullgrinder who served Anhur. And Lord-Castellant Gorgus was leading those forces defending the bridge. There would be no aid from either quarter. It was up to Orius to seal the Black Rift by whatever means he could, even if it meant his death. Even if it meant the destruction of Uryx and Klaxus both. His grip on his hammer tightened. ‘Face me, monster,’ he said.

The Lord-Celestant lunged, runeblade extended. Anhur spun. His axe nearly caught Orius in the head. The Stormcast lurched aside and swayed, off balance. The steps twitched beneath his feet, as if they might try and dislodge him. He regained his balance and struck out at Anhur again and again, trying to land a blow. But the Chaos lord avoided or parried his attacks with ease.

‘Ah, Oros, do you recall our mornings on the training fields of the Rim-Citadel?’ the Scarlet Lord said. ‘When we sparred, honing our skills to face whatever enemies the day brought? How many times did I leave you gasping in the dirt, Hound of Ytalan?’

‘As often as I left you, Prince of Klaxus,’ Orius said. He did not know whether he spoke the truth. He barely remembered those days, and what memories he still possessed were more distraction than anything else. But if Anhur’s growl were anything to go by, he’d struck a nerve. The Scarlet Lord started towards him, but paused as a sudden spasm wracked his body. ‘You’re still running Anhur – why not stand and fight?’ Orius said.

Stones plummeted down from above. He heard the hiss of lightning, and the shriek of daemons. The chamber shook as the rift pulsed with a red light. Anhur shuddered and bent forward with a groan. His armour creaked as though something were pressing against it from within. For a moment, Orius thought he saw a second form, more monstrous by far than Anhur, superimposed over the Scarlet Lord’s own. A nightmare shape of talon and sinew, winged and horned, and wreathed in black fire. Then the moment passed and Anhur was rising to his full height with a harsh sigh.

‘Because I have chosen the ground for our duel, and this realm is not it,’ he said. ‘I have been planning this moment since the Hissing Gates – have you never wondered why I pulled my blow that day? I could have given your skull to Khorne there and then…’

The blow scraped the sigmarite of his breastplate, knocking him flat… The axe fell, splitting the air… Orius shook his head, banishing the memories. Anhur stepped back, so that he stood directly before the pulsing rift. Spectral daemons swept over and around him, screaming in savage joy. He spread his arms.

‘I knew, my friend. I knew that if I spared you that day you would not rest until you had brought me to battle once more. Until we came again to the only place our debt could truly be settled. And here you are. So follow me if you dare, Hound of Ytalan – follow, so that we might meet our fate together.’ With that, he turned and stepped into the swirling rift. Orius hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then, weapons ready, Orius Adamantine plunged into the Black Rift.

‘Hold fast, Adamantine – not one step back. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus said, trusting his voice to carry over the din of battle. ‘Let the world itself crack, and we shall still hold our ground. We did not break at Cinder, at Karnaharak or at the River Lament. We shall not break here.’

He frowned. Not unless the bridge collapses beneath us, he thought. He could feel the Bridge of Smoke ripple beneath his feet. The bridge was the only way across the sulphur lake, and it was both more and less solid than stone. More than once, a Stormcast sank knee-deep into its substance. They had learned how to avoid its occasional undulations, as the sides swelled and flowed unexpectedly. Geysers of sulphurous gas spewed from the fissures which spread along its degenerating span. Soon, they would be forced to retreat to more stable ground as the spells which held the bridge intact finally failed for good. He was tempted to do so now, but there was no way to hold the plaza behind them. The ever-swelling numbers of the daemons would overwhelm them more easily there than on the bridge, which acted as a chokepoint.

But it will not hold forever, he thought. Eventually, they would have no choice, especially if daemons continued to pour down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel. He looked at the distant structure, and wished that he stood beside Orius and Moros. He shook his head in annoyance. No. Someone had to stay and hold the foe back. If the daemons swarmed over Uryx, there was no telling how many more innocent folk would die. The blood-tide would sweep all before it, and drown Klaxus, as well as the other crater-kingdoms, in the flames of war.

The bridge shuddered as the combined force of daemons and mortal servants of Khorne charged towards the battered shield wall. ‘Judicators – loose,’ Gorgus cried, extending his halberd. Judicator retinues plied their deadly trade, shooting arrows until it was impossible to tell where one volley ended and another began. But the enemy did not falter. The Bloodbound drove on, through the murderous storm of crackling arrows, as if the presence of the daemons among their ranks was enough to drive all mortal fear from them.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus said. ‘Second rampart, raise shields.’ The shield wall was staggered, with three rows of Liberators between the Judicators and the approaching foe. As the front rank readied themselves to receive the charge, the second rank lifted their shields to ward off the daemons. The unnatural creatures had shown themselves more than capable of scaling the shield wall and attacking those who sheltered behind its gleaming length. ‘Third rampart, make ready,’ he bellowed, as the enemy closed in.

The Bloodbound struck. As ever, the mortals died in droves, but the bloodletters clawed their way over the shields and lunged for the warriors behind. The second rampart met them, but Gorgus knew that even they wouldn’t be enough. At his signal, the third line moved forward, not as one, but in individual retinues, to better isolate and destroy the daemons that had breached their lines. He spotted the gruesome bulk of the bloodthirster, Skul’rath, moving through the horde as if it were wading through a river of blood.

The greater daemon was massive. It was war made flesh. It towered head and shoulders above its lesser kin, its rust-hued limbs clad in armour of black iron, marked prominently with the rune of Khorne. Skul’rath of the First Gate, he thought. Skul’rath the Broken, first of the Ruinous Powers’ servants to feel the wrath of Azyr. First to fall to the Hammers of Sigmar in battle. There wasn’t a warrior in their Stormhost who did not know the tale of Skul’rath’s taming. Or of the vile oaths which the bloodthirster had sworn, even as it was banished back into the infernal realm which had spawned it.

Gorgus’ grip on his halberd tightened, and his free hand fell to the warding lantern hooked to his belt. It would take more than the lantern’s light alone to banish such a creature. At least it could be hurt. As evidence, the creature’s wing hung limp and tattered from its back. Sigmar keep you, Tarkus… You hurt the monster before it sent you back to the forges of Sigmaron, at least, he thought. The Knight-Heraldor had crippled the daemon before he’d fallen to its axe. As if reading his thoughts, Skul’rath reared back and roared in fury. Its axe slammed down, shearing through an unlucky tribesman, even as its barbed lash tore vainly at the air.

At his side, Shrike chirped. Gorgus turned at the Gryph-hound’s warning and saw a bloodletter, its scaly form covered in wounds which dripped molten ichor, charge towards him. Shrike sped to meet it, its beak tearing at the back of the daemon’s leg. The bloodletter staggered and slashed clumsily at the Gryph-hound, but Shrike deftly avoided the blow. While it was distracted, Gorgus brought his halberd down on its head, silencing its hisses.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high, so that its golden rays washed across the Stormcast shield wall. ‘We shall hold!’ he cried. ‘We shall push them back. We shall be the bastion upon which they break. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. Would you bring shame to our chamber? We are not broken – we are the breakers and no foe shall bar our path. Grind them under, Adamantine!’

As the light bathed the Stormcasts, faltering arms stiffened, and bleeding wounds dried. The light of the warding lantern could heal as well as harm, and in its glow, no Stormcast would suffer unnecessarily. Daemons are another matter, however, he thought, as bloodletters cowered back from the light. Where it touched them, their unnatural flesh bubbled and steamed, and they surged rapidly backwards with shrieks and wails. Bloodbound were left bereft of support as the light drove the daemons from the shield wall. ‘Paladins – forward,’ Gorgus shouted.

Decimators and Retributors charged through newly opened gaps in the shield wall, and their great two-handed weapons reaped a red toll. But just as Gorgus thought that the enemy might be thrown back, Skul’rath charged the wall of sigmarite with bridge-shaking strides, smashing aside an unwary Decimator as it drew close. Then, with a snarl that froze the blood in Gorgus’ veins, Skul’rath leapt into the air.

