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

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1
Various authors

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2
Various authors

LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR
Various authors

CITY OF SECRETS
Nick Horth

HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
Josh Reynolds

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

RULERS OF THE DEAD
Josh Reynolds & David Annandale

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

HALLOWED KNIGHTS: BLACK PYRAMID
Josh Reynolds

GODS & MORTALS
Various authors

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

WARCRY
Various authors

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

MYTHS & REVENANTS
Various authors

GHOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

Audio Dramas

REALMSLAYER
David Guymer

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

WAR-CLAW
Josh Reynolds

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS
Nick Kyme

THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES
Various authors

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Myths & Revenants’

A Black Library Publication

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

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

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

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

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Conquest is an art form. Its canvas is a spiderweb. Its medium is blood. It is an art of refinement and of brutality. Too often, its practitioners ignore one for the other. Conquest without blood is mere seduction, ephemeral as love. Yet if there is only violence, then what is being practised is suppression, a passing game for fools. It, too, vanishes like dew and hope.

What my eyes see, my hand conquers. And all who fall within the compass of my reign will pay me the tribute of their blood.

– Neferata, The Red Art

Prologue

The Stonepain Mountains raised their curved claws to the sky. The white of monstrous bones showed through jagged rents in the black granite, and the earth’s dried blood stained sheer cliffs with dark red. The mountain chain was the agony of the very rock of Shyish, thrust upwards during upheavals at the end of the Age of Myth. It marked the eastern boundary of Neferatia, but that was just one of the Stonepains’ frontiers. The chain formed a rough rectangle many hundreds of miles long and wide. It looked like talons, and it looked like ribcages, and it embraced an empire.

Mounted on Nagadron, her dread abyssal, the Mortarch of Blood flew above the highest peaks of the Stonepains. She looked east, into the realm of Angaria. ‘This will be mine,’ she said to the Lady Mereneth.

In the distance, the land glowed the red of boiling blood. The red flowed from the city of Mausolea in the far distance and reached all the way to the Stonepain foothills, where the blood became distinguishable as the fires from the enemy encampments. The armies aimed at Neferatia were growing night by night. Just visible at the horizon was the glint of brass at the top of the Sentinel of the Shroud, the highest peak in Angaria. It was an isolated mountain in the middle of a plain, and it turned, ceaselessly, a stone guardian casting a baleful gaze over its lands. The brass that defaced it was the mark of the usurper, the mark of Graunos. This was his empire, and he held it fast. The land groaned under the pain of his rule. Its glow was the reflection of his ferocity and his anger, and they were his strength, but that colour was still the colour of blood, and blood belonged to Neferata.

The legions of Nagash had pushed the forces of Chaos back, but the boundary of the Stonepain Mountains had yet to be crossed.

‘Graunos has the same designs on your realm, my queen,’ said Mereneth. Neferata’s chief spy glided beside the Mortarch, membranous wings catching the wind currents with effortless grace.

‘I am glad of it. I will use his designs against him and take what he thinks is his.’

Nagadron growled, eager to sink his claws into his mistress’ foes. The skeletal beast’s voice was the sound of a deep organ chord rattling through bones. The baleful glow of the souls trapped within his body grew brighter, the damned writhing in answer to the monster’s hunger.

Neferata held out a hand, cupping the vista of Angaria in her palm. The clouds above stirred sluggishly, heavy with burdens and anticipation. ‘I will awaken Graunos from his false dream,’ she said. ‘This land is mine.’ She closed her fist. ‘All of it.’

Lightning flashed to the south. Silver lightning, the lightning of a warstorm. Sigmar’s lightning, the mark of the coming of the Stormcast Eternals. It was the lightning that had called Neferata and Mereneth to these heights. Neferata wanted to gaze upon the storm and the domain she was going to conquer. This was the tempest Neferata had been waiting for, the one she needed so she could bring an empire to its knees.

The Mortarch of Blood pointed to the lightning. ‘They shall be my tools,’ she told Mereneth. ‘They will be the means of taking Angaria.’ She smiled, tasting the night, savouring the dance to come. ‘They will be mine, and so will Graunos.’ She reached out, spreading her fingers to grasp the lightning.

Never presume secrecy or the ignorance of the foe. Act on the given that the enemies see more than imagined. Perceive even more deeply than they can, and lead them to errors of interpretation.

– Neferata, Lessons of the Gaze

Chapter One

Light from the fires of Mausolea rose high along the flanks of the Sentinel of the Shroud. The city sprawled out from the western foot of the mountain, a supplicant prostrate before a towering, unforgiving god. Before the coming of the legions of the Blood God, Mausolea had been a city for the dead. Its avenues of monuments and vast sepulchres were grander and more numerous than the streets of the living. Whether entombed or walking the night, the dead had ruled Mausolea, and the mortals had prospered there only at their sufferance.

The dead ruled no longer. Mausolea had changed from a city of shadows and silence to a cauldron of flame. Its mortal population had grown under the reign of the Lord of Skulldagger Bastion. Khorne craved blood. To feed that insatiable hunger required an army and an industry unlike any that Mausolea or any of the lands and cities of Angaria had ever seen. Tombs had been opened, vaults had been ransacked, graves had been turned into primitive forges. Molten iron ran down the gutters of the streets. Graunos commanded, and an army grew, and from the maws of the industry that created the army came the flames that rose and spread their light on the mountainside.

There were other fires, too. The burning homes and the burning pyres of the day’s sacrifices to the throne of brass.

The flames of Mausolea illuminated the slowly changing face of the mountain. Though the structures of the city came very close to the base of the mountain, none were built upon the slopes themselves. None were permitted on the flanks of the turning mountain, and the near-vertical rock face defied any attempt to build upon it. Slowly, relentlessly, the towering pillar of rock rotated on its base, following the rhythm of the days and nights. Its peak hunched forward in the shape of an immense granite hood. When the light of Hysh fell upon the land, the Sentinel’s movement seemed to be an agonised turn away from the day, the hood seeking the darkness that had vanished. Then, with the coming of dusk, for all the regions that fell within the shadow of the Sentinel, the abyss within the hood appeared to be the origin of night, and it was from the mountain that the breath of darkness came to fall upon Angaria.

So it had been until Graunos had conquered Angaria and commanded the construction of Skulldagger Bastion. The base of the fortress was in the shape of a colossal skull of brass. It filled the cavern of the hood, and had transformed the Sentinel of the Shroud, giving it a face. No longer did the mountain turn from light and create darkness. Now it looked upon the land below, a gaping, snarling guardian of Chaos. The towers of the citadel rose from the crown of the skull like a forest of brass spikes. The spires of the periphery leaned at sharp angles, jutting into space beyond the skull. The central turrets climbed high above the peak, daggers that stabbed the day and blinded the night.

From the eyes and mouth of the skull came the light of Graunos. The daemon prince had come from Hysh, and he had brought with him his particular strength of anger. He brought, to the land of the dead, the curse of the most terrible, virulent light. The beam was red as blood, if blood burned at the touch. It was brilliant, its intensity dazzling even at the peak of day. At night, it was a sword that cut the darkness, a searing wound.

The light marked a scorched perimeter around Mausolea as the mountain turned. Where it passed, stone burst into flame, and the air rained molten brass. During the hour before it came again, the land remained as hot as the interior of a crematorium.

The tower that jutted from the centre of the skull’s brow, leaning the furthest out over the vertiginous fall, held in its peak the Offertory throne room. The chamber was a huge hemisphere. In the centre of the floor was a bowl-shaped combat arena. Here the supplicants of Graunos’ favour and the victims of his displeasure fought to the death. A mob of bloodreavers surrounded the arena, their raving howls urging the combatants on. There was no need for them to act as guards. No soul who entered the pit would think of climbing out without the severed head of their enemy, their offering to the figure who sat on the throne of brass and iron.

The throne was huge, a monolithic sculpture whose edges were serrated with claws. The iron talons moved perpetually, with the grinding of protesting metal. They slashed at the air, hungry for the flesh of all who dared approach the lord of the bastion. But massive as the throne was, it was dwarfed by the mound of brass-coated skulls behind it that climbed towards the distant vaulted ceiling of the chamber. Here were the heads of every failed supplicant and condemned prisoner. Though the victors of the pit presented the skulls to the ruler of Angaria, the mound loomed over the throne as a reminder that the offerings were truly meant for Khorne.

Graunos presided over the latest battle to unfold in the pit. Standing to the right of the throne, Kathag, lord of Khorne, divided his attention between the battle and the daemon prince. It served him well to gauge his master’s mood, and to study him closely.

One of the gladiators was Antur Kesseng, scion of one of the noble families of Mausolea. He was in a land dispute with House Renteer. His opponent was Sekkana Garthan. She had collapsed with exhaustion at a weapons forge. The only reason she had not been executed on the spot was because her work had been ferocious in the service of Graunos’ armies. That her crime and Antur’s dispute had no relation to one another was irrelevant. In the Offertory throne room, the judgement in the arena was not for duels. All that mattered was survival or death.

The struggle had already been a long one. The two fighters were ragged, bloody masses, barely distinguishable from one another. They had no blades. Their only weapons were their bare hands and the bones of prior victims that littered the floor of the bowl. Antur seized a femur and swung it at Sekkana. She ducked, and Antur smashed the bone against the wall. It snapped in half, leaving a jagged stump in his hands. He wavered in pain and fatigue. Sekkana made a desperate lunge and shoved at his arms, pushing them back against him and thrusting the spike of bone into his throat. Blood poured over his hands and down his chest. He clawed weakly at the bone. Soaked in gore, it slipped from his grasp, and he fell to his knees. His mouth opened and closed in silent pleas and curses. Sekkana caught him as he slumped forwards. She grasped the spike with one hand, his hair with the other, and began to saw back and forth. It took almost as long to cut through all the muscles and tendons as it had to defeat Antur, but at last she tore his head free from his body. She held it up in triumph, and the shouts of the bloodreavers shook the stones of the chamber.

With the head clutched in both hands, arms stretched forwards in presentation of the gift, Sekkana marched slowly up the slope of the arena. The bloodreavers parted, clearing the way for her to approach the daemon prince. She stopped and knelt a few feet away from the base of the throne.

Graunos nodded. ‘Take command of the forces of House Kesseng,’ he said, his voice rumbling like a lava flow. ‘Burn House Renteer to the ground and slaughter all its sons and daughters.’

Sekkana looked up, her eyes shining with renewed energy and erupting bloodlust. ‘It shall be done, great prince,’ she said, and withdrew.

The bloodreavers roared in delight and fury to see Sekkana’s violence rewarded.

Kathag watched Graunos use the boon to fuel even more bloody competition for his favour. The word would spread like fire through the ranks. Every warrior in Angaria would burn with the need to gain Graunos’ favour. Nothing could withstand an army so driven.

Kathag smiled in anticipation of the fury that would fall upon Neferatia. For Graunos, this would be his next, inevitable conquest. For Kathag, it would be vengeance.

A gust of wind from the south blew through the arched windows of the throne room. The windows were tall, half as high as the ceiling, and ran the entire circumference of the chamber. They looked out in all directions onto the vistas of Angaria, and created the impression that the throne room floated in mid-air. Graunos had hurled many subjects who had displeased him through these windows, sending them flying with a dismissive flick of his wrist, not even granting them the chance to prove themselves in the blood of the pit.

Far to the south, lightning flashed. Then came the distant mutter of thunder. Graunos rose from the throne. ‘Leave us!’ he commanded, and the bloodreavers rushed to obey, emptying the throne room while Graunos’ bellow still echoed.

The daemon prince drew to his full, towering height and strode to the southern windows. He was a colossus. Lord Kathag was tall, his body swollen with the strength Khorne granted to the supremacy of rage. The scar tissue that covered his body was so thick he barely needed the protection of his crimson plate. The horns that had grown when he ascended to the height of Exalted Deathbringer made him loom even more mightily over the legions of the Gorechosen that he commanded. Yet he had to crane his neck to look up at Graunos, who was more than twice his height.

The daemon flapped his huge leathery wings once in displeasure as he faced south. Then he turned his visage back to Kathag. Graunos’ features were a mask of terrible enlightenment and blind rage. His eyes were silver, blank and searing orbs that Kathag could not look at for long without being blinded himself. He could not imagine how such things could see. They were weapons. They struck out. Perhaps they consumed what they saw just as fire consumed fuel.

‘What is our state of readiness, Lord Kathag?’ Graunos said. The emphasis he gave Kathag’s title was a reminder that the price of failure could be the loss of that title. And worse.

‘It won’t be long,’ said Kathag, telling Graunos what he must already know. ‘But I do not think we are ready yet to confront Neferata.’

‘Is that caution I hear in your voice?’

‘It is.’ Kathag would not attempt to dissemble before Graunos. Whether the daemon prince saw with those eyes or not, he perceived everything. He was still a creature of Hysh, and he seemed to shine a violent light into the most hidden secrets of all who confronted him. But Kathag would have answered with the same honesty had Graunos been blind. He would have felt even more compelled to speak the truth. It was important that Graunos fully understood the nature of their opponent. ‘Lord Ruhok erred in his attempt to take Nulahmia,’ Kathag went on. ‘He underestimated Neferata, and we were destroyed. I will not make that same mistake. When we strike, it must be with such overwhelming superiority that the war is decided at its outset.’

Kathag, then an Exalted Deathbringer, was the only one of Ruhok’s Gorechosen to escape the catastrophe Neferata had unleashed. A maelstrom had opened up in Nulahmia, swallowing up the entire army, pulling it into an abyss of absolute dissolution. Kathag had looked away as it appeared, and so escaped its pull. But the partial glimpse he had caught still haunted him.

