The Forgotten Dead

Rayvan Nightbolt pressed on through the cold mists of the Shyishan outerlands, her storm-blessed pistol in one hand, the Katophrane-crafted metal tablet in the other. Her bones ached and her muscles were racked with exhaustion – not only from trekking through this land that saw neither sun nor moon, but also from the untrammelled death magic that was so potent this far towards the Realm’s Edge. She could barely see in front of her, and the black plating of her sigmarite armour seemed to blend into the pervasive gloom. But she had to go on – she had come too far, and too much had been lost, for her to turn back now.

‘I am an envoy of the God-King,’ she said.

There was no one there to reply.

This had been happening more and more: she would find herself speaking, as if answering a question, but as soon as the words left her lips she had no memory of the question she was answering, nor of who had asked it. Other times she wandered in some wayward direction, as if being lead from her path by an invisible guide. Upon realising, she would look to the metal tablet in her hand, upon which was etched the map she was following, and she would correct her course. This was a strange place, where thoughts quickly became scattered like dead leaves in the wind. But there was one constant that remained fixed in Rayvan’s mind – she had to find Vannah, the God of the Forgotten Dead.

As she trudged forward, Rayvan saw a dim light ahead of her. At first she thought it was yet another trick of this perplexing environment, but it held steady in her vision and grew brighter as she continued to move towards it. With the light still distant, she stopped and readied her finger on the trigger of her weapon.

‘Do not bar my path, gheist. I have come too far.’

Again, there was no one to hear her words. The light still glowed ahead. Rayvan approached it once more, and as she did so, words came drifting into her mind.

why have you come here

It was not so much a voice that Rayvan heard, but a thin whisper at the edge of her thoughts. Each word felt like a long-distant memory, obscured by time to the point that it was barely tangible.

‘I am an envoy of Sigmar, God-King of the Mortal Realms. I seek Vannah.’

There was no answer.

Rayvan thought she could see the light before her taking shape. What at first had appeared as a dim mote was now a broad column of pale luminescence, and as the surrounding mists thinned she could see that it stretched up high above her.

The whispering voice came into Rayvan’s mind once more.

how have you found me

This time its words had slightly more substance – they felt more real in her mind, as though they had been remembered more clearly.

‘This,’ said Rayvan, holding the metal tablet towards the light before her. ‘It was crafted in an age long gone by the Katophranes of Shadespire. It was found by my brethren in the ruins of that now-cursed city, and I have followed it to seek the God of the Forgotten Dead. Are you he?’

There was another long silence, followed by another whispered word.

yes

Rayvan clenched her jaw, holding back her frustration. The tomes of the Katophranes had spoken of a hidden underworld, untouched by Nagash, in which souls abounded. She had been tasked with finding this sequestered death god in the hopes that his spectral subjects would join in the war against the Great Necromancer. Rayvan looked to her surroundings, and aside from the glowing light before her saw only mist. Many of her brothers and sisters had been lost in the search for this place. Had it all been for naught?

‘You say you are Vannah,’ said Rayvan with confidence born of anger. ‘But where are your followers? I see none in this place.’ As she spoke the column of light grew more defined. It had a body, spectral limbs and the outline of a barely perceptible face.

‘A great war is upon us,’ she continued. ‘And it will consume this realm. The God-King beseeches you join him so that Nagash might be defeated.’

As Rayvan’s words rang out, the mists began to part. She saw the lifeless features of the land around her coming into view for the first time, and upon the fields of barren soil were rows upon rows of spectral figures cast in neither light nor shadow. Tens of thousands of them stood motionless, facing her, their shapes defined only by the absence they cut into their surroundings.

These are my forgotten dead.

The voice was no longer a whisper. Each syllable had weight and solidity, like a slab of cold stone shaped for a specific purpose.

In death they sought escape from the deeds of their past, and by my power were they stricken from all memory.

The being of amethyst light loomed over Rayvan, its brightness now intense. From the spectral hordes came the faint sounds of weeping, moaning and bitter anguish.

‘You can no longer remain hidden!’ she declared. ‘Nagash must be stopped!’

No sooner had she spoken than she received her reply.

I am hidden no more.

The ground in front of Rayvan began to split, cracks racing through the fallow earth in great arcs that encircled the luminous god before her. She stepped back as the soil within the circle fell away to nothingness, revealing a gaping chasm into which the light of the death god streamed.

Nagash has followed you here!

With a soul-splitting howl the god’s being was sucked into the blackness below. Rayvan stared into the abyss, dumbstruck, only looking up when she became aware of the tormented wailing around her. The spectres that filled the land had become plainly visible, no longer shrouded from her memory now that their god had been devoured. Their faces were twisted into expressions of pain and self-loathing, and they stared at her with hate-filled eyes. She had come here seeking their allegiance. She had come that they might save themselves from Nagash. Could it be that she had doomed them to his service?

As Rayvan beheld the spectral hordes, she felt the earth beneath her feet tremble, and from the dark chasm that had torn open came the booming and dreadful voice of Sigmar’s ancient enemy.

‘NONE CAN HIDE FROM ME. EVERY SOUL IS MINE BY RIGHT.’

At this, the spectral hordes surged towards Rayvan. She dropped the Katophrane tablet, drew her storm sabre, and prayed to Sigmar for a swift death.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

The Forgotten Dead © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. The Forgotten Dead, Malign Portents, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world. All Rights Reserved.

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