Shrike gave a shrill cry, warning Gorgus of the descending nightmare. He stepped back as the bloodthirster slammed down just behind the shield wall. The greater daemon spun with a roar and swept its axe across the backs of three Liberators, severing their spines and killing the Stormcasts instantly. It turned back as Gorgus lunged forward, his halberd slicing down. The bloodthirster smashed the blow aside, nearly wrenching the Lord-Castellant’s arms from their sockets, and snapped its lash at his head. Gorgus ducked back, shoulders aching.

‘You bear a burdensome light, gnat,’ the bloodthirster hissed loudly. ‘Let Skul’rath relieve you of it.’ Its lash snapped out again and knocked the lantern from his grip. As the lantern tumbled away, the daemons surged forward once more. They struck the shield wall with a roar, nearly overwhelming the Stormcasts arrayed there. Caught between the bloodthirster and the lesser daemons, Liberators fell, consumed by lightning. Judicators turned their bows on Skul’rath, loosing volley after volley of sizzling bolts into the bellowing colossus. Retributors and Decimators, momentarily cut off by the sudden advance of the foe, fought their way back towards the shield wall.

‘Go – retrieve the celestial beacon,’ Gorgus said, looking at Shrike. The Gryph-hound screeched and bounded off through the press of battle. Gorgus turned, and was almost split in two by Skul’rath’s axe. Sulphur jetted up as the blade smashed into the bridge, momentarily obscuring the daemon from sight. Then its lash snaked out to wrap around the haft of Gorgus’ halberd. He was nearly yanked from his feet by the beast as it sought to jerk the weapon from his grasp.

Gorgus twisted, hauling back against the tension of the lash with all the strength remaining to him. The surface of the bridge cracked and pooled beneath his feet as he fought desperately to avoid being hauled forward, through the cloud of sulphur.

‘You fight well,’ Skul’rath growled. ‘But not well enough. I will have my vengeance, golden one. I will claim a hundred skulls for every moment since my defeat at the hands of your kind. Khorne shall raise me up anew, and I shall ride with the Fifth Host once more.’

‘You’ll claim no more skulls, beast,’ Gorgus said, as he struggled to retain hold of his halberd. ‘No more Stormcasts shall fall to you. You were broken by warriors of our Stormhost once before, and we shall break you again.’

Skul’rath howled and the heat of its rage beat at Gorgus, blackening his armour. He tore his halberd free of its lash with a heave and spun the weapon about. The bloodthirster slashed at him, and he swayed aside, barely avoiding the blow. His halberd struck out in return, drawing boiling ichor from the daemon’s muzzle. As he backed away from the beast, Gorgus looked around for Shrike. But the Gryph-hound was nowhere in sight.

Everywhere, the orderly line of battle had broken down into a swirling melee. Stormcasts fought alone, or in small groups, surrounded on all sides by enemies both mortal and daemonic. Even the steady fire of the Judicators had faltered at last, as the archers were forced to draw their swords and engage the foe in hand-to-hand combat. Liberators were trying to regroup beyond the edges of the melee, but the daemons followed them and struck them down. Blue flashes of lighting streaked upwards, signalling another warrior’s demise.

‘Fall back,’ Gorgus shouted. ‘Fall back to the plaza – fall back!’ A few Stormcasts followed his orders and began fighting their way back towards the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, but the majority were in no position to do so. The enemy were all around them, and in no mood to let them go. A blood warrior, his beard slick with froth and blood, charged wildly towards him, axes raised. Gorgus drove the ferrule of his halberd into the berserker’s chest, knocking him back a step. Before the blood warrior could recover, Gorgus removed his head. Two more of the bloodthirsty warriors lunged for him over the body of a fallen Decimator, their blades encrusted with gore and their eyes burning with battle-madness.

Before they could reach him, however, Skul’rath smashed them aside with a blow from its axe.

‘NO,’ the greater daemon roared. ‘He is mine – his skull belongs to the Prince of Chains, son of the Devouring-Light-Which-Does-Not-Fade!’

The bloodthirster’s lash hissed out, and Gorgus chopped through it. Skul’rath tossed the remnant aside with a snarl and reached for the Lord-Castellant. His halberd slashed across the daemon’s palm, and Skul’rath roared in pain. Gorgus swung at the daemon’s head. Skul’rath twisted aside, so that the blade of the halberd became lodged in its cuirass. Its axe slammed down, nearly cleaving Gorgus in two and sending him sprawling. As he flew backwards he lost his grip on his weapon, and it remained jutting from Skul’rath’s chest-plate.

The daemon plucked the weapon free and tossed it aside with a contemptuous snort. Gorgus tried to get to his feet, but a massive hoof dropped on his chest, pinning him to the bridge. He screamed in pain as something inside him splintered, and pounded futilely at the daemon’s hoof with his fists.

‘Now, little storm… you die. Your living skull shall decorate my cuirass, and your false godling shall weep for your end,’ the bloodthirster leered, as it lifted its axe in readiness for the killing blow.

Gorgus could only watch as the axe fell.

In the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, Lord-Relictor Moros ducked a whirling shape. The brazen anvil tore a chunk out of the wall and filled the air with flying debris. Moros backed away as the skullgrinder paced after him, still swinging the anvil. With a flick of his wrist, the skullgrinder sent the anvil shooting out as if it weighed no more than a feather. It smashed through pillars, walls and Stormcasts alike, never falling still.

Everywhere, the chamber pulsed with the sounds of death. Stormcasts fought desperately against the never-ending tide of daemons which spilled from the pulsing facets of the Black Rift. Isolated and badly outnumbered, the warriors of the Adamantine nonetheless held their ground. Fighting alone or back-to-back, they did their best to staunch the flow of the daemon-tide. Moros risked a glance in the direction of the rift, and saw Orius pursue the Scarlet Lord into the obsidian portal. ‘No,’ he roared, turning to aid his Lord-Celestant. It was death to enter such portals, for they led directly to the domains of the Ruinous Powers.

The anvil smashed into the floor before him, nearly knocking him from his feet. He whirled, his reliquary staff spinning in his grip to smash into the crude helm of the skullgrinder. The brute stumbled back with a laugh. A bloodletter sprang for Moros, its black blade screeching across his armour with bone-rattling force. The Lord-Relictor faltered as the daemon struck him again and again, carving great gouges in his sigmarite war-plate. A second bloodletter, sensing easy prey, joined the first. Soon, a pack of the hissing beasts surrounded him. They attacked from every direction, striking at him faster than he could see.

‘Sigmar, give me strength,’ he cried. He dropped his hammer and clutched his staff in both hands. Bellowing the Invocation of Strength, he swung the staff out in a wide arc. Lightning rippled from the eyes of the skull set into the reliquary, and daemons convulsed in agony. They reeled back as he whirled the staff about and slammed its haft hard against the floor. It shook and cracked. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling, crushing several of the bloodletters. Moros stooped and snatched up his hammer. He struck the ground with his staff again, and the sacred lightning blazed forth, brighter than before. Daemons crumpled into smoking husks.

‘A mighty lightning indeed,’ the skullgrinder growled, as he stepped over the smoking remains of a bloodletter. ‘Still, only the weak seek aid in sorcery.’ He hurled his anvil at Moros, forcing the Lord-Relictor to back away.

‘Says the creature who needed the aid of a sorcerer to achieve his goals,’ Moros said. He glanced towards the diseased body of the creature slain upon their arrival by Orius. He’d hoped that with the sorcerer’s death, the Black Rift would close. Unfortunately that did not appear to be the case. He strove to recall everything he knew about such apertures in reality, every scrap of lore, every fragment of wisdom.

But even if I can close the rift, can I do it with Orius on the other side? The thought was a painful one. The rift had to be closed, but at the cost of his Lord-Celestant? He glanced upwards, at the remains of the great dome above. A mural of Sigmar stared down, meeting his gaze. What must I do, Heldenhammer? Show your servant the path he must follow…

‘Stop looking to your man-god for help, wearer-of-bones,’ the skullgrinder roared. ‘He is not here, and I will not be ignored by such as you.’ He swung his anvil out, nearly taking Moros’ head off. The Lord-Relictor ducked aside. ‘There is no help for you there. Khorne strides the black skies above, and the fires of war will consume this crater and all of the petty kingdoms which nestle within it.’ The anvil slammed down, spattering Moros’ war-helm with slivers of stone. Striking swiftly, he thrust the end of his staff through one of the wide links and pinned it in place. He wrenched his staff about, and the skullgrinder stumbled. Moros drove his hammer into his opponent’s head again and again, and the brute sank to one knee, breathing heavily.