He was haunted too by the shame and the helpless fury he had felt as he staggered through the wasteland beyond the vanished walls of Nulahmia. In order to live, he had done that which had been unthinkable for all his life until that moment. He had fled. The memories were as burning and urgent now as the reality had been. The memories of running through a city turned into a blur of disintegrating wreckage, pulled inexorably into a maelstrom of unbeing, until, at last, he had been safe, alone, walking through the desolation beyond the walls of Nulahmia. He had put the city behind him, but not the humiliation, nor the defeat, nor the returning rage and the need for retribution.

He had fought hard to purge the shame, and to redeem himself in his eyes and in those of his god. He had gathered the broken remains of Ruhok’s horde and turned their flight from Neferatia into a slavering raid of vengeance on the lands beyond the Stonepain Mountains. He shed new blood for Khorne even while still in retreat. He had built a new warhorde. He never rested. His wrath was always on the ascendant. Flight became raids, and raids became a march of conquest. And one great night, waist-deep in slaughter, tens of thousands of the Bloodbound fighting for him and his favour, he felt the touch of Khorne. He was engulfed in crimson fire, and when the burn faded, leaving him scarred and exhilarated, the weapon in his hands was no longer the ruinous axe that he had wielded as an Exalted Deathbringer. It was a Wrathforged Axe, a weapon that imprisoned a daemon, and it marked him as a lord of Khorne.

It was not long after his elevation that Kathag witnessed the arrival of Graunos. Kathag’s conquests had always had one purpose. They were the means to return in vengeance to Neferatia, to hurl the walls of Nulahmia down and to destroy the Mortarch of Blood. In Graunos, Kathag found a being so mighty that his goal came within his grasp. Where Kathag had hordes at his command, Graunos had legions. The daemon prince had swept over Angaria, taking it and remaking it in his image. Soon he would reach further. He would destroy Neferata and plunge her subjects into the fires of Khorne. Graunos was doing more than destroying the enemy in the service of his god. He was reshaping Shyish, turning the land not simply into a wasteland but into a self-sustaining empire from which blood would flow in an endless, torrential tribute to the Skull Throne.

When Graunos looked to the west, Kathag saw in the careful gaze how different he was from Ruhok. Like Kathag, Graunos’ wrath was sharpened by strategy. He used the illumination of Hysh like a barbed whip. Neferata’s arts of deception would not help her this time. Kathag knew what she was. He was prepared, and Graunos listened to his counsel.

Now Graunos said, ‘We will not attack until we are ready. Agreed. But when will you know that moment has come? Can you know it?’ When Kathag hesitated, Graunos added, ‘We cannot gauge the full measure of her strength by watching her preparations as we complete ours.’

‘True,’ said Kathag. ‘She will dissemble. She will conceal her might.’

‘We will need to test her,’ Graunos said, his growl becoming a low, musing rumble.

In the south, lightning flashed again.

‘Then there is that,’ Graunos said, pointing. ‘You know what comes with such a storm.’

‘I do.’

‘Neferata to our west, Sigmar’s Eternals to the south. That has the appearance of strategy.’

‘She might have planned this,’ said Kathag.

‘No. The Lord of Undeath wages war against Sigmar. There is no alliance here.’

‘Yet.’

‘You think she can create one.’

‘If we can imagine such an outcome, we can be certain she does too.’

Graunos nodded. ‘If she did not plan this, she may well have waited for this opportunity.’ A growl built deep in his chest until the stones in the throne room began to shake with its force. ‘If this is her chance, then she will force our hand before we are ready. She is forcing me to react, and I will not have that. It is my will that will shape these lands.’ He paused for a moment, calculation moving like red lightning through the boiling clouds of his anger. ‘Reinforce the southern gate,’ he said. ‘But do not move beyond it. We shall observe Sigmar’s dogs, but we will not divide our attention unnecessarily.’

‘They are arriving on the far side of the mountains,’ Kathag observed.

‘Then Angaria is not their immediate goal,’ said Graunos. ‘Go now. Make fast the south, and prepare in the west. We will find our own opportunity here.’

Once Kathag had left, Graunos circled the throne room, sweeping his gaze over the empire he had built for Khorne and thinking about the war to come. What the lower of Khorne’s servants did not understand was that rage, in its great forms, had shape and purpose. Graunos could see the pattern in his existence, and in his presence here. In the Realm of Light, he had been in darkness, and had brought darkness. Now, in this world of death and shadows, he was bringing exterminating light.

In Hysh, he had truly been blind. Cursed and shunned because of this, he had won Khorne’s favour with the purity of his anger. He had repaid the gifts of the Blood God with an uncountable tribute of skulls. As a lord of Khorne, he had worn a brass mask that had granted him a form of sight. He had seen what needed to be destroyed, and the more powerful his rage, the more there was to destroy. One of the first conquests had been the city of Lykerna. He had crushed the place of his birth and marched on, unstoppable, and Khorne had raised him higher yet.

Now a daemon prince, he had plunged from the Realm of Light to the Realm of Death, a bright star tearing open the firmament, falling to earth to bring fire, to bring blood, to bring war.

The brass mask of his helm had become a thing of daemonic flesh upon his transformation, and Graunos’ perceptions had intensified. He saw with his god’s purpose, and Khorne’s purpose was slaughter. So Graunos perceived everything, for everything fell within the compass of the Skull God’s rage. Even the clouds and what they hid would be fodder for the axe. Perception was the fuel of wrath, and what Graunos perceived felt the touch of his igniting gaze. He looked down upon the sill of one of the western-facing windows. After a few moments, the stone began to smoke and bubble, ready to burst into flame. Graunos snorted and looked off to the horizon, his focus on the lands beyond the Stonepain Mountains.

The vampire called herself the Mortarch of Blood. So huge a presumption, so great an insult to the Blood God, could not be borne. Khorne had sent Graunos in answer, and he had forged Angaria. Now two empires of blood faced one another. There could be only one true reign. Graunos would make the throne of brass supreme.

The day was cold in the elevations of the Mourning Heights. It was always cold here. The wind cut to the bone in the season of Loss. Even during Crematory, it was rarely warm. Now it was the time of Lament, which felt like the true character of the hills. The sky always grey, the brush brittle and sharp, the rains of funerary ash and teeth mixing with the sullen rain. And the wind, keening, reaching through the seams of clothing to sink claws into flesh.

That the seasons existed this far away from Nulahmia was a sign that this was still Neferatia. Perhaps, as most in the family thought, the Mortarch’s gaze did not fall upon the lands of House Lytessian, but her spirit still shaped the land. There was something, too, in the form the seasons took that was true to the people of Neferatia as well. The Lytessians believed that the winds of Lament would blow no matter who reigned in the Palace of Seven Vultures.

Skarveth Lytessian rode with his cousin Vissya along the perimeter of the family’s land. The border was defined by practical, rather than political, considerations. House Lytessian was the only clan for leagues in every direction. Its holdings were limited only by what could be defended. Only the most stubborn and the most desperate lived in these unforgiving hills.

Skarveth had put the horse guard through a gruelling set of drills at dawn, and then sent his riders out on patrol. The rain had started mid-morning and had been pelting now for hours. Vissya and Skarveth sat forward on their chargers, shoulders hunched against the black water. Teeth rattled against their helms. Skarveth pushed himself as hard as he did his warriors. He and Vissya would be heading back to the manor house soon, but only to give the horses a rest.

‘Quiet again,’ said Vissya. There had been attacks by wolf packs five days ago. The beasts had been repelled and had not been seen since.

‘It’s always quiet until it isn’t,’ Skarveth said.

‘You sound like you hope for another attack.’

‘Not by wolves.’

‘No,’ said Vissya. She understood what he meant. She felt the same. The horse guard was trained for battle, to carry banners with honour in a noble cause. This work was menial, repetitive. When the wolves came, the struggle was no less fierce than any war. It simply lacked meaning.

They stopped and spoke with guards, mounted and on foot, at each watch position. The stones of the wall were huge, roughly hewn blocks, each larger than a man. Lichen discoloured them purple and green, turning rock into diseased flesh. It would take more than the feral monsters of the highlands to break that wall, and it would take more than a wall to keep the beasts out. It slowed them down, but they scaled it. Only the unceasing watch kept them out. Even then, some got in. Skarveth had the marks to prove that. A wolf had clamped its jaws on his face. He plunged his blade through its heart, but not before its fangs tore long, deep gouges in his cheeks. He now looked as if a daemon had tried to rip his face from his skull. The once-noble features were distorted and gnarled. It seemed to Vissya that Skarveth was more at peace with himself since the injury.

They finished their inspection of the wall and made their way back to the Lytessian manor house. It was carved out of the slope of the craggy hill against which it nestled, as brutal and monolithic as the boundary wall. It was blocky, squat, comfortless, hard, hostile as a closed fist.

The stable hands led the horses away, and Vissya and Skarveth walked through the front doors, into the great hall. The fire in its massive hearth barely warmed the space. The walls were the same unpainted stone as the exterior. Skarveth stopped to look up at the banners of Lytessian and its allied families. One pole bore no flag. The house it represented could not be named, though until his injury, Skarveth’s features had been the clan’s one visible echo.

‘So,’ said Skarveth, ‘rumours from the south.’

‘Yes,’ Vissya said, hoping Skarveth had more details.

Skarveth gave a slight shake of his head, his eyes still on the bannerless pole. ‘I’ve heard nothing more than you have.’

‘Do you credit what we’re hearing?’

‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘I do. Sigmar’s storm arriving when Neferatia and Angaria are poised to go to war? The moment and place are well chosen if the Stormcast Eternals wish to make headway in this region of Shyish. Neferata is not going to divert her attention from Graunos to fight them. There is too much that makes sense here. These rumours have the weight of news, not myth.’

‘What do you think this means for us?’

‘I think this means our waiting is at an end. I think it means we march to war. I think it means we ride to restore honour.’

‘That chance has been a long time in coming.’

‘An age.’

They had been waiting for this moment since the things they had witnessed in their childhood had changed them forever. But Vissya knew there were others who had been waiting much longer. Skarveth stared on at the absence where a banner should be, his scarred face twisting in anger.

They came for her when she was closing up her butcher’s stall. The market had been busy that day, the busiest Velaza Bentessas had seen since her arrival in Mausolea. She had sold almost all of her stores, and had used her cudgel only four or five times. The air had been thick with the violence of competition, but the buying and selling had been so brisk, the fights that had broken out were mere eddies of blood in the current of trade. There were the expected tithes to be paid as the bloodreavers made their way through the market square, but even those encounters had been brief. The contingents of warriors on the edge of the square were larger than usual, and they seemed to have been ordered to watch each other. Life in Angaria was savage and brief, but Graunos did not permit unbridled riot in the streets. Anger ruled the land, and a prince of Chaos on the throne enforced a kind of order, provisional and brutal, always in the service of the greater victory of the Skull God.

Velaza had taken her time to close up her stall. She had lingered, watching the crowds and the bloodreavers, gauging the extent and significance of the changes she was seeing. When she finally packed away the few cuts of meat she had left and locked her coin box, she was one of the last merchants in the square.

So she was not surprised when they approached.

There were three of them, bloodreavers on the hunt for some slaughter. They gave her plenty of warning, their booted feet slamming against the cobblestones, sending aggressive, clopping echoes ahead of them. With the crowds gone, the square was desolate. The pole-mounted torches that were still lit were few and far between, casting only enough light to turn the shuttered stalls into slumped, ghostly figures of uncertain shape. The Sentinel of the Shroud loomed in the distance, the deeper night of stone, its slow grind the eternal, mournful background roar to life in Mausolea.

Velaza put her pack and coin box down and waited for the bloodreavers. She watched the one in the centre closely. He was bigger than the other two, swollen with violence. His muscles seemed to be trying to burst from his skin. He looked like he was on the cusp of a great transformation. He clearly believed he was. His eyes were wide, bulging, and glittering with fanaticism. Blood trickled down the corners of his mouth, and when he grinned at Velaza, his teeth were dark with clotted gore. She wondered which of the other late-departing merchants this madman had killed.

The big man’s companions kept one step behind him, watching for his orders or the opportunity to kill him and take his place. They were wiry creatures, their limbs corded and taut, quivering with the anticipation of the kill.

‘I’ve already paid my tithe to Lord Graunos’ armies,’ Velaza said.

‘Not to us, you haven’t,’ said the bloodreaver on her left. He had narrow, pinched, rodent-like features.

The big warrior said nothing. He was looking back and forth between Velaza and the heavy axe he carried, eager for them to become acquainted.

Velaza shrugged and kicked her pack over to the trio. ‘Have at it, then. Save me the trouble of taking it back.’

The bloodreavers ignored the offering, but not her contempt. They snarled and ran at her. The big one reached her first, his axe raised. He roared in furious triumph.

He was ridiculously slow.

Velaza’s right hand shot out and seized him by the throat. She squeezed, throttling him. Choking, the bloodreaver brought down the axe, but she had already pulled her sword out from beneath her butcher’s apron. Without releasing his throat, she slashed his arms as they came down, severing both his wrists. The axe clattered to the ground, and the bloodreaver hammered fruitlessly at her shoulders with his stumps. Velaza squeezed harder, her fingers plunging deep into flesh and muscle. She made a fist, crushing his larynx, then yanked her hand free, pulling a bloody mass from his neck.

As the big warrior collapsed, Velaza struck left and right with her blade, stabbing the rat-faced bloodreaver through the heart and decapitating the third, cutting their attacks short before they had properly begun.

Velaza looked down at the three corpses heaped at her feet. Blood pumped from their wounds, pooling over the cobbles. So much waste. The old hunger swept through her, and fighting the urge to drop to her knees and lap at the gore was a greater struggle than the fight had been.

She must not feed here. There were witnesses. Now that the three bloodreavers were dead, a couple of the other remaining merchants had emerged from hiding and were staring at her from a safe distance. On the edges of the square, the curious were beginning to gather. There was no real risk in being seen to have cut down the warriors. That was nothing more notable than another instance of the struggle for survival that defined existence in Angaria. It was feeding that would give her away.

She would have to wait, and hold the hunger at bay. Perhaps she would be lucky. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself. A dark alley, a lone passerby… Perhaps. Even then, she would have to be careful. She must do nothing to jeopardise the mission Neferata had given her.

Velaza sheathed her blade, picked up her coin box and left the market square. She kept her steps heavy, trudging. Her identity as a butcher, long practised before she left Neferatia, fell over her again. Lady Mereneth herself had taken charge of her training, and Velaza was grateful for the skills the spymistress had given her. They were for a kind of war that was utterly foreign to any she had waged before. She was grateful, too, that Neferata’s logic in choosing her to lead the infiltration of Mausolea had proven to be sound.

Your concealment will come through your visibility, Neferata had said. This is a society where hidden violence is of no value. Do not seek out battle, but do not turn from it. When you must kill, do so with utmost savagery. Walk the streets soaked in the blood of challengers and you will vanish. You will be simply a natural part of the world Graunos has created. Let everyone look at you, and none will see you.

Neferata was right. Velaza marched through the streets of Mausolea with the directness of a battering ram, and she blended in. Though she had to set aside the pride of nobility that came with being a Blood Knight, her style of combat was suited to her disguise. She smashed her foes down, and so went unnoticed.

Avoid being ostentatious in your victories, Mereneth had warned her, and Velaza was cautious not to. It was one thing to thrive in Graunos’ empire. It was another to attract so much attention she was forcibly recruited into the warhordes.

So she found the balance and moved around freely. It was often easier for her to observe events of significance than for some of the other members of the force she led in Angaria, the ones who were more truly creatures of the shadows, and who depended for their success on true concealment.

Her walk back was not fruitful. She found no victims that she could take unseen. The irony of being unable to feed while being free to kill with abandon sharpened her hunger. When she reached her dwelling an hour later, she had her lips clamped shut to avoid baring her fangs in frustration.

The street was an ordinary one. Most of the inhabitants were, like her, small merchants. None were rich, but all were doing well enough to afford the modest protection the homes provided. Like so many quarters of Mausolea since the coming of Graunos, there were numerous gaps where houses had been burned to the ground, as a result of feuds or the gentle attentions of the bloodreavers. The houses that survived displayed the relative wealth of their owners not in ostentation, as they once had, but in increasing degrees of fortification. No home was truly secure. The value of many of the measures was the comfort of an illusion of safety. But even that illusion was necessary. The citizens of Shyish had long practice in dealing with the inevitability of doom.

Velaza had no illusions. But there was some utility to be had in physical defence. It was part of her disguise. She might walk the streets, swaggering her massively built frame, daring anyone to take her on. The fortifications of her home showed that even the formidable butcher had fears and knew she was not invulnerable.

The house was more thoroughly defended on the inside than out. Wards of protection guarded windows and entrances. She and all of her fellow spies would know at once, no matter where they were, if an intruder entered the home. There were other wards, too, deeper in the house, at the entrance to the cellar. These were wards of concealment. In a city where the only certainty was violent death, the house was as secure as possible.

Velaza unlocked the iron door and paused inside the entrance hall. She reached out with her witchsight for any signs of trespass. There were none, and she made her way down to the cellar. Four other spies were waiting for her. One of them, Guessa, had just returned from a journey to the west to observe the preparations, and the build-up of Graunos’ hordes.

The cellar room was a spare, unadorned space. Chests on the west wall held armour and equipment they had brought from Nulahmia. Vellum maps of Mausolea and the western reaches of Angaria were spread out on an oak table in the centre of the floor. Shelves against the rear wall held more scrolled maps, along with voluminous tomes containing the histories of Angaria. On stacks of loose vellum sheets were the notes on which Velaza and the others recorded their observations of the most minute changes in the life of the empire’s capital city and the adjoining regions. The most trivial incidents, Mereneth had emphasised, were often markers of larger, more concealed events. Velaza had seen Mereneth proven right again and again, and she read much into what she had seen today.

‘What news from the west?’ she asked Guessa.

‘More of the same, and with increasing intensity,’ said the winged spy. Thin, bald and pale as bone, Guessa could not afford to be seen at all in Mausolea. Her vampiric nature announced itself from afar. She could not pass for anything else, and Graunos’ conquest of Angaria had also been a war of extermination waged against the vampires. Guessa would always be a thing of shadows. Inside those shadows, she was swift, invisible, all-seeing. Velaza felt a contemptuous pity for those who fell under Guessa’s scrutiny. Even if they realised she was there, they were no better off. For them, she would seem omnipresent. They would believe her to be in every shadow, her taloned hands forever a swipe away from their throats, her eyes seeing every gesture, perceiving every thought. ‘The hordes grow larger and fiercer,’ Guessa continued. ‘The growth is becoming frenzied.’

‘Would you say an invasion is imminent?’ Tavensia asked. Like Velaza, she passed as mortal. Slighter of build, she had to be more careful not to reveal her true strength. She had adopted the guise of an itinerant scribe. She posed as one of the weak of Mausolea, those who scuttled at the edge of the city’s life, praying not to be noticed.

Guessa looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. ‘An attack won’t be long in coming. The hordes are not on the move yet, though. The drums are growing loud, but everything is still stopping short of a march.’

‘Graunos has his spies too,’ said Epikente. She was even more skeletal than Guessa, and was her sister in shadow. Where Guessa inhabited the darkness, Epikente was a shadow. She could vanish in broad daylight. Even when Velaza stared directly at Epikente, the other vampire seemed to be on the verge of slipping from her perception. ‘Our queen keeps her fist partly concealed, but we cannot afford the mistake of assuming Graunos makes his decision from a position of ignorance.’

‘Agreed,’ said Guessa. ‘He would appear to be anticipating a much more powerful enemy than he has been allowed to see.’

‘Could he attack now?’ Tavensia asked.

‘He could,’ Guessa said. ‘He would be foolish to do so, and I believe he knows it. The relative strengths of the armies are approaching parity, from what I have seen. But the situation still favours the defender, not the invader.’

‘Perhaps he waits for us to act first,’ said Epikente.

‘An army of Khorne waiting for an opponent?’ Tavensia scoffed. ‘That would be novel indeed.’

‘Graunos and Lord Kathag have already shown themselves to be unusual servants of the Skull God,’ Epikente pointed out.

‘Has the increase in activity been a sudden one?’ Velaza asked Guessa.

‘It has. Beginning a few days ago, it was as if the encampments had become hornets’ nests.’

‘Since the storm in the south,’ said Tavensia.

‘Precisely,’ said Velaza. ‘And the activity in the marketplace today was the greatest I have seen. Graunos’ warriors bought food by the cartload.’

‘Bought?’ Guessa asked. ‘Not just seized?’

‘I witnessed bloodreavers paying for supplies.’

There was a moment of silence as the others absorbed the implications of Velaza’s words. Graunos’ empire was a cauldron of violence, murder and rage. It was also one that could sustain itself. The daemon prince had created a power base that was stable enough to grow much larger, drawing more and more of Shyish into the bloody embrace of the Skull God. Part of what made Graunos so dangerous was that he understood that armies that supplied themselves solely through plunder would eventually run out of fuel. Graunos saw the savagery in competition, the viciousness in trade, and turned those impulses into another kind of tribute to the Blood God. From the predation of the market came the means to greater and faster conquest.

‘These are the signs of an entire empire on the march,’ Velaza said.

‘Graunos feels pressed by what is happening to the south,’ said Tavensia.

‘Yes,’ said Guessa. ‘Then he might attack before he is truly ready.’

‘The queen must know of this,’ said Velaza.

The others bowed their heads in agreement. Then Guessa and Epikente rose. They pushed the shelving in a section of the rear wall aside, revealing a small, circular chamber. Velaza passed through the doorway and they closed the wall behind her.

There was no light in the chamber, though Velaza saw clearly. A mortal prisoner was chained to the centre of the floor. There was always one such here, ready in case the need arose, as it had now. The spies had already blinded the young man and cut out his tongue. Silent, eyeless, he would have the honour of being granted one final sight. He would be the conduit between Velaza and the Mortarch of Blood, and he would, in dying, behold the magnificence of Neferata. His life was a trivial price to pay for such a boon.

He whimpered softly when Velaza touched him. Terrified, he tried to squirm away from her hands. She ignored his struggles, released him from his chains, then quickly broke his limbs, arranging him so his arms and legs pointed to the apexes of the great rune daubed with blood onto the floor. With the claw of her index finger, she slit his throat and sides. His blood flowed onto the rough stone, and the rune pulled the streams along its lines.

Once again, Velaza forced down the hunger and did not feed. She straightened, standing astride the twitching body of the prisoner, and chanted the words of the spell of communing. The blood rose in a mist that swirled around Velaza. The mist grew thicker, then began to glow. The light concentrated itself in front of her. It began to take on a form, elongating and gathering substance until Neferata appeared, her features hidden, revealed, and hidden again by the shifting mist.

The prisoner gasped. He turned his eyeless sockets towards the vision of the Mortarch. His body arched in wonder and in pain, and then was still.

‘What have you to report?’ Neferata asked. Her voice was hollow, an echo coming from a great distance, yet it was also an intimate whisper at Velaza’s nape.

Velaza told her what she and the others had observed and concluded. Neferata’s approving smile made her head buzz with pride.

‘This is as I would have it,’ the queen said. ‘Whether he desires it or not, Graunos will attack first, and on my terms. He is primed. All he needs is an opportunity. I will give it to him.’

Her image melted away into the mist, and the mist fell to the floor. Blood still pumped from the corpse, and at last, her heart filled with love for her queen and the anticipation of an empire’s fall, Velaza dropped to all fours and slaked her hunger.

Not all allies know that this is what they are. Choose carefully which will have their ignorance dispelled.

– Neferata, Overtures

Chapter Two

His name was Erlik. He could remember that much. He must have had another name once, one that tied him to a family, but that was lost to him. He had been able to hang on to Erlik through the ages of his torment only through a desperate act of will, and because his diseased body called his name back to him with every breath. Ehhhhhhrrrrrrr, his lungs rattled as he inhaled. When he exhaled, lik lik lik lik lik was the sound of sputum slapping against the twisting, rotting, spreading flesh that had once been his.

Erlik had a few other memories. They were the last ones from before the diseased hordes had overwhelmed his position. He could not recall the passions or the convictions that had driven him to make his doomed stand. All he remembered was that he had made the attempt. As the dream of an earlier age and all he had known broke apart before the siege of Chaos, he had vowed to protect the Realmgate. Had he been ordered to do so? Had he been alone? Had there been comrades at his side? He did not know. He did not even know if he had fought. His weapons and armour, whatever they had been, had disintegrated long ago.

He did know who had defeated him, who had taken the land and made it run with foulness. He knew because the Children of the Bell never ceased to remind him as they celebrated and extended their clammy grip wider and wider. Banners, covered in mould, flapped in the wind, displaying a black bell on a field of pustulant green.

Just to the right of the Realmgate, held up by a framework of rusting iron whose feet rested in four separate wagons, was the great bell that gave the horde its purpose and identity. It swung ponderously, its rhythm always the same, never broken, its deep, muffled toll resounding to the skies. The sound was as profound as a mountain’s roots, and buzzed like a swarm of flies. It reverberated through Erlik’s frame, beating down thought, breaking down bone, summoning worms and fungus, dictating the speed of his breath.

Ehhhhhhrrrrrrr… lik lik lik lik lik…

He could not die. The Maggotkin were forcing him to keep his vow forever. He was still upright, had been standing until time and meaning had abandoned him. He had become a mockery of a sentinel, leaning against the ancient pillar of the Realmgate. He had stopped nothing, and he had become the despairing, undying witness as the portal vomited out floods of diseased reinforcements.

Now and then, over the years, a sorcerer paused beside him. ‘Are you enjoying your gift?’ he would whisper. His name was Flyswill. The folds of his body bulged from his robe, dripping pus. His face leaned out from inside his hood, pale, the skin gelid, worms crawling about his lips. ‘You are the beacon of life and its fruitfulness in the wastes of death. Rejoice! Rejoice!’

Erlik no longer had legs. His skin had rotted open, and growths had fused his bones together until a porous, knobby pedestal held him upright. His flesh became corrupt and fruitful with clusters of pustules giving birth to maggots. The worms feasted on his skin, grew fat and died. Their corpses turned into his new skin, which produced new generations of vermin, and so the cycle had continued through endless years of torment. The white, tattered, oozing tapestry of flesh now wrapped around the pillar of the Realmgate. It flowed down the steps of the portal’s dais, quivering and malodorous, spreading hideous life over the dead ground.

Time meant nothing. There was only the endless, wracking agony of disease gnawing his bones, the delirious swim of fever and the gurgling Ehhhhhhrrrrrrr… lik lik lik lik lik… of his breath.

Until now.

A storm had come. A storm so fierce, so strong, so utterly opposed to the world of plague that he could not help but see it. The poor remains of his identity, the core that still held on to his name, reached out through rheumy eyes to the lightning. It was so clean. It was something that could purge the land of its foul life.

After the lightning came a moving darkness. With his damaged sight, Erlik at first perceived only a cloud sweeping towards the Maggotkin. As the cloud drew closer, he saw that it was an army. The shapes in it were dark, grim as the land to which they had come, but noble in bearing and movement. Erlik’s cankered, trembling lips formed his first smile since Chaos had swept over the land he had sworn to defend. Those shapes did not bring life. They brought something better, and more precious. They brought hope.

The first wave of dark warriors arrived on wings of searing light. They flew over the ranks of flies and filth, javelins and hammers as blinding as the wings streaking into the Rotbringers. Bloated, foetid bodies burst asunder and burned to ash. Hails of arrows flew in answer to the attack, but they glanced off black armour. In Erlik’s eyes, it was as if the sky had given form to judgement. As the Rotbringers swarmed in confusion and died, and the three lords of the Maggotkin horde struggled to hold the lines, Erlik began to laugh. He laughed some more when Flyswill mounted the dais and took up a position in front of the Realmgate, brandishing his putrid staff as if the powers he commanded could truly combat what was coming.