The skullgrinder’s muscles swelled, and with a cry he tore the anvil and its chain free of Moros’ staff. Still on one knee, he watched the Lord-Relictor warily. ‘Your chieftain will fail, shaman,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘Anhur was made for this moment – forged in war and slaughter, so that he would be a fit blade for Khorne’s hand.’ He rose to his feet and began to circle Moros, his chains clinking menacingly.

‘And who are you, to forge anything?’ Moros said. Though he recognised the being before him for what he was, he had never faced such an opponent before. Skullgrinders were rare beasts indeed, and this one seemed to be more than a mere berserker. A Bloodbound that can think, Moros thought. Sigmar preserve us from such madness.

‘I am Volundr. I am the Skull-Cracker and the Brass Hand of Hesphut,’ the skullgrinder said, letting his brazen anvil dangle from one wide hand. It left ripples of heat in its wake as it swung. ‘It was by my whisper that the millions of Cinder, and the hundred-millions of the Magmatic Crescent, were offered up to the Lord of Skulls by the hands of Anhur’s followers.’

The skullgrinder spoke without boastfulness. ‘I am one of the eight forgemasters of the Soulmaw, and the crafter of the daemon-blade Marrowcutter.’ He began to swing his anvil in a slow arc. ‘It was I who forged the chains of star-metal which bind Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun, in her bower of bone and shadow. I have wrought a masterpiece of murder in this place, and I shall not allow the broken toys of a feeble godling to undo all my labours.’

‘Save me your speeches, dog of horror, for I well know you, whatever your name,’ Moros said, setting his staff, even as his heart grew heavy within him. A forgemaster of the Soulmaw, he thought, chilled to the core by the mention of the greatest of Khorne’s own forges. This was no mere warrior-smith, but instead one of the Blood God’s chosen.

The Lord-Relictor fought back a shudder. Whatever the pedigree of his foe, he would not yield. I am the Storm Summoner, he thought, the Bearer of the Bones of Heroes. And I am Adamantine. I shall not break. He raised his staff. ‘I see your corrupt path, stretching back along a road of history, and I see the shadow of your darkling god’s hand o’er you, Skull-Cracker.’ He turned, following the skullgrinder with his gaze. ‘You are lost to the dark, more daemon than mortal, and your soul is in agony.’ He thumped the floor with the haft of his staff. ‘Allow me to guide it to what I’m sure is a long-overdue oblivion.’

Volundr paused, head cocked. The skullgrinder gave a bark of laughter. Then, with a twist of his shoulders, he yanked the anvil up and sent it sailing down towards Moros’ head. The Lord-Relictor stepped aside, and felt the heat of the anvil’s descent as it crashed down on the stones. He swung his relic hammer at his opponent, catching him in the side.

The skullgrinder bellowed and lashed out at him with a meaty fist. Moros ducked aside and struck again. His hammer slammed down, denting Volundr’s helm. Volundr snarled and hooked a loop of chain about Moros’ neck. He dragged him forward and their skulls connected with a brutal clang. Moros swayed. The skullgrinder caught him about the torso and picked him up, only to fling him at a pillar.

Moros struck the pillar hard enough to shatter it, and hit the floor beyond in a cloud of debris. Bones grated within him as he rolled to his feet with the help of his staff. Somehow, he had kept hold of his weapons. As he rose, Volundr charged towards him, smashing aside what was left of the pillar with a sweep of his thick arms.

The skullgrinder slammed into Moros at full tilt and carried him backwards into a second pillar. The ancient stone disintegrated at the point of impact as the two warriors hurtled into another pillar, and another, tearing through each in an explosion of stone and dust. Pain ripped through Moros as he fought to free himself from his foe. At last, a flailing blow from his hammer caught the skullgrinder on the knee and the war-smith staggered. He spilled Moros from his clutches. The Lord-Relictor, his lungs aching, his chest a mass of pain, shoved himself upright and faced his dazed opponent.

Broken fragments of masonry pelted his war-plate from above as he raised his reliquary staff. ‘Sigmar take you, beast,’ he roared. Lightning hammered down, piercing through the great dome overhead to ground in his staff, and filled the air with a searing light.

The skullgrinder stepped back, one big hand thrown up before his face. Moros lunged forward, his hammer raised. Volundr caught the head of the hammer on his palm. Moros heard bones break in his foe’s hand, but the massive warrior gave out no more than a grunt as he tore the hammer from his opponent’s grip and sent it sailing away.

Moros staggered, off-balance, and Volundr jerked forward, driving his other fist across the front of the Lord-Relictor’s helm. Sigmarite creaked and nearly buckled even as the force of the blow sent Moros flying backwards to slam into another pillar, his reliquary flying from his hands. His head was full of thunder, and he could not breathe.

He fell forward, onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he heard the pillar crack. The skullgrinder strode towards him, dragging his anvil. ‘Well? Where is this oblivion you promised me, lightning-rider?’ Volundr said. ‘Perhaps you misspoke.’

The world spun around the Lord-Relictor. Daemons crept closer, padding through the noxious mist spewing from the rift, their eyes glowing with eagerness. He saw several of his Protectors, free from the daemons, hurl themselves at the skullgrinder. Their stormstrike glaives struck like lightning. Volundr spun with a roar, and a Protector was crushed by his anvil even as the others attacked. For a moment, the world was lit by blue fire. Volundr plunged through the flames and caught a Protector in either hand, his anvil dangling by its chain from his wrist. He hefted the two Stormcasts by their throats.

Moros forced himself to his feet, the words of the Incantation for the Fallen running through his head. By the bones that I bear and call my own. He launched himself at the skullgrinder’s back. I bid ye heed now, heed the Call Celestial. He wrapped an arm around Volundr’s throat, and the skullgrinder bellowed and dropped the Protectors. Heed only the call of the God-King. Brutish fingers clawed at Moros’ forearm as he and his opponent staggered backwards into the cracked pillar. Godspeed to Sigmaron. Stone buckled and groaned. Chunks of debris began to rain down as the skullgrinder slammed them back against the pillar again and again. Godspeed back to the stars that bore ye.

Lightning shrieked down, demolishing the dome above and streaming down to envelop Moros and his opponent.

‘Mine… is… the Power Aetheric, and… I bid thee rest in peace,’ the Lord-Relictor roared as he wrapped a lightning-shrouded hand about the skullgrinder’s face-mask. And, with an elemental roar, the holy lightning of Sigmaron, the wrath of the God-King made manifest, thrummed through his hand and into the struggling form of his foe.

Volundr shrieked as bolt after bolt of lightning struck him. With a resounding crack, his great anvil split. The chain holding it burst asunder, and its wielder sank to one knee, clutching at his blackened helm with blistered, useless fingers as the lightning continued to scream down, striking him with a fury unseen since the days of myth.

And when it at last ceased, Volundr, forgemaster of the Soulmaw, was gone.

A tower of lightning struck the dome of the Sulphur Citadel, and cast its fierce glare across the city of Uryx. Daemons shrieked and cowered as the blazing light seared their flesh. Skul’rath turned from its prey with a snarl, its gaze uncomprehending, its axe hanging forgotten in its talon. As the daemon drew its hoof from his chest, Gorgus hauled himself to his feet. He saw Shrike loping towards him, his warding lantern clutched in the animal’s beak.

‘Shrike – my lantern,’ he cried, stretching out a hand.

The Gryph-hound leapt over a crouching bloodletter and raced towards the Lord-Castellant, swerving to avoid daemons and Stormcasts alike. Skul’rath caught sight of the animal and roared in fury. The bloodthirster’s axe swept out and the Gryph-hound skidded beneath the blade. Shrike tumbled head over heels, the lantern falling from its beak. Gorgus snatched up his halberd from where Skul’rath had tossed it. He charged towards the greater daemon, even as it raised a hoof to crush the fallen Gryph-hound. He caught the daemon in the side, and then in the chest with his reclaimed halberd as it lashed out at him. Shrike struggled to his feet and lunged, tearing at Skul’rath’s leg.

The bloodthirster stepped back, eyes bulging with fury. It slashed at the Gryph-hound again and again, trying to kill the animal. Shrike nimbly avoided every blow as it darted to snap at the bloodthirster’s hamstrings.