Then, in the distance, Erlik saw true glory, a warrior mounted on a majestic, reptilian beast that seared the foe with lightning from its maw. And when this warrior charged through the centre of the Maggotkin hordes, Erlik turned to Flyswill and forced his blistered, swollen tongue to form words. ‘Rejoice!’ he screamed between the clanging of the monstrous bell. ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’

The charge by Lord-Celestant Venthor Warfire of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer hit the Children of the Bell with the force of an axe striking a rotten log. Mounted on the dracoth Felkreth, Venthor led the Paladin retinues in a blow designed to cut the enemy army in half and shatter its spine. Venthor was the embodiment of a storm. His armour was as black as if carved from thunder itself, and Felkreth’s lightning crackled around him. And more than anything else, he was the fury of a storm.

On this day, Lord-Relictor Rhasan Darksight thought, there was even more fury than she was used to seeing in Venthor.

‘The Lord-Celestant’s wrath is mighty,’ said Lord-Castellant Arvax Grimtower.

‘It serves him and us well,’ said Rhasan. You noticed it too.

Rhasan and Arvax stood atop an outcrop of rock, watching the battle closely as Venthor’s will shaped the war. They were holding positions at the rear of the battlefield for the moment, waiting for Venthor’s charge to have its full effect. Further back, the Judicators, under the command of Lord-Veritant Hyreia Gravesun, launched endless volleys of skybolt arrows into the foe, striking the Maggotkin first to the rear, then in the midst of the horde, and then near the Realmgate itself, sowing confusion with searing attacks that seemed to fall from everywhere.

The enemy was in disarray. The plague warriors still outnumbered the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but there was no coherence to their charges. They did not understand how to fight back. They understood even less that they had already lost.

The Maggotkin occupied a wide, barren plain. The Realmgate stood midway between the base of the western chain of the Stonepain Mountains and the city of Shadowvel. As Sigmar’s lightning had announced the arrival of the Anvils on the eastern edge of the plain, the foe had abandoned Shadowvel and surged eastwards to protect the gate, as Venthor intended. The Prosecutors hit first, striking directly at the Realmgate, turning the focus of the commanders inwards. Now Venthor’s hammer blow sent the diseased legions reeling.

They would regroup, though. No force of Chaos was to be underestimated. Rhasan was holding back with Arvax, Hyreia and the main body of the Liberators and Judicators for that moment. When Nurgle’s warlords thought they knew what they must do, that was when they would be doomed.

The ragged edges of the Maggotkin horde attempted disorganised attacks against the lines of Liberators standing with shields locked together. They formed a fortress wall, but their posture was not truly defensive. They were a trap waiting to spring. They struck back at the Rotbringers, lunging forwards with hammer and sword, cutting enemy warriors in half and pulverising skulls with swift, merciless contempt, then stepping back behind the shield wall.

From her raised perspective, Rhasan watched the moment Venthor had planned for draw closer. The Maggotkin regrouped. The banners were raised high, and the bells that festooned the shields and helms rang out with discordant chimes. The broken halves of the horde contracted, their fury coalescing in their effort to destroy the Lord-Celestant. He was the threat. He had caused the great injury, and he was closing in on the Realmgate. He was a cure, and the disease rushed to scrape him from the land.

Rhasan watched the Maggotkin make their fatal error. They thought the Anvils of the Heldenhammer had come to take the Realmgate, and so they moved to block the attempt. They were wrong. This was a war of extermination. The Realmgate would still be there when the Children of the Bell were no more.

A few hundred yards from the portal, Venthor turned Felkreth’s charge sharply to the right, thundering to meet an oncoming wave of Rotbringers. The force that had planned to attack the Anvils on their flank now met them head-on. A foetid wave broke against a promontory of stone. The Rotbringers faltered, their rush broken. Venthor and the Paladins drove deep into their mass, and then turned again to counter another wave crashing in from the left. Venthor and his retinues of implacable warriors turned again and again, their movement becoming a spiral. They created a vortex in the battlefield, pulling the devoted of the Plague God tighter and tighter. The tolling of the daemonic bell came faster, as if it were calling its followers to greater effort. The Children responded, turning with all their might and faith to bring an end to Venthor’s charge. And so they opened themselves up to the death blow.

‘Strike hard, Anvils of the Heldenhammer!’ Rhasan shouted, and she raised high the banner she carried. Resplendent in tomb-black and bone-white, its skeleton iconography commemorated death at its most solemn and sacred. It was the state every warrior in the Stormhost knew, more profoundly than any other Stormcast Eternal. From death they had come, and to death they would return, but not, each swore, before destroying every last minion of Chaos.

As she lifted the banner, Rhasan called death down from the skies. They darkened above her, building with the power. Sorcerous energy crackled around her in a fell aura. She held back the blow a few moments longer while Arvax, beside her, thrust forwards his warding lantern. Its sacred light gleamed on the black armour of the Liberators as they dropped their shield wall and advanced, a line of blades and hammers, into the rear flanks of the Children of the Bell. The same light stabbed into the enemy, sending flames washing over fever-slimed flesh.

The Judicators sent another savage volley into the foe and then divided their forces, moving to the ends of the line created by the Liberators. The line gradually began to curve, its wings closing in on themselves as they drove the Maggotkin forwards.

Rhasan unleashed the lightning. It struck with a deafening crack, snapping the night in two. Bolts of purest silver incinerated entire clusters of the enemy. Blackened bodies fell to the ground, their weapons melted and twisted. With the air sharp with the stench of burned flesh, Rhasan joined the march, pressing ahead into its centre, her hammer blazing as she brought it down with merciless precision onto the skulls and into the chests of the foe. She carved her path through the Children, heading directly for Venthor.

She reached out for the lightning again, and it answered with terrible swiftness and power. It seemed to her that her most lethal power was coming to her more easily than it ever had before. A part of her mind stepped away from the immediate frenzy and worked to observe the wider battle as best it could, always looking for where she was most needed. It noticed the facility with which she brought death to the enemy, and stored questions away to be contemplated later.

Rotbringers shouted in confusion. She heard fear, too, in their cries. They were right to be afraid, and they had more than earned a dose of terror. One warlord, thick with tumours and strong with their exultant growth, turned away from leading his followers towards Venthor. His helm was featureless except for a single hole over his right eye and a belled horn curving out to the right. He wielded a colossal double-bladed axe. He wore no armour over his swollen torso, revealing a slavering, tongue-lolling maw in his gut. He hurled himself at Rhasan with a roar, and in the last moment before they clashed, as his blank helm reflected the sigmarite skull of her own, he paused.

The movement was slight and brief. But there was no mistaking it for anything other than uncertainty. The blightking, champion of a parody of life, saw his death coming for him, and it shook him. Then he swung his axe, but he was too late. Rhasan slammed her hammer into his gut. The wound flashed blue as she smashed through the maw and the spine behind it. She withdrew the hammer and the blightking bent backwards, his body smouldering. Around her, his followers shrieked in dismay, and then another storm of lightning came down, reaching further and further ahead.

Rhasan marched, and annihilation preceded her.

Erlik discovered that there were still gifts to be received in this existence. True gifts, not the poisonous generosity of the Maggotkin. He had suffered an age, he had lost everything, and now he had his reward.

He saw the end come for the Children of the Bell.

‘Rejoice,’ he croaked. It was the only word he could speak, the command Flyswill had given him over and over during the eternity of his torture. There were no other words he knew, none he could form, even very roughly, that had any meaning for him. This one still did, thanks to the care and insistence of Flyswill. So he worked his oozing lips and thickened, furry tongue around the syllables. The sound was liquid, barely recognisable to his own ears. No matter. It was his victory, and he revelled in it.

He faded in and out of full awareness, falling into the delirium of his fever, resurfacing with acute stabs of pain from the worms eating their way through his body, and down again. In and out, in and out, on the eternal rhythm of his hissing breath. Every time he had his moment of clarity, he saw how much further the dark warriors had come, and he whisper-cried ‘Rejoice’ again. The Children of the Bell fought hard, the land erupting with their energy like a cauldron of plague. It was as if their foe did not deign to notice their efforts. At the centre of the cauldron, the mounted leader and his warriors drew the Maggotkin in and laid waste to them. Each time Erlik gazed outwards, the outer formations had moved closer. They were not just crushing the Children of the Bell. They were scraping their foulness from the land.

In and out of awareness, in and out.

Ehhhhhhrrrrrrr… lik lik lik lik lik…

Flyswill was on the platform, shouting his praise to Nurgle and calling forth swarms of insects. He defended the Realmgate with the desperate fanaticism that had brought Erlik to his fate. Once, just before Erlik’s vision swam with fever again, he managed to shout ‘Rejoice!’ with greater strength, and Flyswill heard him. The sorcerer stared at him with such naked hatred that it conjured a painful wracking from his ribcage. It was laughter.

Ehhhhhhrrrrrrr… lik lik lik lik lik…

And finally, he came to himself again to find the war over. The only sounds of illness and flies he could still hear came from his body. The Children of the Bell were no more. Flyswill lay on the dais beside him, his head crushed. A figure in black armour towered over Erlik. The warrior’s helm was a skull, white against night-black. It tilted down, looking at him. Its cold iconography embodied the purity of death, a purity he had feared would never be his.

‘Rejoice,’ Erlik whispered.

Gauntleted hands removed the helm. The woman who regarded him had features hewn from marble and ice. The planes of her face were hard, unforgiving, framed by iron-grey hair streaked blood-red. Her eyes were dark, cold as an empty tomb.

What Erlik needed from her was mercy. He did not think that was a quality she had in abundance. He pleaded with her all the same. ‘Rejoice,’ he said, desperate.

Something moved in the sky, drawing his attention. He looked past the warrior’s shoulder at the suggestion of sinuous flight. The object was too far and his eyes too dim for him to make it out. Though it was distant, it filled the sky and his heart with the force of its presence. Something was coming. Someone was coming, and Erlik feared the vision of death that would arrive. The dark warrior before him did not seem open to entreaty, but the being in the sky threatened the end of all mercy.

Erlik turned his gaze back to the warrior. ‘Rejoice,’ he begged. The promise of a true end, of a clean end, of precious oblivion was so close. He could not bear for it to be snatched away. ‘Rejoice.’ Viscous tears ran down his cheeks.

The warrior understood. She nodded, a glint of what might have been pity in those cold eyes. She raised her hammer. ‘Rejoice,’ she commanded Erlik.

As the hammer swung towards his face, he did rejoice, believing in the certainty of peace, and of escape from a darker fate.

Neferata guided Nagadron in slow circles around the battlefield. She watched as the Anvils of the Heldenhammer finished off the Children of the Bell and secured the Realmgate. A contingent of guards remained with the portal while the rest of the strike chamber moved to the walls of the broken city.

She wondered if they were hoping for survivors. Do they permit themselves that kind of illusion?

No. Not these warriors of Sigmar. These ones know death too well for that.

She waited while the Stormcast Eternals took possession of Shadowvel. She assumed she had been spotted, and made sure of it by dropping slowly, then pausing, clearly visible. She continued to circle, doing nothing that might be interpreted as an attack. When she saw that the Anvils were patrolling the ramparts, and that the consolidation of their position had properly begun, she whispered to Nagadron and began her final descent. The dread abyssal’s graceful, steady drop was the signal to the small escort that had marched from Neferatia under the path of her flight. From the base of the Stonepain Mountains, close enough to be visible but far enough away to present no threat, the dead began a fanfare, announcing the arrival of their queen. Skeletal arms beat heavy drums of leathered human skin. Wraiths and banshees cried out, a chorus of dark praise. The music of blood and mourning washed over the plain, its strength rising and falling before the gates of Shadowvel as it was caught by the wind, then dropping into sudden silence as Nagadron landed.

Neferata dismounted. She left her weapons fixed to the battle throne on Nagadron’s back and removed the helm of Lahmia. Though she was armoured, she made her peaceful intentions clear. She walked a few yards towards the main gate of Shadowvel, and then stopped.

Come forth. Let the siege begin.

The walls of Shadowvel looked as if they had been gnawed by the jaws of an immense, plague-ridden beast. Huge gaps and mounds of rubble broke up the lines of defence. Slimy moss covered crenellations rounded and pitted like rotten teeth. Vines bulging with tumorous growths clung to the face of the walls. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer had begun the process of burning away the diseased growths, but the stain of the Children’s occupation would linger for a long time. A stench, like corpses revealed by low tide, hung in the air and clung to skin.

This is good work.

When she had last been here, the battlements had been strong, the city’s banners flying proudly. The fortress and its guardians had repelled another assault by the forces of Chaos, and triumph had been in the air. Triumph, and also pride. It was pride that had led to punishment. Untempered pride that did not recognise the fact that the greatest part of the Chaos hordes had hurled themselves against Neferatia. If not for the Realmgate, Shadowvel would have had no strategic importance at all.

Neferata had been willing, for a time, to ignore Shadowvel. The insult of its pride had changed her mind. Shadowvel had invited punishment, and in so doing had made itself useful. Neferata had required bait for the Stormcast Eternals, and Shadowvel was perfectly suited for that role.

So she had engineered its fall. It was very likely that she would have done so regardless of the city’s sins. The presence of the Realmgate and Shadowvel’s proximity to the Stonepains made it perfectly suited to her design. The act of punishment, though, intensified the pleasure in the destruction. She tasted the delicacy of that pleasure again as she contemplated the ruined walls. The Children of the Bell had been wrong to celebrate taking the city. They had done so because Neferata had willed it. They, too, had been her tools. They had been the means to reaching this moment. Neferata had seen to it that Shadowvel suffered, and now she had her reward. The Stormcast Eternals had come.

The rusted gates still clung to their frames. They parted with a shriek as the Lord-Celestant of the strike chamber emerged, flanked by the Lord-Relictor, Lord-Castellant and Lord-Veritant. The four commanders stopped a formal five yards away. While the Lord-Castellant announced their names with an icy formality, Lord-Celestant Venthor watched Neferata in silence. His face was rigid, expressionless, his eyes unblinking, his hatred as clear as it was expected. His hair was short and lay flat on his scalp. His nose was long, aquiline, and his bearing would have seemed imperious except that he was standing straight against the heavy weight of war and command. He would not be easy prey. That made the challenge more enticing.

Lord-Castellant Arvax was more difficult to read. He looked older than Venthor, though Neferata had learned enough about the Stormcast Eternals to know that meant nothing. They were all both ancient and newly born.

Lord-Veritant Hyreia made no attempt to conceal her hostility, her anger closer to the surface than Venthor’s. It was Lord-Relictor Rhasan, though, who caught Neferata’s attention. Like Arvax, she seemed guarded, and was looking at Neferata with a cold curiosity. There was something about her face that nagged at Neferata, but then Venthor spoke, and Neferata put aside other concerns. It was time to focus on the intricate dance she was now to perform.

‘You know of us,’ Venthor said. ‘And we know what you are. What we do not know is why you are here.’

Neferata smiled graciously to show that Venthor’s disrespect had no effect on her. ‘I have come to congratulate you on your victory, and to welcome you to this region of Shyish.’

‘Lies,’ Hyreia spat.

Not at all. I will ensnare you with truth. Neferata bowed her head slightly, acknowledging the justice of Hyreia’s suspicion. ‘I cannot blame you for not trusting me.’

‘You cannot blame us?’ Venthor snarled. ‘Nagash betrayed our Stormhost, abandoned our comrades to their doom, and everywhere we are at war with his legions. You cannot blame us? You insult us with mockery.’

‘Your order was betrayed,’ Neferata said, ‘but not by me. You know this to be the truth.’

There was a slight hesitation before Venthor answered, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Clearly, he had not expected her to agree so completely about the betrayal. ‘Are you trying to make us believe you do not serve Nagash?’

‘Of course I serve Nagash. You would be a fool to believe I do not, and I would be the greater fool to try to convince you of such a thing.’

‘You serve Nagash yet you claim to welcome us,’ said Rhasan. ‘Your position is contradictory.’

‘Yes. Surely you are not going to claim that there are no such things as contradictory truths.’

Rhasan did not answer, but she looked interested. Venthor, though, was merely irritated. ‘I am not interested in your paradoxes,’ he said.

‘You should be,’ Neferata said. ‘They are more enlightening and trustworthy than simplicities. How can I serve Nagash and not be waging war on you? Because the Lord of Undeath has commanded me to be a true ally to you.’ She laughed, a silver bell tinkling with amusement and dark suggestion. The Stormcast Eternals stared at her, their puzzlement even greater. Can you feel the web of truth? It is wrapping around you, drawing you closer, choking off your means of retreat. Its strands are more unbreakable than lies. Truth has the power to hold you captive forever.

‘Why would Nagash give such a command?’ said Hyreia. ‘And why would you tell us this?’

‘Am I not obeying his orders by revealing them to you? Am I not proving myself trustworthy to you, and so furthering his ends? What those ends may be is hidden from me as it is from you. All we have is the certainty of the present moment.’ She laughed again, sharing with them the joke of the word certainty. ‘And so we are bound to use it best to fulfil our duties. Surely this much is clear.’

‘It is not,’ said Venthor.

‘Really?’ Neferata raised her eyebrows in gentle surprise. ‘You have taken Shadowvel and its Realmgate. Well done. The work of a night, the work of a beginning. Is this why you have come to Shyish, to this particular spot? Are you saying that you have no interest in what lies beyond those mountains?’ She gestured behind her, and looked back for a moment at the Stonepains. In the predawn, the clouds above Angaria pulsed a dull red, as though reflecting the cauldron of the empire.

Venthor was silent.

Neferata waved her question away. ‘Let it fall to me to be frank, since it is in my interest to be. I know where you will turn next. If you are here, it is because you will march on Angaria. Nagash and Sigmar are at war, but the gods of Chaos are not idle. What Graunos has fashioned must be stopped. You know this, and so do I. Can we perhaps see the wisdom of Nagash in this? This is why I am not at war with you. We have an enemy in common.’

‘We have nothing in common,’ said Venthor.

‘I think you are wrong.’

‘Our plans concerning Angaria are none of your concern, and we will not be made the tools of your ambition.’

So you think. ‘You would maintain that a divided campaign is better than a united one?’

‘Better than one serving your purpose alone,’ Venthor growled. ‘You will do as you see fit in your struggle against Graunos. It is no concern of ours. We have no designs on Neferatia. I offer nothing more than that.’

Neferata cocked her head. ‘Nothing more?’ She smiled again. ‘I am disappointed. But I cannot blame you.’ She smiled more broadly as Venthor’s brow turned thunderous. ‘I shall go, then, but I do believe we will speak again. I have extended the hand of friendship. I do not withdraw it. I shall hope that you will change your mind.’ She bowed to the Anvils of the Heldenhammer and walked back to Nagadron.

Neferata looked back at the four leaders once more after she was mounted. She focused on Rhasan again. There was pride in her bearing, like Venthor’s, but her nobility seemed more pained than his. She had unusually large, dark eyes, made cold by endless war. Her skin was stretched tight, the bones of her skull very close to the surface. Neferata was convinced she had seen those features somewhere before. She must learn where. Rhasan was watching her, still with more interest than outright hostility. There was something Neferata could use here, if only she could uncover what it was.

At her touch, Nagadron leapt into the air. ‘We return to Nulahmia,’ Neferata said to the Adevore. ‘We have a mystery to pierce.’

First, though, she had one more task to complete in the region of Shadowvel. She guided Nagadron on a low flight away from the walls of the city. As they neared the Realmgate, she turned her witchsight on the pillars. A spirit, newly released from its tormented mortal flesh, turned around and around the portal, uncertain about its new liberty.

‘Hello, Erlik,’ Neferata murmured. ‘Do you think your penance is at an end?’ Erlik had been the one most responsible for Shadowvel’s triumphs against Chaos. His, then, was the greatest punishment, and no one other than Neferata decided when the term of his suffering would end.

‘Do you see your prey?’ she said to Nagadron.

The dread abyssal rumbled in eagerness.

‘Then take him.’

Nagadron’s jaws gaped as he streaked through the air towards the Realmgate. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer guarding the portal braced for an attack, but Nagadron did not descend any lower. He roared, and the sound threatened to turn dawn back into night. In the realm of the spirits, the cry was even more terrible. It was the thunder of doom and a summons that could not be defied. The grounds before Shadowvel were crowded with the dead of wars beneath the surface, but Nagadron had roared for only one of them.

The spectre of Erlik shrieked in fear as it shot up towards Nagadron’s maw. Its scream and its flight were invisible to the Stormcast Eternals, and a spectacle of delight for Neferata. The shriek was unending and desperate, the conscious remains of Erlik seeing a new world of torment opening up. Nagadron snapped his jaws shut, consuming the howling ghost, adding Erlik to the horde of the damned who illuminated the monster’s ribcage with the eerie green glow of agony.

‘Well done,’ Neferata said. ‘Well done.’

She and Nagadron flew off to the north-west. Her great work was well begun.

Rhasan watched the Mortarch of Blood’s mount swoop towards the Realmgate, shake the dawn with its roar and then soar up into the distance. She turned to Venthor. He had been watching too. His cheek muscle twitched as his jaw worked in anger.

‘I’ll give her this,’ Venthor said through clenched teeth. ‘She has the confidence that comes with absolute arrogance.’

‘You don’t believe anything she said, then.’

Venthor jerked his head dismissively. ‘What she said is meaningless. It has no relevance to our efforts.’

You did not say if you believed her or not. ‘Would it not be useful to at least give some thought to her offer?’

‘You jest,’ said Hyreia.

‘I do not,’ Rhasan said. ‘Nor do I say we should accept. Simply that we should consider our position fully.’ There was more that she wanted to say, but was too uncertain to articulate. The ease with which she had summoned dread powers in battle, and their strength, gave her pause, though the implications were unformed, shrouded in grey mist.

‘The matter is closed,’ said Venthor. ‘There will be no talk of alliances with a known enemy.’ He turned and marched back towards the gate of the empty city. Hyreia followed close behind.

Rhasan hesitated. She exchanged a look with Arvax. The Lord-Castellant kept his peace, and his expression gave little away. He did, though, glance at Venthor, then back at Rhasan for a moment. The acknowledgement was slight. It was also real. He shared her concern.

Venthor was a great tempest on the battlefield. Off it, he was calm, always rigorous in examining potential strategies from the broadest perspective before committing to them. This did not make him indecisive. It meant that when he led his troops to war, he did so knowing the full consequences of the choices he had made.

He seemed different now. Since arriving in Shyish, his anger had been close to the surface, and the encounter with Neferata had made it burst into the open. Rhasan understood his resentment. She shared it. This was the realm of great betrayals. Even so, she had never known him to make a decision in the heat of anger before.

As she and Arvax followed Venthor back into Shadowvel, Rhasan thought about the empire beyond the mountains, and of Neferata’s insinuating smile. The danger of a wrong decision loomed, its shadow long. It troubled Rhasan to find herself wondering if Venthor had already chosen to walk into the shadow.

Give your enemies exactly what they think they want.

– Neferata, The Uses of Weakness

Chapter Three

In the Palace of Seven Vultures, Neferata convened her council of war. Vampire lords, spymistresses, wight kings and the captains of the Blood Knights and the Black Knights gathered in the Scorpion Hall. The echoing, domed chamber was dominated by colossal statues of scorpions. There were four of them, rearing up from the far walls. Their pincers met beneath the centre of the dome, a hundred feet in the air, to hold a monolithic gold-and-granite sculpture of the crown of Lahmia.

The hall was an inverted amphitheatre. The floor on all sides sloped upwards to the centre, where, on a wide platform, ornate tables of bronzed bone held maps of Neferatia and Angaria. Though the platform was large, there wasn’t room for all of Neferata’s commanding officers, not when they were all present for a campaign of this scale. An empire was going to war. The lords and ladies of war took their turns on the platform as Neferata called upon them. They advanced to give counsel and to receive their orders.

‘The Anvils of the Heldenhammer are in the field,’ Neferata announced. ‘They do not fight at our side. Not yet.’ She smiled. ‘Their presence, however, already shifts the balance in our favour. Graunos must look to the south. He cannot afford to ignore them.’

‘Our spies in Angaria confirm this,’ said Mereneth. ‘Graunos sends forces with haste to his southern borders, and with even greater haste to the west.’

‘He sees the danger,’ said Ahlok of the Black Knights, his spectral voice issuing hollowly from his fleshless jaws.

‘He does,’ Neferata agreed. ‘He is so very cautious in his wrath.’ As much as Lord-Celestant Venthor seems wrathful in his caution. ‘Clearly, he is determined not to attack until he is ready, and seeks to anticipate our moves against him.’

‘He would appear to know us well,’ said Shavasta, captain of the Blood Knights.

‘He does,’ said Mereneth. ‘More than any champion of Chaos we have encountered.’

‘How can he?’ Lord Eventek asked. ‘We have not fought him before.’

‘One of the lords of Khorne pledged to him is named Kathag,’ said Mereneth.

‘And he knows me,’ said Neferata. She too had wondered about the degree of Graunos’ perception and care. It was only recently that Velaza had discovered that Kathag had been part of Lord Ruhok’s attack on Nulahmia, and that he had survived.

‘Graunos listens to a counsellor,’ said Eventek. ‘That is unusual for the creatures of the Skull God.’

‘Graunos has made Angaria much more than a multitude of hordes,’ Mereneth explained. ‘The picture our spies have painted for us is disturbingly complex. He has created a great machine of war. It is in the service of Chaos, and every subject, worshipper or not, is a slave to Graunos’ will. If a kind of order is necessary for the grander design he is offering to his god, then he will use it.’

‘He is still a daemon prince of Khorne,’ said Neferata. ‘I will see that this is his undoing. Graunos is wrathful, and so he rushes to prepare. He knows his time is short. He doesn’t know how short. Let us then consider how our forces stand.’

‘A growing stalemate,’ said Mereneth. Her words were greeted by nods around the platform and frustrated murmurs in the rest of the hall. ‘As quickly as we consolidate our strength, so does Graunos.’

‘He sees what we do,’ said Shavasta. ‘He has eyes on this side of the mountains.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Neferata. ‘We could never assemble so great an army in secret. We cannot control what he sees. I will control how he interprets it. At present, then, we are in a race neither can win. We both seek the upper hand before invading, and the greatest part of our work is dedicated to what is, in the end, a futile effort. This is the stage for my performance, and Graunos will be our audience. I will show him what he desires and what he fears. He will act. He will attack prematurely, on my grounds and on my terms.’

Neferata turned to Shavasta. ‘Are the preparations at Nighthall Pass complete?’

‘They are, my queen. We await your command.’

‘Then you have it. Raise the curtain.’

Nighthall Pass cut through the centre of the western arm of the Stonepains. From either side of the mountains, it appeared to be a narrow, jagged crack running from the base to the peak of Mount Rankyar, as if a massive blow had split the mountain in two. The passage was a tight zigzag between sheer cliff faces thousands of feet high. An army that ventured into Nighthall Pass would not be able to see more than a hundred yards ahead or behind. The pass was an invitation to ambush, but it was also one of the few western points where it was possible for a large force to reach the other side of the mountains relatively quickly. Graunos had no choice but to concentrate on the pass. At the Angarian entrance to the passage, the massive warhorde of the Brass Scythe had gathered, led by Lord Javassak. The Khornate build-up was, Captain Shavasta reflected, precisely as Neferata had predicted. So the time was coming for Nighthall Keep to play its part. The fortress guarded the pass at its widest point, midway through the mountains. Shavasta was looking at it now as she and her company of Blood Knights worked their way along the narrow ledge that led towards the base of the keep.