‘Cease, beast,’ the daemon roared in frustration. ‘Your skull is of no interest to me!’ The daemon’s axe tore great furrows in the bridge as Skul’rath raged.

While Shrike kept the monster busy, Gorgus reclaimed his celestial beacon. He heard a yelp and turned to see Shrike dragging itself away, a gash in one flank. The bloodthirster loomed over the fallen Gryph-hound, its back to Gorgus. ‘Now, creature, I shall break your bones and eat your heart,’ the daemon hissed.

‘You will not. If the great bears of the Borealis Peaks couldn’t kill him, what chance do you think a creature like you has?’ Gorgus said, as he threw his halberd like a spear towards the bloodthirster’s legs. The weapon struck home, and the greater daemon bellowed as it stumbled forward. It caught itself with one hand, but before it could untangle its hooves and rise, Gorgus was on its back, his warding lantern in hand.

The Lord-Castellant caught hold of the daemon’s horn as Skul’rath rose with a snort. The daemon kicked his halberd aside. Shrike lunged with a shriek and tore a chunk from the bloodthirster’s wrist, forcing the daemon to drop its axe.

Gorgus rose with the daemon and avoided its grasp as it clawed for him, trying to drag him from its shoulders. ‘You wished to snuff the light of the Heavens, beast? Then here – let me help,’ Gorgus roared. Skul’rath clawed vainly at him as Gorgus lifted his warding lantern and tore it open, exposing the daemon to the full force of the sacred light contained within.

Skul’rath shrieked and stumbled, finally throwing Gorgus off. The bloodthirster screamed in agony as it tore at its own flesh, trying to escape the light.

The Lord-Castellant hit the bridge hard enough to release a geyser of sulphur, but rolled into a crouch, lantern still extended. Whatever else happened, he had to keep the daemon within the light. Otherwise, they would have no hope of banishing it. Shoving himself upright with his free hand, he lunged for his halberd where it jutted from the surface of the bridge. Skul’rath grabbed at him, but he avoided the daemon’s flailing to uproot his weapon and whirl it about. He chopped into the bloodthirster’s arm, forcing the creature to jerk back in a spray of burning ichor. As he drove the daemon back with halberd and lantern, he saw that the eye of every daemon, Bloodbound and Stormcast was locked on the duel.

With a shout, several Liberators moved forward, as if to confront the daemon. Skul’rath lashed out blindly, crumpling sigmarite shields and armour with its fists. The warriors fell, bodies reduced to crackling streaks of lightning. But Gorgus saw to it that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He swept his halberd out, carving a wound in the distracted bloodthirster’s back. It spun, and Gorgus thrust his lantern forward, catching the daemon full in the face with the glory of Azyr.

Skul’rath staggered back, clawing at itself as the light permeated its form. Strange red cracks appeared and ran along its monstrous shape, and a stinking smoke rose from them. The magical energies of Gorgus’ lantern had punctured the bloodthirster’s form at a hundred points, seeping into its pores and blazing in its wounds. It stumbled towards its axe, but Gorgus interposed himself, slashing new, bright wounds in its arms and torso. The daemon sank to one knee. Greasy smoke rose from its skull as the light burned it. Soon, its whole head was aflame with a pale, blue fire. Its body shuddered and quaked as it tore fiery gobbets from its own flesh, as if seeking release from a greater pain.

Skul’rath the Broken reared back with a thunderous scream. It was a sound of rage, of denial and, at the last, of fear, as the monster came apart with a sigh of drifting ash. Gorgus strode through the cloud of ash, lantern held high. ‘Stormcasts,’ he said, casting its light over the ranks of the Adamantine, ‘reform the lines ten paces behind me. Lock shields, you sons of Azyr. Or do you expect me to do all your fighting for you?’

Stormcasts streamed past him. Precious few of them remained. Many had returned to Sigmar’s hand. But there were enough. We have not broken, he thought. They’d come close, though. And the daemons were still flowing down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, like blood flowing from a wound. Skul’rath’s defeat had given them a momentary pause, but no more. Sigmar lend you strength, Orius, for I have none to spare you.

Everything hurt. The bloodthirster had tested him. He was still alive, though. And while he lived, he would hold the place where he stood. Shrike, limping, leaned against him and whined. Gorgus stroked the Gryph-hound’s head. ‘And not alone, eh? Good boy,’ he murmured, before turning his attentions to the remaining Bloodbound and daemons.

Several of the bloodletters paced forward hesitantly, obviously wanting to pursue the retreating Stormcasts, but unwilling to get too close to the warrior who had banished Skul’rath. Before they could find their courage, Gorgus stepped forward. He set his warding lantern on the ground and stared at them, meeting their inhuman gazes with his own stony one.

Then, with a great cry, he swept his halberd down to strike the bridge before him. He struck it again, creating a massive fissure which spread quickly across the width of the bridge. It was not wide as gaps went, but it was more for symbolic purposes, than strategic. He lifted his warding lantern and hooked it onto the blade of his halberd, then extended it out before him.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not break,’ he said. ‘I tell you that wherever I stand is my rampart, hounds of abomination,’ he continued, as he stared at the massed ranks of daemons on the other side of the gap.

He spread his arms, as if in invitation. ‘Cross it, and see what it profits you.’

Orius staggered as he stepped through the Black Rift, only to find himself knee-deep in ash and dust. His head throbbed with the roar of uncountable screams, and his eyes stung from the crimson glare of the world he found himself in. He sucked in a sour breath. Harsh smoke abraded his aching lungs and stung his weary eyes.

Every limb felt heavy, and his heart struggled in its rhythm. He was bitterly cold and terribly hot, all at once, as if he had suffered a deep wound. His breath fogged and swirled before his eyes, and he could see faces in it. The faces of daemons, of foes he’d slain and those he might yet slay, if he survived the next few moments.

There was blood on his face and hands, and his gilded armour was stained with the tarry excretions and reeking ichors which rained from the thick, scab-coloured clouds overhead. The smoke that enveloped him stank of a million funeral pyres, and he could hear the roar of distant battle. Weapons crashed against shields and bit into cringing meat.

The air swelled and cracked with a riot of voices echoing from unseen places. Screams of agony mingled with pleading voices and howling cries of pure animal terror. The air was choked by the deep red smoke that curled about him, and he could see strange witch-lights pulsing within its depths. Horrible, ill-defined shapes moved around him, either too slowly or too quickly. Some were larger than others, and these roared in a hideous hunger. He could not say where they were going, or why. Something crackled beneath his foot.

The smoke swirled clear for a moment, and he saw that he stood on a carpet of bones, picked clean. Old bones and new bones, brown and white and yellow, clad in the shapeless remnants of clothing and armour from a span of centuries undreamt of. He saw weapons and tools the likes of which he had only seen depicted on the most ancient of murals within the halls of Sigmaron, and those that seemed far more advanced than the ones he was familiar with. It was as if someone had emptied out all of the graveyards of history, of all the times that had been and were yet to be, and left them wherever they fell.

In the distance, he could see something else – a monstrous edifice, rising out of a brightly burning sea of flowing lava. He could hear the thump of great war-drums and the crash of forges, and for a moment he was lost to the cacophony.

‘The Brass Citadel,’ a voice said from behind him. He turned to find Anhur waiting for him, axe hanging by his side, his sword sheathed on his hip. ‘It is some distance away – a continent’s length or perhaps an aeon’s span, I cannot say. It is different for every man.’ The red mist rose up, and voices whispered urgently in Orius’ head, urging him to attack, to slay his enemy. He closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer to Sigmar.

‘I remember those words. Once, we spoke them together, did we not? On the eve of battle, we would kneel and beg him for victory, like mongrels begging for scraps,’ Anhur said. He spread his arms. ‘And now, here you are, still begging.’

‘Where are we?’ Orius said, his voice hoarse. It was hard to speak above a whisper. The air burned his throat and he could taste blood. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Field of the Slain, where the bones of all those killed by Khorne’s followers come to rest,’ Anhur said. The red mist swirled up around him, and Orius thought he could see the forms of mutilated warriors within its coils. The broken shapes struggled against one another before they vanished once more into the mist.