The keep was a squat round tower built into the north side of the pass, two hundred feet above the rocky floor. A semicircle of stonework emerged from the cliff, as if the mountain were giving birth to the keep. The walls leaned outwards, each row of arrow loops looking further out above the pass than the one below. The roof jutted out further yet. Ballista and funnels for molten and boiling attacks were mounted between the crenellations. Any enemy force that passed beneath the gaze of the unsleeping sentinels of Nighthall Keep would suffer annihilation from an unreachable height above. Inside the keep, a great company of skeletons kept eternal watch, ready, if the enemy proved stubborn, to descend the hidden flights of steps inside the mountain and emerge from staggered exits into the pass.

Other than those narrow staircases, whose lower doors were locked fast and invisible from the floor of the pass, the only approach to the keep was Shavasta’s ledge. It was barely the width of two hands, and came at the keep from the west. There was no ledge at all to the east. The sole, treacherous path was accessible only from Neferatia.

Graunos had to guard against the pass because the keep denied any crossing from the east and protected an advance from the west. And it could not be taken except through the most extreme, costly effort.

Or by treachery.

Shavasta held up a fist, calling a halt less than fifty yards from the base of the keep. The ledge narrowed ahead, curving around a bulge in the cliff face. Her Blood Knights were hidden from the guardians of the keep. Once they rounded the turn, they would be exposed and the attack would begin.

It pained Shavasta to take this action. Nighthall Keep had protected Neferatia long and faithfully. Though she understood the strategy, she felt as if she were about to betray queen and empire and leave both exposed to the daemon prince of Angaria.

And she was. Yet this was what Neferata had decreed. The attack must be real. The treachery must be real, or the tactic would fail.

What was built can be destroyed, Shavasta told herself. What is destroyed can be rebuilt.

She cut the air with her sword, a silent command, and ran forwards. She sprinted around the lethal curve, as sure-footed as if she were charging across a plain. Her troops followed. The arrows that rained down could not slow them. Nor could the barred iron door to the fortress.

A few minutes later, Nighthall Keep began to burn.

‘Impossible,’ said Lord Javassak. ‘This is a trick to draw us in.’ The messenger kneeling before him remained silent, knowing better than to answer while Javassak paced back and forth. His heavy boots struck sparks from the stones on the ground. His crimson cloak flapped with the violence of his movements. He glared at the entrance to Nighthall Pass, a crack of deeper darkness in the mountains ahead. Behind him the vastness of the Brass Scythe spread out over the foothills. Tens of thousands strong, it rumbled with the sound of drums and the snarls of its warriors.

At length, Javassak stopped pacing. He held back his anger and thought about what he had heard. While he pondered, his fingers traced the shape of the twisted spike embedded in the flesh on the right side of his skull. It ran from his chin to his crown, the ribbed brass twisting skin and muscle, pulling his face into a perpetual snarl of rage. It stabbed out of his forehead, forking into piercing horns.

Javassak turned back to the messenger. ‘Tell me again. Our spies witnessed more than just a fire?’

‘Yes, mighty lord,’ the Blood Warrior said. His frame quivered with the effort to keep still. He needed to be on the battlefield, harvesting skulls for the Blood God. So did Javassak. But the war was delayed and delayed and delayed, the armies endlessly growing, endlessly stalled before the mountains. Javassak and his Gorechosen inner circle were keeping the Bloodbound from turning on each other as the waiting stretched on. Battle arenas where the warriors could kill each other in limited fashion kept the horde from turning into a riot leagues across. But the situation could not last forever.

Now the word had come that the wait might be over, and Javassak did not trust it. Graunos had warned the lords of his armies of the deceptions practised by the Mortarch of Blood, deceptions Kathag had witnessed. Javassak had no intention of sharing Ruhok’s fate. Yet he wanted to believe in the news from the pass. He wanted to believe the time had come to flood Neferatia with blood.

‘Our spies witnessed battle,’ the Blood Warrior continued. ‘Vampires against skeletons. And they have seen the tower begin to fall.’

Javassak tightened his fists. With a supreme effort of will, he bit back the order to march into Nighthall Pass immediately. The grip of fear that chained him to Graunos’ will enforced discipline, and he passed the terror in turn down the ranks, teaching his warriors to dread him as much as he dreaded Graunos.

Ahead of the main body of the Bloodbound horde, where the land rose into the first of the mountain’s slopes, was a steep-sided depression in the rock. Harpies swooped in and out of the bowl, shrieking with hunger and delight as they toyed with the prisoners inside. As Javassak looked their way, one of them hovered just above the pit, her dark, leathery wings flapping to hold her in place. Her taloned feet gripped a soft, dripping mass that might once have been human.

‘Send word of what we have seen to Prince Graunos,’ Javassak said. The harpies were slaves to Graunos even more than he was, and the sport of slaughter kept them satisfied while they acted as messengers, streaking through the air back and forth between the western foothills and Skulldagger Bastion. ‘We must await his word.’ He swallowed bile, hating that he was so constrained, fearing Graunos’ anger and wary of Neferata’s deceptions. ‘But we make ready to march,’ he added. If Graunos gave the command to seize this opportunity, then the order would find Javassak at the entrance of the pass, ready to burn Neferatia with wrath.

Tireless, relentless, the harpy streaked to Mausolea, crossing lands that were barren, lands that smouldered after the passage of the warhordes and lands that were fertile, spared destruction in order to feed the hunger of Graunos’ armies. She flew to the Offertory throne room, and in shrieking, hissing tones delivered Javassak’s message.

Graunos jerked his head, and the harpy flew out of the chamber to perch on its roof and await the commands of her master while he summoned Kathag to his presence.

‘It’s a trap,’ said Kathag, standing before Graunos on his throne.

‘Tell me where the trap lies,’ said the daemon prince. ‘A key defence of Neferatia falls. The way is open to us, and the forces of death are seen to be fighting each other. There have been uprisings against the Mortarch of Blood in the past. We have applied pressure, and now the cracks appear. Is all of this impossible?’

‘It is because it is so believable that it must be a trap. I cannot see how the loss of Nighthall Keep redounds to Neferata’s advantage, but it must, or she would not have arranged for it to fall.’

Graunos cocked his head. ‘Is there any circumstance of apparent advantage that you would not consider a trap?’

Kathag’s lips pulled back in a silent snarl at the insult. He said nothing.

‘When, I wonder,’ Graunos continued, ‘would you ever give the command to attack?’

‘I did not say I would not attack now,’ Kathag growled.

‘Wordplay,’ said Graunos, contemptuous.

‘Attack,’ Kathag said. ‘This is a trap, but we must attack. This is the chance we have sought.’

Bored of taunting Kathag, Graunos nodded. ‘It is,’ he said. ‘And I agree with you. This is a trap. It is also her mistake. If she knew everything that we know, she would not give us this chance. She has revealed her ignorance. So we will strike.’

‘With our full force?’ Kathag sounded wary.

‘No.’ Graunos hungered to see the Mortarch’s empire crushed beneath the boots of his armies. He also would not commit his full might yet. If Neferata was blind to what he was about to unleash, he also acknowledged that there were risks he could not see. Ruhok had trusted his strength too much, and had seen what he wanted to see. Graunos knew better. The opportunity Neferata had created for him was a rich one. Believing a single blow could end the war, though, was a delusion. ‘Javassak is to take the pass and bring the battle to Neferatia.’ A strong probing attack was a risk worth taking. ‘The rest of the warhordes will wait, and prepare for a counterattack.’

‘What of Vask?’

‘He will hear my voice. He will know his opportunity has come.’

A monster roared in Nighthall Pass. The beast was a multitude, and the multitude was a unity. Tens of thousands of voices fused into a single bellow of rage, tens of thousands of boots tramped with the force of an earthquake, and tens of thousands of blades clashed against shields, sounding the thunder of the end of days. Javassak’s warhorde advanced through the pass like a serpent of blood and brass. Blood warriors smashed each other against the cliff walls in the crush to be at the front. No flow of lava was as dense, as implacable or as incandescent.

Mounted on his juggernaut, Daurax, Javassak charged through the pass at the head of his warhorde. He exulted in the rage. His jaws were parted painfully wide, as if he would bite down on the entire empire on the other side of the pass. There was satisfaction in the march, but even so, it was a delay. Neferatia was not burning yet. His axe had not yet severed the queen’s head from her shoulders.

Far behind, the siege towers were being dragged painfully through the narrow confines of the pass. Every sharp turn required hours of straining from the brayherds on the ropes to negotiate. The rest of the warhorde would long have left Nighthall Pass by the time the siege towers reached the Neferatian side. Javassak was beyond caring. He would strike with speed, with a swarm, with fire. In the rush of the march, it was easy to believe that any walls he encountered would fall before the sheer force of the charge. The Brass Scythe would smash the cities of Neferatia down like a wave breaking over sand.

Up ahead, and far above, the struggle for Nighthall Keep continued. What remained of the tower was burning furiously. As Javassak passed beneath the fire, the fortress that had barred his way for so long was a blazing torch. It lit the way forwards, filling the pass with a dull, flickering red. It presaged the massacres to come.

The mountain rumbled, and more of the shattered tower collapsed. Huge chunks of brickwork tumbled down, bouncing off ridges in the cliff faces, disintegrating and hailing rubble into the pass. Javassak heard cries suddenly cut short as fragments of the keep crushed bloodreavers behind him. The losses barely registered. They were trivial, meaningless. The Brass Scythe was surging past the point where the advance would have slammed to a halt only the day before.

Javassak urged Daurax faster, and he left the ruin of Nighthall Keep behind him. He roared in triumph. The way forwards was clear. Let the foe try to slow him down with ambushes. They would be futile. The fortress on its perch had been uniquely situated to deny any attempt to force the way through the constricted pass. Now the enemy faced the same claustrophobic confines as the Brass Scythe, but Javassak’s horde had the momentum. He would grind the defenders of Neferatia to bloody muck beneath Daurax’s hooves. He welcomed their attempt. He lusted for the welter of slaughter. It could not come soon enough.

The slaughter made him wait. No one tried to stop the Brass Scythe. The light from the burning fortress faded to the rear. Soon there was only the grinding thunder of the great charge. The pass twisted ahead. It widened slightly, then narrowed again, and turned again, denying Javassak any sense of how far there was still to go. It had taken two days at a forced march to reach Nighthall Keep. He lost track of time now as the triumphant fury of the long-anticipated attack took hold of him. He was vaguely aware of the gloom lessening with the coming of day, and then growing dark again. He was tireless. He was relentless. He drove himself and his warriors as if each bend of the pass were the last one and they were forever about to fall upon the foe.

And at last, as night gave way again to a day sullen as lead, the next bend was the last one. Daurax thundered out of the pass and down the rocky slope beyond. Neferatia opened up before Javassak, an empire waiting for his axe. The land ahead descended in low rolls from the mountains. It was a waste of low scrub and hard, rocky ground. Isolated trees, their growths twisted by the unceasing north wind, stretched out gnarled, grasping branches like entreating hands. Standing stones were scattered around the landscape as if strewn by an uncaring hand. Alone or in small clusters, covered in moss, they were half sunken into the earth, slowly being drawn down by erosion and time. Gravestones, leaning and weathered, poked up from the ground. They were even more widely dispersed than the monoliths, and some were barely visible. But their slumped forms jutted up in every direction for as far as Javassak could see. They seemed to be the final, despairing sigh of a vast civilisation as oblivion claimed it forever.

Far to the west lay the corpse of the city of Knell. The time-gnawed ruins covered most of the horizon. The city had once been as large as Mausolea, but it had been dead for a long time. Its people forgotten, its culture lost, it no longer had any meaning except as a symbol of the ultimate supremacy of death. Many of the ruins had crumbled into vagueness, no longer recognisable as anything at all. Here and there, the broken teeth of towers still stood. There was movement too, the idiot nodding of huge stone structures trapped in magic that would never fade and would never let them fall but could not prevent them from losing their form. Spurs a hundred feet long rocked back and forth like reeds in a wind, the undeath of architecture, the eternal farewell of a city whose murder, too, was forgotten.

Javassak resented the ruins. It was a city that had died before he had a chance to kill it. The extent of the death was a goad to his hate. If he had his will, all death would be at his hands and every skull would be an offering to the Skull God. But now, at least, he could impose his will. There was a dark line on the land just ahead of lost Knell. The army of Neferata awaited the Brass Scythe.

At the sight of the foe, the warhorde erupted with a colossal howl. Now the great butchery could begin. Now the fury that had been held back by the Stonepain Mountains could be unleashed. Neferata, in her madness, had laid out her forces in open invitation to disaster. She should have attempted an ambush when she lost Nighthall Keep. She should have been ready to strike at the exit from the pass. Instead, she was waiting on lower lands, and the Brass Scythe was coming at her on the winds of wrath.

Neferata was a fool, and Javassak rode hard to teach her a lesson in blood.

Consumed by the frenzy of the ride to battle, Javassak was midway down the slopes towards the foe before he noticed that the Neferatian forces had not yet begun their counter-charge. They were motionless, waiting.

Expectant.

And now, with all his warriors roaring with him, with the Brass Scythe running at full speed to sweep all before it in an ocean of blood, doubt struck Javassak’s heart. All the warnings about Neferata’s cunning, about her deceptions within deceptions, came rushing back to him. Lord Ruhok had been destroyed at the moment his victory seemed a certainty.

Javassak was rushing forwards in certainty. Yet the legions of the dead were not behaving as if they believed him to be a threat.

You were sent here alone. Graunos was holding back all the other warhordes. He had committed only the Brass Scythe. Unbidden, unwelcome, the thought rose that what he had believed to be an honour might instead have been a sacrifice.