Orius shook his head and lifted his hammer. Behind him, he could hear the sour hum of the rift. It pulsed hungrily. Lean shapes loped past them through the mist. As they moved, it cleared momentarily, revealing rank upon rank of bloodletters. The daemonhost stretched as far as Orius’ eye could see to either side of Anhur. They moved so swiftly he could barely tell one rank from the next. They paid him no heed, galloping past with hideous screams which stung his ears to hear. Where they originated from he could not say, and he thought perhaps they came from the red mist itself.

‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions of the damned march into Klaxus through the wound I ripped in its heart,’ Anhur said. Orius heard the crunch of bone and turned, his mind and reflexes still sluggish. Anhur’s black axe slashed down, carving a gouge in his breastplate. Orius staggered back, belatedly bringing his weapons up. ‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions, at my command if I but take the reins of power,’ the Scarlet Lord said, slashing at him again. ‘A far cry from the pitiful scraps we led from Ytalan, eh Oros?’ Orius parried the blow with his runeblade, but only just. He felt as if his limbs were wrapped in weighted chains.

‘Fight back, damn you,’ Anhur roared. He smashed Orius to one knee, and knocked his runeblade from his hand. ‘Why do you not fight?’

Orius shook his head and forced himself to his feet, hammer in hand. With a cry, he lunged. Anhur avoided the blow and caught the Lord-Celestant’s hammer just behind the head. With a snarl he tore it from its wielder’s grasp, before backhanding Orius off his feet. ‘I’ve chosen my ground too well, it seems. You cannot bear the weight of Khorne’s realm,’ Anhur said. ‘No man can, without being – ah – without being changed.’

Orius clambered to his feet. He was weaponless. Behind him, the rift pulsed as daemons flowed through it to assail his warriors and the kingdom he had once called his own. The lethargy he’d felt began to fade.

The Scarlet Lord staggered and clutched at his head. ‘The sound of the drumbeat in my soul grows so loud I cannot tell where my thoughts end and those of the Blood God begin,’ he growled. His armour creaked and he hunched forward with a groan. ‘I grow mighty indeed, though it hurts. Was the pain of your rebirth like this, I wonder?’ He tossed Orius’ hammer aside. ‘Get up, Hound. Stand, so that we might end this as is fitting.’

Orius dived at his foe. Surprised, Anhur stepped back. Orius’ fingers found the hilt of the blade sheathed at Anhur’s hip and he tore it free of its sheath. He swung it, feeling the weight of the Klaxian blade as he drove Anhur back. The Scarlet Lord retreated, putting space between them.

‘Why are you running, Anhur? Did you not lead me here to kill me? Isn’t that what this was all in service of?’ Orius said. The mist coiled about him as he stepped towards his opponent. Anhur raised his axe in warning.

For a moment, the Scarlet Lord stared at him, as if trying to understand the question. Orius was about to challenge him again, when his foe spoke. ‘On this day I see clearly, for the first time since I fled Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Everything has been revealed at last.’ He stepped back, axe lowered. ‘I see the world for what it is. We stand at the crux of all history, Oros. Here in this place, I can see every moment which led us here, every step, every choice.’ Anhur lifted his axe. ‘I can see every failure, every triumph, every regret… I see it all. I have shed oceans of blood and built mountains of skulls, but still… I am found wanting.’

Orius lifted the sword. ‘And?’ he said. He could hear nothing save the dull pulse of the Black Rift, and his own heartbeat. Or perhaps it was Anhur’s. The moment stretched. He could see his hammer, just out of the corner of his eye.

If he could get to it he believed that he could shatter the rift, though it might mean his doom. The hammers made for the Lord-Celestants of the Warrior Chambers were things of great potency, forged by Sigmar himself, and they contained the raw fury of Azyr within them. They could shatter even the mightiest of realmgates, and break the bonds between realms, no matter how ancient or sturdy. But to do so was to risk unleashing a force that not even a Stormcast could survive.

‘You should have let me die that day, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘That was your great mistake. You did not see the monster crouched in my skin, and now it has grown too strong to deny.’ He lunged, axe screaming as it cut through the very fabric of the realm. Orius lifted his stolen sword to parry, knowing that it would not be strong enough to resist the bite of the black axe.

But at the last moment the axe twitched aside, and the blade sawed into his shoulder-plate. Acting on instinct, Orius whipped the sword around. Pulled his blow – why? he thought, as the sword slid easily between the plates of Anhur’s armour, into the inhuman flesh beneath. The Scarlet Lord staggered back with a groan. His axe tumbled from his hand to vanish into the red mist. He clutched at the hilt of the sword and sank down to one knee.

Orius whirled and snatched up his hammer. He sent the weapon flying towards the daemonic portal with every ounce of strength remaining to him. The weapon exploded as it struck the swirling void, unleashing a torrent of crackling blue lightning. Everywhere the bolts struck, blue flames shot up to engulf daemons or else drive them back. The Black Rift thrashed like a wild beast as its swirling darkness became shot through with veins of cleansing light. Through the cracks in its oily surface, Orius could see the citadel, and his warriors still battling the daemons that had emerged from the rift.

But as he started forward, he felt the reverberations of an earth-shaking tread. The Lord-Celestant turned, and saw something impossibly massive looming above him in the raw skies of the daemon realm. Its brass armour blazed like a hideous sun, and its enormous, hound-like muzzle was twisted in a monstrous leer. Eyes like colossal ruptured cysts gazed at him with inhuman hatred. In one talon it carried a black sword which still glowed with the heat of the dying universes in which it had been forged.

A voice that was at once the clangour of weapons striking armour and the screams of the dying bayed in his head, and he staggered. Whether it was the voice of the apparition or merely some strange echo of this place, he did not know. He clutched at his skull as fear and hatred warred within him. A berserk desire to hurl himself at the titanic apparition and die on its blade filled him, and he took an unconscious step forward.

‘No,’ Anhur growled. ‘No. No, Hound of Ytalan. This is not for you.’ A bloody hand fell on Orius’ shoulder and he found himself wrenched back. Anhur had torn the sword from his body and now held its dripping length in one hand. The Scarlet Lord pushed him towards the dying rift. ‘Klaxus-that-was is dead. And so too must its last prince – its last king – die. But not you, Oros. You pulled me from the edge of doom, and now, I do the same for you.’

‘Anhur…’ Orius began. For the first time in a long time, he recognised the eyes that looked at him from within the black iron helm of the Scarlet Lord. They were not the eyes of a blood-mad monster, but those of a true lord of Klaxus – arrogant and cold, but human.

‘This is my apotheosis, my brother,’ Anhur said, as he turned to face the gigantic monstrosity which watched them, its bestial head cocked, as if in curiosity. It had made no move to intervene, though Orius knew that if it had chosen to do so, no force in existence could have prevented it. Instead it waited… and watched.

Anhur laughed. ‘I could not go into the dark of eternity, knowing that our debt remained unpaid. You should have let me die then. And I should kill you now. But I am Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and I pay my debts. Thus, I am purged of weakness. Thus, I prove my worth.’ He held up the bloody sword, as if studying his reflection. ‘I am strong again, for the first time, for the last time. Victory, at the cost of pain. Go, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘My destiny is in this place, in this moment, but yours is not – GO!’

Orius hesitated, but only for a moment more. As he stepped through the contracting corona of the rift, he turned and saw Prince Anhur of Ytalan raise his sword, as if in homage, or perhaps in challenge to the monstrous apparition. He saw that colossal black blade rise and the dog-like muzzle gape in a howl powerful enough to snuff out stars. The blade fell, and the reverberations of its descent shattered the Black Rift.

Time split and stretched about him as he fought his way towards safety. Shards of sorcerous obsidian struck his armour and spun away into the howling void which gaped hungrily behind him. Daemons clawed at him, trying vainly to anchor themselves before they too were ripped shrieking back into Khorne’s realm. Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions worth of Khorne’s foul minions slipped past him and were drawn screaming into darkness.

Orius saw moments from his past and future, all running parallel to one another as he stretched his hand out towards the light of reality. He saw battles he had fought and those he would fight, alongside figures from myth. He heard the voice of doom reverberating through the Eight Realms, and the thunder of Ghal Maraz as it descended from on high. He felt the crush of a blow that had, that would, kill him, and the searing pain of rebirth. He heard the bellows of Khorne, roaring in fury, or perhaps satisfaction.