Javassak shouted even louder, seeking to cast doubt aside with the force of anger. The Brass Scythe responded. The Bloodbound of Khorne shook the earth with the thunder of their voices and the pounding of their feet. Yet even through this clamour, Javassak heard a deep boom from somewhere to the rear. It was followed by a long rumble that built and built, that sounded like the death cry of a mountain.

The ground shook, and kept shaking, and then it was heaving so wildly that it almost threw Javassak off Daurax’s back. The juggernaut stumbled, its momentum falling away as it struggled to keep its footing. The charge of the Brass Scythe faltered.

Then the earth began to split. Chasms opened, splitting apart hills and plains, and the forgotten rose in shrieking vengeance.

Nothing ever truly ends. That which is forgotten waits for its time to come again. Its patience is endless, and fatal.

– Neferata, On the Monstrosity of the Past

Chapter Four

The flames were dying now. Nighthall Keep smouldered like a fire dwindling in a hearth, the last logs blackened and turning to ash. Captain Shavasta led her Blood Knights away from the ruin. Its skeleton defenders were destroyed, hundreds of them smashed to splinters. They had fought to the end to save what had been their charge for centuries. They had failed, unprepared for a betrayal of this magnitude.

Shavasta looked back at the rubble once more before she reached the bend in the cliff. Most of the wall had fallen into the depths of the pass. Smoke billowed from the concavity in the mountain face. Where fire still guttered, Shavasta could just make out some of the remaining floors. Though the fortress had fallen, even its corpse showed the art of its makers. Her heart twisted. She hated that it had been necessary to smash so fine a defence.

She rounded the bend. Now, at least, the sight of the keep would stop opening new wounds.

A party of nobles waited a short distance along the ledge. The Blood Knights had left them behind during the attack. Neferata had given Shavasta permission to extend this small mercy. They were the elders of House Valnakt. Shavasta stopped a few steps away from Kerrow, the ancient lord of the family.

‘It is done, then?’ he said.

‘It is, father.’

Kerrow nodded. Though his eyes were lidded, their pain was clear. It was the Valnakts who had constructed the fortress an age ago. ‘I grieve that this should be Nighthall Keep’s fate,’ he said.

‘I grieve too. We will rebuild, father. We will make it even more formidable than before. And our task is not yet done. This will be a day of triumph for Neferatia.’

‘Yes,’ Kerrow said slowly, his shrivelled, reptilian features disguising the immense power he held. ‘Then let us realise this truth, and be glad. When we built the keep, we were but setting a trap. Today, we spring it.’

Shavasta bowed and stepped back to stand with the rest of the Blood Knights. What was to come now was the task of the elders. Shavasta was of the clan of Valnakt, but she was not among those who had been present for the construction of Nighthall Keep. She did not feel the very roots of the fortress, and she did not have the power to make the coming demand.

The vampire nobles faced the direction of the keep. As one, they began to chant the refrain of a great, necromantic spell. Their voices formed a deep, resonant chorus. Though they did not shout, the sound reverberated into the mountainside. The ground shivered under Shavasta’s feet. Softly at first, then growing louder, came the moan. It rose from the stones of the ruin and from the heart of the mountain. It was the cry of the souls of all who had laboured and died for the construction of Nighthall Keep. Even the dead who had defended it and had been physically destroyed were summoned back. Now, what the sacrifices in their thousands had died for was destroyed, and the House of Valnakt called to them one more time, to rise up and give all the deaths meaning.

The spectres cried out in anger. They came for a final task, one last act, not of defence, not of creation, but of ultimate destruction. All their rage and all their grief united into a single blow that shattered the mountainside. Shavasta forced herself to not wince as the shaking of the cliff gave way to a sudden burst of deafening cracks and then a cataclysmic rumble. The entire portion of the mountain where the keep had stood broke away. Tens of millions of tons of granite roared into the pass, blocking it forever.

The echoes of the spectral cry lingered on after the thunder of stone had faded. Dust covered the pass like a grey shroud. The elders ceased their chant, and the cry faded, becoming tattered whispers, then silence.

Shavasta turned away from the spectacle of the rockslide to begin the march west, back into Neferatia.

With the task complete, Kerrow’s jaw was set in grim satisfaction. ‘Since this had to be done,’ he said, ‘it is good that it is well done. There will be no reinforcements for those slaves of Chaos.’

‘And no retreat,’ said Shavasta.

‘Rise!’ Neferata cried. ‘Rise and destroy the enemy who dares trespass on this land! Rise and obey me, for I am your queen and I command it!’

The earth split, and the earth rose up. Sudden canyons yawned, swallowing the Bloodbound. Colossal wedges of rock reared into the sky like the prows of ships, their hulls open to reveal galleries of shrieking nightmares.

The city of Knell had died before the coming of Chaos to Shyish, but for the many centuries it had thrived during the Age of Myth, its dead had been buried outside its walls. The region between the Stonepain Mountains and the ruins of the city was a vast graveyard. The accumulations of dust and earth had concealed layers upon layers of tombs.

Neferata called, and the graveyard rose.

On Nagadron, she hovered in the air, her forces charging ahead below her. Her army was relatively small compared to the Brass Scythe. She could not risk pulling too much of her strength away from the other potential crossing points of the Stonepains. This weakness had been the final lure to pull Javassak into his heedless charge, and with her great summoning she turned the weakness into a lie.

The effort to call the dead in so vast a legion all at once, and to harness them to her will, was draining. She could barely move, her arms outstretched, frozen in the effort of maintaining the spell and extending her will over the leagues of the cemetery. With the ground splitting and rising up on either side of her, she was vulnerable to attack, but as her warriors rushed ahead with the great tide of unleashed spirits, the fighting was taking place a short distance ahead of her. She felt detached from the battle itself, an observer gazing dispassionately upon a distant war. The clashing armies were no more than swarms of insects. She controlled the dead as if she were directing the flows of rivers, and she cast the flood upon the Brass Scythe.

As the enemy’s charge disintegrated into confusion, her commanders began their advance. They knew her orders. She had to trust to their skill. She could not intervene now without relinquishing control of the spell.

Neferata reached deep into the earth with her will, found more of the unquiet dead and pulled again. Two more ships of earth thrust upwards on either side of her, bracketing her with hives of graves. Skeletons battered open their coffins. With mouldering shrouds hanging from their limbs in rags, clutching the blades, now pitted and rusted, that had been buried with them, they leapt from the risen cemetery and fell upon Javassak’s horde.

Spirit hosts burst from the hills of tombs in vast aethereal clouds. Vortices of disincorporated anger howled over the battlefield. Clawed hands and shrieking faces formed in the roiling ectoplasm. Tendrils of the glow became blades, and the phantoms plunged their swords through armour, leaving it untouched, to strike at the souls of the Bloodbound.

At Neferata’s command, in obedience to every slow, majestic gesture, death rushed over the land. Death swarmed over the warriors of blood and brass. It came for them from all sides, from above and from below. There was no retreat, nowhere to turn. You wretches worship Chaos. Very well. I will give you disorder, and confusion, and madness. And terror.

Terror unto death.

For coveting my empire. For taking what is mine. For daring to challenge my supremacy. For all of this, I bring you death.

Now the rest of her forces joined the battle. Arveil the Nightreaper commanded them. She ruled this province of Neferatia, and it was she, in her thirst, who had finally bled Knell dry and brought about its doom. So merciless and vast a thirst was worthy of respect, and Neferata counted Arveil among the most favoured of her nobles. Arveil directed the battle from her palanquin. She sat hunched on her throne like a vulture. The richness of her robes did not soften her angular, predatory silhouette. Though her hair was piled high on her head, it was so long that it also streamed down her back and sides to spread at her feet with the folds of her dress. She was a grasping, hungry shadow, and she revelled in the great shedding of blood.

The Khornate warriors’ defiance was hollow. No frenzy could save them. The land broke up their horde, and death swept over them, all-consuming. There was only one possible end to this battle.

Neferata smiled, an artist before a perfectly executed canvas.

Movement was difficult in the embrace of the corpse, but Vask was used to it. He accepted the burden, and had learned to compensate for the weight, the pain, the dome of the skull always looming in the lower periphery of his vision. But it was never easy. If walking was a chore, climbing was agony. He did not dare stop to catch his breath, though. If he did, exhaustion might claim him. He was halfway up the ruined tower on the eastern edge of Knell. He could not stop until he reached the summit.

The mummified torso gripped Vask like bands of iron. The arms wrapped around him, and its hands, hooked like claws, sank into his back. Even now, so long after the corpse of Kasten had seized him, so long after his flesh had closed and scabbed and scarred around the fingers, the pain felt fresh, as if he were just being grabbed, the clawed nails drawing blood and gouging through muscle for the first time. The same was true for his left shoulder, where Kasten’s teeth were sunk. The skull’s lower jaw had fallen away, but the upper went in so deep, it was as if the head were a growth emerging from his body.

Vask had screamed for three days when Kasten seized him. Three days of thrashing helplessly on the floor of his ancestor’s tomb while the dead thing sank its grip deeper into his body and his soul. At the end of the third day, he had staggered from the crypt, carrying the burden that would be his forever.

He had learned to accept the weight. There had been no choice. And his new reality was a complicated one. The withered monstrosity fused to his body transported him too. Kasten had carried him here, to this day and this place. It was time for Vask to fulfil the oath that had driven him his entire life and that had consumed Kasten even after death.

The day of vengeance had arrived. Vengeance for a crime from another age. Vengeance for the destruction of the House of Hellezan, and of the rebellion of hope it had led.

From the distance came the thunder of clashing arms and the gale-wind howl of warriors. He was hearing the clarion call of vengeance.

Vask reached up and found a handhold. Groaning, he pulled himself up another foot higher. He was more than halfway up what had been the interior of the tower, clawing his way from one broken step to another, one crack in the brickwork to the next. He was ascending the Guardian Spire of Knell. It had stood three times higher than any other structure before the fall of the city. It was still as tall as it had ever been, and the city had shrunk beneath it. The Guardian was a needle of stone. Like the rest of the city, it had died along with Knell’s inhabitants. The tower was an undead corpse. Its white stone had turned grey and porous, resembling rotting skin. Like some of the other buildings, it moved, reenacting the moment of its demise. Where one tower nodded, forever beginning its fall, the Guardian turned. It twisted on its base, agonised, in the prelude before collapse. It was frozen in the moment. Though it decayed and crumbled, shed stones and sculptures, though the caryatids of its arched windows had been eroded into shapeless wraiths and though it was turning into a skeleton, it could not fall. It turned, stone grinding against stone, a blind sentinel fruitlessly casting its blank gaze over the wastes of its domain.

Vask was bringing vision back to the Guardian Spire. His would be the first eyes to look out over the expanse of Knell and its land since the city had died. From the top, he would see the battle and direct the long-awaited justice.

In the section of the tower that he was climbing, less than a third of the wall was intact. Wind plucked at his robes, trying to shake him loose. If he could only manage a little longer, he would see that the staircase resumed. The Spire seemed more or less intact for the rest of the climb. But every movement was a risk. His palms were slick with sweat. As the Guardian turned, it felt as if the stone were trying to squirm away from his grasp. The weight of the mummy pulled down on him.

His foot slipped as he reached for another handhold, and he started to fall. He hung on with his left arm, and the jerk almost pulled the limb from its socket. He screamed, his feet scrabbling. They found a bit of a ledge, and he steadied himself, cursing.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ he screamed at the corpse. ‘Do you wish us to lose everything? Do you want her to escape? Why do you hinder me?’

Our strength is mine. You are the weak one. You are unworthy of the honour of our task.

Before the crypt, Kasten had been simply the most honoured of ancestors, the son of Mathas Hellezan. Neferata had killed Mathas and all who followed him, but his wife, Teyosa, had escaped with the infant Kasten, fleeing through underground tunnels as the family’s palace burned. Teyosa had nurtured the ember of rebellion, and Kasten had gone much further, sacrificing everything to prepare for this day. Where Teyosa had kept the rebels united and determined, Kasten had brought them the hope of victory by showing them power. He had sacrificed every vestige of his humanity to become a greater danger to Neferata than his father had ever been. And his ferocious will had continued to reign over the Lytessians and Hellezans after his death. Vask had often spoken to Kasten’s portraiture on canvas and in stone. Over the years, the conversations had become less one-sided, as Vask imagined, more and more vividly, Kasten’s responses. There had been times when the sense of his ancestor speaking to him, commanding him, had been so real, he had come to himself with his head spinning and the feeling that the ground beneath his feet was as insubstantial as mist. Even so, Vask had always known that he was, in the end, speaking to himself. Or at least, so he had told himself when he broke from the spell of Kasten’s gaze. Even the portraits commanded obedience.

Since the crypt, everything had changed. Kasten, or the wretched thing that had been him, was part of Vask now. And the voice in Vask’s head was both familiar and strange. It was the voice he had been hearing for years, yet it was stronger, angrier and more jagged. It stabbed into his skull when it spoke, shards of glass slashing through his mind. It seemed to come from within his skull too. In the early days of his capture, he had sometimes wondered if he were imagining the voice. He no longer had doubts. It said things he had never thought. It pushed him to take actions he had never considered. It harangued him, plagued him, and at times did not address him, howling mindlessly. He would join it, then, and two splintered souls would scream their anger into the darkness.

He was no longer just Vask. There was Kasten in him too. More than Kasten’s body had seized him. The spirit of the great hero was in Vask’s. It was broken, sharp, maddened. It was strong, too, and relentless. Its hatred for Neferata was undying. It had shown Vask what to do, and it had given him the power to do it, though its every command and whim were torments, shredding Vask’s self in mind and soul as surely as Kasten’s body was torn.

Through hate and agony, they had reached this day. Vask refused to fail now.

‘I am not weak,’ he snarled, pulling himself up again.

The Guardian Spire turned, the wind moaned and tugged, and Vask kept climbing.