And then, suddenly, he was falling to crash down amidst the newly laid carpet of ashes which covered the floor of the ruined chamber. Smoke rose from his scorched armour, and he could feel it burning his flesh, even as it cooled. Orius shoved himself to one knee and looked around. The great chamber was in a shambolic state. Only a few of the support pillars remained standing, and vast sections of the roof had collapsed, leaving the floor covered in immense chunks of stone. Only a few Stormcasts remained, leaning wearily on their weapons. They jerked upright at his sudden arrival, and began moving towards him, crying out gladly.

‘I expected to have to say the Incantation of the Fallen for you,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was dented in places and streaked with wide stripes of ash. Smoke still wreathed his blackened gauntlets, and he moved as if in pain. But he was alive. As far as Orius was concerned, that was all that mattered. Moros stretched out one smoking hand and Orius caught it. The Lord-Relictor grunted, and clutched at his chest as he did so.

‘What happened?’ Orius said as he helped Moros to his feet.

‘We won. The daemon-tide is gone, as if it never was.’

‘The rift?’

Moros gestured. ‘You’d know better than I. It too has ceased to be. What of the Scarlet Lord? Did you leave his corpse in whatever foul realm was beyond those black facets?’

Orius hesitated, uncertain of how to answer the Lord-Relictor’s question. Was Anhur truly dead, or did he yet live, in some fashion? He thought of the monstrous shape he’d seen superimposed over Anhur’s form as they entered the rift, and the Scarlet Lord’s talk of debts and worth. He had a nagging sensation that whatever the outcome of the battle for Klaxus, Anhur had achieved the victory he desired. Instead of saying any of this, however, he simply nodded. ‘Anhur is no more,’ he said. ‘The skullgrinder?’

Moros jerked his head towards a blackened crater near the chamber’s centre. Orius saw the remains of a chain and what might have once been an anvil, now warped and blackened as if by a great heat. ‘Whether dead, or spirited away to wherever such abominations go when they are wounded, I do not know. And in truth, I cannot say that I care at the moment. He is gone, and that’s enough.’

Orius nodded and said, ‘But what of the rest of our brethren?’ Gripped by a sudden urgency, he strode towards the shattered doors of the chamber and made his way out onto the high terraces of the Sulphur Citadel. The broken bodies of Bloodbound lay sprawled across the steps and ramparts. Ash stained everything, marking where the daemons had been wrenched from reality. Overhead, dark clouds swelled in the sky, and an untainted rain had begun to fall upon Uryx once more.

Through a haze of rain and smoke, he saw that the storm had at last quenched the conflagration which threatened to consume the city and that, far below, the Bridge of Smoke had been shattered. On the far shore, the battered remnants of a golden host stood unbroken, weapons raised as they cheered their victory. He saw a familiar figure standing at their centre, halberd raised in triumph.

Moros came up behind him and clasped his shoulder. ‘Gorgus held, as he swore. Uryx still stands, and Klaxus with it. Now maybe, the rain can wash away the filth. Whatever enemies remain in this city, we shall root them out. The storm has broken, and the people of this kingdom can rebuild. We will help them do so.’

‘And so we shall. But first, we must free the other crater-kingdoms,’ Orius said. ‘Anhur is gone, but his followers yet remain. There are foes before us yet, Moros. Darkness gathers. Our work is not yet done.’ He stretched out his hand, so that the rain could wash the stained sigmarite clean. ‘We have triumphed here, but there can be no respite. Not for us, not yet,’ Orius Adamantine said. ‘The Black Rift is closed, but our war has only just begun.’

As he spoke, the cleansing rain spilled down across the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, to wash the last trace of the ashes away. Somewhere, distant thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed.

The storm swept on.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.

An extract from Call of Archaon.

I

‘You come to me offering death,’ said Copsys Bule, stabbing his long-handled trident into the soft red soil. Blood or something distantly akin to it oozed lazily up around the sinking tines. ‘A kingly gift, envoy, but death flourishes where I choose to sow it. I am a harvester of death.’

Kletch Scabclaw studied him with eyes that could have gleaned weakness from diamond. They were milk yellow, and glared over the mangy scrap of man-skin that he held pressed to his muzzle in the claws from which he had taken his name. The look on his furry, verminous face might have been one of disgust, though at what, or who, was something the plague priest kept for himself.

‘A new age begins, they squeak-say.’ Spreading his paws, the skaven irritably swatted aside a buzzing bloat fly. Through Bule’s blurred vision it appeared to have three eyes, until the ratman snapped his claws and his vision once again became clear. ‘War comes. Even to you.’

Bule snapped his head up.

The skaven immediately backed up a pace, hunched for fight or flight. Light on his foot-paws, he stood atop the rotten mush that went up to Bule’s greaves. His right paw had gone for the weapon he concealed beneath his robes, and he hissed a warning through his scented rag.

Bule smiled, rotten flesh yielding to produce something too wide for a human mouth.

Slowly, Kletch held up his empty paws, then the gnawed-on nub of his tail. It switched over the ratman’s head with irritation. ‘I did not come-scurry all way from clan-burrow to fight-quarrel. The Black Thumb and Clan Rikkit were friend-allies in the Age of Chaos. Is written. Is remembered. Now we must-need fight tooth to claw again.’

Bule turned his back with a mild shake of the head. Withdrawing his bloodied trident, he stabbed three new aeration holes into the soil, the tines spearing an inch deep before hitting something unyielding. Baring the black stubs of his teeth he gave a grunt of pleasure, planted his foot to the back of the fork-head, and rocked back and forth on the handle.

Levering the trident against his bloated girth, he turned over the unyielding patch in a waft of decomposing flesh.

The human corpse tore off its blanket of topsoil and flopped over. A face that was grey-black and runny and lovely as a crop of sweet tubers fresh out of the ground stared up at the slow circling stars with the clarity of the dead. Disturbed maggots and worms squirmed under the starlight, as if divulging some great secret under torture. Bule watched them re-bury themselves, lulled by the drone of a billion bloat flies and the rank cackle of crows.

Wriggle. Wriggle.

‘Rotbringer,’ the skaven prompted him.

Bule pinched his eyes wetly, mind asquirm with worms and portent. The ratman continued.

‘The lightning men hit clan-burrows in Cripple Fang, Untamed Lands and Putris Bog. Even clan-cousins from far Ghyran come-flee, tunnelling the realm-places to bring word of war.’

Shouldering his trident, Bule turned around suddenly enough to elicit a low squeal of alarm from the plague priest of Clan Rikkit. The ratman leapt to one side, reaching again for his concealed weapon, but Bule merely squelched through the spot he had been occupying as though he were a zombie suddenly impelled to be elsewhere.

‘Bule. Bule!’

Copsys Bule ignored him, his armour emitting a mould-muffled clank with every step. Several of the spiked plates were split apart at the joins, but the damage to his armour had been inflicted not from without but from within. Corpse gasses distended his belly, opening up the plates from the inside like a fat grub eating its way out of an egg sac. Everywhere there remained living skin, swellings, boils and tumours caused further buckling, mottling the once-green metal to black.

Not since before the Age of Chaos had Bule known an equal, and his gardens brought weeping harvest to lands from the Bloodbloom Fields in the south to the Avalundic Ice Kingdoms in the north, from the peat bogs of Murgid Fein to the unconquerable Rabid Heights and their gargant kings.

His demesne was too vast for one name.

It encompassed the Pox Sands, the great Bloat Lake and the Plantation of Flies – fleshwork patches stitched with irrigation ditches that steamed with blight and hummed with spawning daemonflies. As far into the bubonic haze as the eye could see, scrofulous, once-human things tilled the soil with rakes and hoes, or waded into pools with long prods to turn the bloated corpses that floated in them, gestating towards ripeness. Hundreds expired in the time it took Bule to walk past them, and were dragged away to the nurseries to replenish the soil in their turn.

But it was the nature of lesser beings to attach small names to great things.

They called it the Corpse Marshes.

Seemingly at random, feeling where the dead desired his knife, he squatted down into the mire. A sigh of simple pleasure escaped him. The crucified remains of men, women and children staked the ground in serried rows for a stretch greater than a man could ride in a day. Here could be found the bodies of almost every race, including several that no longer existed anywhere but as they did here now. For reasons fathomable to few but Bule himself, he called it his Living Orchard. A foetid breeze moaned through the dead, making them hum and sway, like lush-leaved trees in bloom. Drawing a curved knife from his arming belt, he sawed away a hand that liquefaction was beginning to pull away from the wrist. It was human. A nectarine blackness trickled from the cut. He licked it from his hand, eyes closed in ecstasy.

There was no plan in his mind of how his garden should be, but he knew what needed to be done towards its completion. And it would be soon. Very soon.

The thought thrilled him even as the part of him that had cherished these labours was saddened by their imminent passing.

‘There are a great many of your kind here,’ Bule said, aware that the ratman had followed him and was now crouching on an old wall behind him. Keeping his distance. ‘Your fur. Your guts. You teem with life like no other.’ He cut away another sagging limb with a clinical slash. ‘Nothing rots as quickly as a skaven rots. Nothing embraces Grandfather Nurgle so completely.’

‘Is that what you want-wish me to take back to my masters?’

‘Ask me again come the high moon.’

‘Why-why? What changes then?’

Bule licked his knife with a wide smile. Birds cried in fevered tongues, a diseased animal sagacity that he might one day have the fortune to fathom but half of. ‘You come on an auspicious night. For the first time in thousands of years the stars will align my realmgate with another.’

‘And then?’ Kletch hissed, suddenly wary.

‘Ask me again come the high moon.’

II

Fistula, First Blightlord of the Black Thumb, delighter in sickness and death, opened the orruk from hip to hip with a sawing reverse of his blade. A surprised snort issued from the greenskin’s tusked helmet, but the fighter remained upright, tough as necrotic flesh and just as dead to pain. Holding its squirming guts in a fist the size of a buckler, it swung its axe at the blightlord with a roar.

Hardwearing, vicious – orruks were infamous. But the fever spreading fire through its veins from the infected belly wound made it sluggish. Fistula sidestepped the clumsy slash with ease then broke its shin with a heel jab. It was sweating. Most men would never know that an orruk could suffer the way this one now did. But still it would not yield.

Fistula appreciated that.

Dashing aside its weakening backslash on the flat of his sword, he stepped in behind its flailing trunk of an arm, close enough to smell the daemon plaguelings rampaging through its veins, then plunged his parrying dagger through its throat.

The orruk’s mammoth jaws snapped spasmodically as Fistula tore his dagger loose and kicked the brute away. Blood from the torn artery sprayed in a rising arc and painted the open face of Fistula’s helm green. He gasped. Partly to drink the wetness from the air. Partly for the raw pleasure of doing so.

Fistula looked down on the beaten orruk. It was still snapping its jaws even as it drowned in its fluids and its eyes turned white. Fistula could have ended it quickly, should have, perhaps, but endemic as the orruks were in the shadow of the Rabid Heights there were never enough to last. He looked up.

The orruks were still fighting in scattered mobs spread out along the length of the narrow gulch into which the Black Thumb had pursued them, but they were broken. Not in the manner of a human or Rotbringer host. They did not run. Rather, they held on with the witless tenacity of sick beasts. Hardy as they were as a race, all bore the stigmata of infection: weeping sores and crusted cuts that would not heal. For every hundred that lay dead with an obvious wound, a hundred more twitched on the ground with blood foam in their mouths and flies on their rotting flesh.

Gors and bestigors plunged headlong into the fray, hacking and goring with frenzied abandon. Rotbringer knights on maggot-riddled steeds galloped up the steeply climbing wall of the gulch to strike at the orruk warleader. The huge beast was surrounded by his biggest and most brutal, but was already heavily beset by the Tzeentchian warhost driving in from the opposite side of the ravine.

The Changeling host was a cacophonous legion of colours and shapes. Gold glittered. Strange voices whispered. Flames of every cast, smell and texture danced along the crossbars of banner poles, and suits of almost-sentient armour whispered secrets to the deepest subconscious of all nearby with a mind to hear. Daemonflies buzzed over everything and everyone. Blight hounds ran along the flanks, pulling down the isolated and the maimed. Giant slugs burrowed up from under the hardpan to swallow Tzeentchian warriors whole while plague drones and sleek daemonic screamers swept at each other in pitched battle for the skies.

The orruks had become almost incidental.

Fistula read the kindred mood in his opposite number, the hunger, coming from somewhere out there in the gulch. They had both come to torment prey, but now, starved of a true challenge, they threw their warriors at the other with greater ferocity than they had ever before.

It was something that Copsys Bule had become too fat and old to realise. Even the most rapacious of plagues could be tamed, lingering only on the scraps left by those they had once devastated in their millions.

A stamp of hellsteel and an ebullient cry called Fistula back from the abstract of the battle. Through a congested melee of putrid blightkings and sickening orruk fighters half again their size, a Chaos warrior encased in full plate armour of azure and gold barged towards him. His helm was solid metal, with only the etching of half-lidded eyes through which some enchantment perhaps permitted him to see. From the sides, golden horns spiralled inwards towards infinity. The Tzeentchian knuckled aside an orruk and roared the final strides with his broadsword swept high overhead.

With a shout, Fistula pivoted on the spot and smacked his saw-toothed blade hard into the larger blade’s descent. It was not a parry. He struck the Tzeentchian’s broadsword as though meaning to do it harm. The impact arced up his arm. He felt it vibrate in his teeth. Reflex action shocked his fingers open and would have lost him his blade if not for the blood and pus that pooled endlessly into his grip from infected calluses and glued palm to hilt.

The Tzeentchian reeled as though it had been struck on the head by a blow that had left its helmet ringing. Its heavy sword trailed, elbows locked in spasm with the aftershock of keeping a hold of his blade.

Fistula struck off the warrior’s head with a single blow to the neck and laughed.

He was the opposite of Copsys Bule in most ways. Where the Lord of Plagues had become a bloated wreck of a man, Fistula’s body was wasted, the favour in which he was held written in lesions on pared bone and in the ropey musculature that seeped and seeped without end. He was a warrior. A fever raged in his mind that no level of war could ever purge and his armour, lighter by preference, was etched with tallies of the blights he had tasted and the civilizations he had brought low.

‘Secure the dead,’ bellowed a cadaverous, jaundiced blightking wearing a cruel harness of scythe-edged plates and hanging mail. He lay into the orruks with a pair of matching knives, bloodily proficient in his preferred mode of killing. Fistula was one of the few to know him as Vitane. To most, he was Leech. The blightking turned and waved a come now gesture. ‘Bring up the wagons. If we are not back by high moon it will go poorly for you.’

Rattling in under a fug of disease came a dozen wagons. Each was drawn by a team of six wheezing horses, their loose wheels the size of a man, their high sides scratched with the knife marks of individual warriors and with a splintered parapet of aged wood. Leprous harvesters in hoods and swaddling leaned over the parapet with hooks to draw up the dead. The drovers called a halt. The horses snuffled in their traces, hacking, puking, biting at each other’s flea-ravaged coats.

Fighting his way to Fistula’s side, Vitane looked down on the orruk still dying at his lord’s feet. The leathery tissue was continuing to shrivel away, the liquidised remainder sinking around the bones.

‘He will be unhappy. This one is worthless.’

Fistula sneered. Vitane was old enough to have fought with Copsys Bule from the beginning, lacking enough in ambition or favour to prevent his star being eclipsed by the man he now followed into battle.

‘I am not here to scavenge and I am not here for Bule,’ Fistula said.

They could not all dine off glories past.

Fistula scanned the confusion for the Tzeentchian champion. Warriors of every stripe filled the gulch from wall to wall with a riot of colour and noise. Even the sky reflected the vivid clash, the bubonic haze that blanketed Bule’s demesnes turned a sickly turquoise by the rolling cumulus of Tzeentchian fire that followed the war horde from the north. Twisted trees covered in naked sores and weeping black foliage clung to the ridgeline. They swayed under the opposing winds.

Fistula shivered though he could not say why. His eyes narrowed.

There was something there, hidden under the drooping canopy. Fistula glimpsed a figure, or the suggestion of one. More a feeling than something he could later describe and claim with certainty had been real. He perceived a sense of robes, of a gaunt, skeletal height, but his overriding impression was one of watchfulness, of many, many sets of eyes trained upon every aspect of this moment in time. In a blink of the mind it was gone. The inkling of its prior being was a subliminal glamour that nevertheless refused to fully fade, as though he had gazed overlong upon a daemon and imprinted its corona of power onto his mind.

He shook his head, and with the blessed release of a peeled scab pulled off his helmet and wiped the orruk’s gore from his hairless scalp.

The sense of watchfulness remained on him, a nagging question at the back of his mind. He felt judgement, though for what, Fistula doubted he had the faculties to comprehend. Nor did he care. He bared his teeth in anticipation and raised his sword to signal the charge. His own glorification was all that mattered.

Let it watch. Let it judge.

III

Kletch Scabclaw spread his arms out to either side while a skavenslave hung the heavy ambassadorial cloak of Clan Rikkit over his shoulders. It was a bit much for the cloying humidity of the Corpse Marshes, and itched in hard-to-reach places that no garment so august should. Its fleas had been passed from priest to priest for two hundred years, and were now the hardy descendents of those that had survived the clan’s full arsenal of pesticidal sorcery.

His dresser ducked under his arm and shuffled around to the front.

The slave was naked but for its own scrappy fur and the brands of clan and owner, but Kletch was only partially reassured by that. To his mind there were any number of innovative places in which a determined assassin might secrete a weapon. His yellow eyes drilled into the side of the slave’s head. The wretch bared its throat with a whimper, stabbing its thumb several times in its panic to fasten the cloak’s rat bone collar. Kletch fidgeted as the slave fussed.

It was too hot. The garish green light of the warpstone braziers around the low-roofed tent was too bright. The spiced scent they gave off to hold back the reek was too sickly sweet.

‘How much-long to high moon?’ he asked of the plague monk seated against the wall of the pavilion behind his back.

‘Soon-soon.’

Scurf’s piebald fur was pox-scarred, so denuded of hair from his own incessant scratching that he resembled a game bird that had been abandoned before it could be fully plucked. The crusted word-bringer set his claw quill onto the stack of man-skin parchment on which he had been cataloguing the many new diseases they had encountered since their arrival in the Corpse Marshes and shrugged. ‘An hour, I think-guess.’

Kletch wriggled his shoulders in discomfort. ‘Something is about to happen-come. I feel-feel in my claws.’

‘I feel-smell also,’ said Scurf, always eager to concur.

The slave scurried over to the brass-ribbed chest sitting open by the hide wall of the tent, and returned with Kletch’s warpstone-tipped staff. Kletch snatched it off the slave with a snarled rebuke. Feeling a little better, he gave the air a fresh sniff, opening his mouth to taste. Between the reek of putrefaction and his own efforts to keep it at bay, there was little left to be smelled, but somehow he knew, knew, that there was more than just the three of them present in that tent.

‘You want-wish to go home?’ asked Scurf.

‘No,’ said Kletch, meaning yes. ‘Clanlords will not reward us for returning with paws empty. The lightning men hit them much-hard in lots-many places. Clanlords grow desperate. They… make bad decisions when they are desperate.’

The slave scurried back bearing a bottle filled with a greenish red liquor that it poured into a goblet. Steam hissed off the cup as the liquid hit the lacquer. The slave bobbed its head low and presented the potation. Kletch eyed the rodent severely. With a gulp, the slave brought the cup to its lips and took the daintiest sip.

Kletch took the goblet from his retching slave, stole his nerve, and then downed its contents. He grimaced, throat tightening, musk glands clenching, and stuck out his tongue. ‘Blegh!’

‘Best-best potions taste worst,’ said Scurf sagely.

Clan Rikkit had once been part of Pestilens, before a tunnel collapse in the ways between worlds had separated them from their brethren. They still retained many of the old immunities, but the cautious rat was the healthy rat.

‘This all a waste of time anyway,’ said Scurf, picking up his quill once more and dunking it in the shelled ink bug still twitching on his table. Scratching away at the parchment, he went on. ‘He has many warriors, but this not the Copsys Bule used to frighten my litter when I was small-young.’

Kletch was unconvinced. Bule could afford to let the world pass him by for a millennium or two if he chose to do so, of that he was certain. And if Bule was any less than the tyrant of clan legend then Kletch was glad that he had not been the envoy sent to treat with that Lord of Plagues.

‘One hour more we can wait. Let us see this over-done, but have all my warriors ready to go.’

‘Yes-yes,’ said Scurf, carefully folding his quill and packing it away.

Kletch twitched aside the tent flap and slipped out into the muggy night with wrinkled nose and downcast eyes. Two from the two-dozen plague monks quietly chittering their praises on the broken ground outside of the tent fell into step behind him.

A colossal fortress-temple had once stood here, built by a people who had worshipped the stars and raised towers of incredible scale that they might feel the distant objects of their faith more keenly. For all that their eyes had attended the heavens, they had clearly also been masters of stone. Many of the great structures still stood though they were ruinous now, verterbral columns of stone that had been yellowed by blight, weather and war. Copsys Bule called this place the Hanging Gardens, named so for the thousands upon thousands of dead and dying strung up from its moss-clad defensive walls. Those still alive writhed in fever so that the walls themselves appeared in motion. Their mouths moved but no evidence of their torment could be heard from them, not above the flies.

To count the flies was to court insanity. They were infinite, swarms within swarms, billowing over the corrupted fortress in such numbers that at times they were as the chitinous outer wings of a beetle closing over the world and shutting out the sky. At such times the drone was a gnawing on the boundary between earth and heavens, between real and unreal. At other times it was simply maddening. It set the teeth on edge.

The Clan Rikkit camp pavilion was set up on the rubble where the innermost gate had crumbled to create a rockery populated with razor weeds that were watered each day with the blood of year-dead men. It would foul a charge as surely as any gate ever would, assuming any enemy had the fortitude to survive as far as Bule’s innermost defensive line.

From that vantage Kletch had an unimpeded and deeply unpleasant view.

The Corpse Marshes were monstrous. It reminded him only somewhat of the honeycombed pox caves of Murgid Fein, where diseases were bred, mutated and harvested from slaves of every race. But here the scale was far more epic. The very fabric of the world for as far as his dim eyes could show him felt rotten, perished. The reports of all of his senses scurried about his mind to decry its wrongness and even he, master of the industrialisation of degradation, felt sickened by it.

A geyser of corpse gas rippled upwards and outwards from a sinkhole further down near the gatehouse. Grime spattered back over the rotten gates and the band of warriors marching home over its splinters. A column of plague beasts and meat wagons followed them. Kletch recognised Fistula’s pack: the most useful of Bule’s warriors, but a drop in the septic ocean of his horde.

Leaning against his staff, he settled in to wait.

‘Another day spent in genuflection to our lord’s placidity, envoy?’ said Fistula as he tramped up the slope, evidently bound for the same destination as Kletch. The champion was spattered with loose gore and beaming, contempt for all and sundry and for Kletch in particular vibrant in his bloodshot eyes.

The blightlord walked over, laden carts drawn by withered, pestilential beasts creaking on behind him. Kletch stiffened with immediate suspicion and sniffed at the flies buzzing lazily after the vehicles’ cargo. The experiments of Clan Burrzik in breeding eavesdropping mosquitoes had faltered as a consequence of the clan’s incompetence, but one never knew. One never knew.

‘Maybe,’ he said, then chirred something conciliatory and gestured with his tail to the top of the hill.

There, encircled by a ring of luminous white pillars that in their cleanliness exuded a sense of power and prominence, was a marble archway carved with astrological constellations and runic notations. It stood bare to the stars as if waiting only on their call, and even inert as it was, the sight of it sent a frisson of imagined dread running to the tip of his tail. He could understand why the ancients here had built such a monument to the heavens.

He licked his gums nervously. ‘What does Bule want-think will happen tonight?’

‘I can tell you what I think will happen.’

Kletch caught the blightlord’s look and read the need there. Battle. Survival. Aims not identical to his, but with cunning words and enough will perhaps complementary ones. He glanced upwards again to mark the approach of high moon, his neck, accustomed to tunnels and caves, already sore from continually doing so. That was when he noticed what had been worrying at him since he left his tent.

The stars were moving.

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