‘I am not a burden!’ he cried. ‘You are my burden. But you will not pull me down. We will pull the Mortarch down! An end to her deception,’ he spat, and drew closer to the stairs. ‘An end to her lies!’ Closer yet.

An end to her! Kasten screamed in his head, and Vask hauled himself onto the steps.

He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. He glanced down at the gap below. As the tower spun, the vista of the broken city whirled past. Vask had climbed very high already. He looked away and resumed his ascent. Moving past the windows, he could almost believe that Knell was rotating around the still point of the tower. He was at the centre of things, and that, he knew, was the truth. He would soon prove this to Neferata.

At last, his breath harsh, the weight of the corpse pulling him forwards, the pain in his shoulder and back as hot as red coals, he reached the narrow roof of the Spire. It was less than ten feet across, and the parapets had fallen away. It would be easy to slip and plummet to the distant ground. Vask stood in the centre of the roof, shuffling his feet carefully to keep his stance and to remain facing east, where the battle waited for him.

From the commanding height of the Guardian Spire, he saw the forces of Khorne being savaged by the legions of the dead. ‘This is a rout,’ he said.

We expected nothing else. She shapes and manipulates. She would have the first true battle of the war take place on her terms. This is who she is. This is the danger we have come to destroy.

Despite himself, he was awed by what he saw. The plains and low foothills beyond Knell looked like an ocean in a storm. Huge waves of earth rose, crumbling, into the air, and chasms opened up between them. Ectoplasmic lightning and roiling fog swept over the fragmented horde of the Brass Scythe. The shrieks of spectres, the raging cries of berserk warriors and the crashing of the heaving land rolled towards Vask, smashing against him with the blows of a monstrous tide. Death was supreme over the land, and it was conquering in the name of Neferata.

There she is. There is the monster.

The Mortarch of Blood was in a straight line from Vask’s position, suspended between two of the upthrust wedges of earth. From this distance she appeared motionless. The only movement was the sinuous weaving of her dread abyssal’s tail. Below her, and slightly to the south, her army surged across a level expanse of the plain, driving into the largest portion of the warhorde that was still intact.

She thinks she has won. She doesn’t realise. She is vulnerable. Our time is now. At long last, our time is now!

Vask stopped shuffling. He let himself turn with the rotation of the tower until he faced east. He looked out over the full vista of dead Knell. The silence of the city was heavy, not easily disturbed even by the clamour of war. The roar from the west crashed against the Guardian Spire, but then the tide of sound ebbed. Stillness had gathered over Knell with the dust of centuries. Ruined while the Age of Myth was in its glory, Knell was ignored by the armies of Chaos who marched past its emptiness. The silence grew until it pressed down on the city like a sarcophagus lid.

To look upon Knell was to look upon leagues of crumbled absence. The only change the city had seen since its death was gradual but implacable decay. On this day, though, there was movement through the stillness. The movement was solemn, respectful of the huge sullen mediation of the vast, slowly vanishing sepulchre. Those who walked its streets had no desire to break the silence. They embraced it. They used it. It covered them as it covered the city, concealing their approach. Vask saw them, for they came at his command.

They are mine. This is my design they come to fulfil.

‘You began this. I complete it.’

You are mine as much as they are.

‘What happens this day is mine!’ Vask shrieked. The wind stole his cry, and the silence muffled it.

When, commanded by Neferata, Arveil had decreed that the entire region would march to battle at the Stonepain Mountains, there was one noble family that did not answer her call, and that single absence escaped her notice. House Lytessian had the means to disobey Arveil, and had every reason to. Once one of the richest families of Knell, the Lytessians had witnessed Arveil’s depredations and had realised what was coming in time to flee the city before the collapse. They had retreated to the shadow-haunted hills far to the north and carved out a precarious existence there. Hate had kept them strong. There was plenty of hate for Arveil, but the truest, purest hate was for Neferata. It was the Lytessians with whom Teyosa Hellezan had sought refuge with her infant son. That one surviving fragment of the Hellezans had been enough to alter the Lytessians forever. As Kasten had grown in anger and strength, he had made the Lytessians his own. He had been the spider hidden at the centre of the web, a necromancer patiently weaving his revenge, never venturing out of the depths of the clan’s manor. Gradually, the family had become an extension of his will. Even after he died, his purpose had shaped every action of the Lytessians.

There was much that Kasten’s will had commanded. There was the creation of a secret army, building upon the family’s resources, drawing in the discontented and the betrayed from Knell. There was, crucially, the meticulous crafting of the necromantic work, work that was built upon and strengthened by Kasten’s successors, which kept the dead of the Lytessians under their control, hidden from Arveil and Neferata. That was the struggle of generations. This day never would have come if Neferata had discovered that the Hellezan rebellion lived on. The isolation and remoteness of the Lytessians’ land helped. Until Neferata was ready to attempt to reconquer the lands lost to Angaria, the flows of the wars had left the Lytessians alone.

Vask had spent his life in a state of twitching impatience, knowing that he must prepare for battle as if the moment of revenge might not dawn for generations yet. He had been faithful to his charge, and then Kasten had taken him, and he had known that the time of waiting was nearly done. Kasten had turned Vask’s gaze to Angaria. Protected by a hundred wards of concealment, the fused necromancers had cast spells of summoning, drawing the attention of the daemon prince. At last, Graunos had answered. Rage had allied with rage, and House Lytessian began its march.

Vask watched his army now. The silent anger moved through the silent streets. There were vampires in the ranks, those who feared or hated Neferata enough to take up arms against her, driven by desperation and hope. The heads of House Lytessian were there, marching in close ranks through the narrow streets, the lines of skeletons reaching back until they disappeared in the shadows of the ruins. But at the head of the ranks, in command of the attack, were mortals. The Hellezan rebellion had always been, at its core, an act of glorious refusal by mortals to be ruled by the dead.

This was Shyish, and Nagash would claim all who lived in the end. So while the end was not yet here, they would burn brightly and give him nothing.

Mathas had still led the uprising after Neferata inducted him into the ranks of the undead, and that was the moment, as Teyosa and then Kasten had taught in the years that followed, when tragedy had overtaken the rebellion. While he was a mortal, Mathas had been in possession of his self. Once he had become a vampire, he had only thought this to be true. His every action had been governed by the monster who sat on the throne of the Palace of Seven Vultures. No vampire had been trusted with full knowledge of the rebellion ever since. Those who took up the cause had to accept that they would not rule it.

‘The living fight for the living,’ Vask whispered. The vow had a bitter edge. The weight of Kasten’s mummy and the pain of its grip mocked him.

What are you? What are you?

‘I am mortal,’ Vask said. ‘I shall die, yet I still live.’ It was a refrain he repeated daily, endlessly.

What are you? What are you? The question never answered, the taunt never silenced.

Vask was very old. So much of what made him mortal had withered and rotted, shrivelled like petrified flesh. He had begun to insist, through the refrain, on the reality of his mortality years before his descent into Kasten’s crypt.

‘I am mortal. I shall die, yet I still live.’

What are you? What are you?

The doubts and the insistence never gave him rest. The cycle gnawed at his heart. It was almost as painful as the corpse’s teeth.

Shuffling again to stay in place, Vask looked for the sight that would hurt him the most. He did so because it was also the source of his greatest pride. Skarveth Lytessian embodied what Vask had given up for the cause. He was the great commander, the icon of nobility who gathered followers simply by existing. He was what Vask had sacrificed in order to preserve. When Vask looked at Skarveth, he saw the future of the houses. He felt pain, because Skarveth was what Vask would never be again, and because of the scars that marred Skarveth’s perfection. But in full armour, with his face hidden, he was still perfect, and Vask felt more pride than pain.

Vask spotted Skarveth easily, there at the head of his great company of riders. The men and women of the house’s horse guard bore their colours proudly. Though the day was a deep grey, the gold and green was resplendent, as if the armour were imbued with its own light. Though the hoofbeats of the chargers were muffled by the city’s quiet, the pride of the banners was a shout. It would have been proper for Skarveth to wear the colours of Hellezan. He was a descendant of Mathas just as much as he was a son of Lytessian. But none of the Hellezan family armour had survived the fall of Mathas. Skarveth wore the colours of his other house with honour, and Vask thought this was well too.

‘Will you not want Neferata to know whose vengeance has come for her?’ Skarveth had asked.

‘I do,’ Vask had answered. ‘But if she goes to oblivion in ignorance, I will still be satisfied.’ Vask found it hard to set aside the instincts for secrecy that had been bred for generations into the narrow thread of the Hellezans. Even now, he felt no hesitation in keeping the name hidden.

Skarveth reached the foot of the Guardian Spire. He drew back on the reins, halting his charger, and looked up, raising his visor. The ground was too far away for Vask to see his face, but he knew the features well. They were very like what his own had been long ago. Skarveth was Vask’s legacy, the embodiment of what the two houses had been and would be again.

Skarveth was why Vask had opened Kasten’s tomb. He had sought to prolong his existence, and his reign as chief necromancer, in part to spare Skarveth from following his path for as long as possible. Skarveth was a commander of power. He would be a beacon on the battlefield. Dragging him into the necromantic dark would be a loss for the present as well as the future. There was more, too. Vask had given up more than his body. Monstrosity had reached into his spirit as well as his flesh. Skarveth lived to a code of honour that Vask could no longer even pretend to follow. Vask had no wish to steal that from the future either.

Vask had a dead thing clinging to his torso, and the cost did not seem great. Vengeance was nigh, and the man who would carry the Lytessians and Hellezans to glory was saluting him. Vask raised his arm in answer, and then turned and pointed east. With that gesture, he unleashed his forces against Neferata’s.

The infantry of skeletons and mortals charged past the Guardian Spire and through the low ruins of Knell’s walls. Though the horse guard had led the advance through the city, Skarveth held back for the moment, as Vask had commanded. The initial attack would already be a surprise. Vask would send Skarveth for the second shock, and the final blow.

He turned his attention away from the armed rush. It would have been satisfying to witness the initial impact, the moment when the long-dead hand of Mathas Hellezan reached from his tomb to strike back, at last, for what had been done to him and his family. But Vask could not afford to divide his attention. His body, growing used to the tower’s movement, fell into a steady shuffle, keeping Vask steady, his torso almost motionless, facing east. All of his energy, all of his focus, all of his skill and all of his power would now be directed at Neferata.

She had barely moved while he had been looking upon his army. Her focus was as singular as his, though she was controlling forces far more vast than anything Vask could summon. He didn’t have to be as strong as her. All he needed was to strike once. Not even fatally. Just hard enough.

Vask concentrated, staring at the distant queen. He saw nothing except the small, graceful, slow-moving figure. Everything else greyed and fell away at the edges of his vision. He began to speak the words of invocation. He clasped his hands together and held his arms out, rigid, pointing at the Mortarch. The energies of death built up in his hands. A nimbus of black and gold and red crackled into being. Vask’s arms shook as the power grew. He almost cried out to release the energy.

Not yet! Not yet! Be strong or be defeated. Prove yourself to be my descendant.

Vask’s chant sounded strangely in his ears. His voice was doubled. Two necromancers, one living and one dead, were speaking at once. The nimbus widened, and the spell grew more powerful. Trembling, agonised, Vask held back and kept chanting.

Neferata heard the outbreak of battle behind her. She did not know what was happening, and she did not know what it meant. She could not turn around quickly without losing her grasp on the waves of spirits. Then whatever had gone wrong rippled forwards. Neferata glanced down and saw confusion in Arveil’s ranks. Their march forwards stopped. Some were turning to the rear. Arveil stood up in her throne and looked back and forth as if uncertain where to direct the fight. Eastwards, the large mass of the Brass Scythe began to rally and press back against the Neferatians.

A new force had entered the fray, one Neferata did not know and had not foreseen. Her lips drew back in a gradual snarl of frustration. She would have to deal with this enemy, yet she was held by her own spell. Her work was almost done, but the battle was changing too quickly. Arveil was suddenly caught in a pincer attack. Neferata felt the cruel certainty that a second trap had been sprung, this time on her. Perhaps she could still disarm it. She began a slow turn, sweeping a cloud of ghosts with her, away from the Bloodbound they were harrying. She would hurl them against the new foe and give Arveil a chance to regroup.

Neferata was midway through the turn when the arcane bolt hit. It was a massive, brutalising shock. For a few moments, she knew nothing except the lightning of pain. Thought ceased. Her limbs twitched rigid. She had put so much of herself into the necromantic control of the spirits and the raising of the graves that she had no defences against a bolt of this power. It blasted through her spell, disrupting it, wrenching everything from her grasp.

Caught in the burst, Nagadron howled, jerking wildly, held by the waves of explosions of death energy. The force of the bolt hurled Neferata forwards, out of her seat on the dread abyssal’s back. She bounced against his spine, and then fell. She plummeted between the huge upthrusts of the tombs, convulsing in a flashing black cloud of force. And she felt herself drop through the tatters of her spell, the tapestry she had woven coming apart like a broken web.

Javassak had fought his way to the peak of the risen tomb wedge to the south of Neferata when he saw the streak of sorcerous light strike her from the direction of Knell. The balance of the war had already begun to shift, and the blinding fog of raging frustration lifted from his eyes. Though Javassak’s fury blazed on, cold calculation tempered his thoughts. When the land had cracked and heaved, it had separated him from the bulk of his warhorde. From this height, he saw that Herkon, the Exalted Deathbringer of the Brass Scythes, had command of a great number of the Bloodbound. In the time it took for Neferata to fall to the ground in the narrow gorge between the high galleries of tombs, Javassak hesitated between his choices.

Already, Herkon was hurling back the forces of that black vulture of a vampire noble. If Herkon took the day, he might also think to take the horde from Javassak. But Neferata was down, and the smell of revenge filled his nostrils. Hesitation vanished, burned away by the need to take so great a prize.

‘Her skull is mine!’ Javassak roared, and the warriors surrounding him shouted bloody praise to him and to Khorne.

They poured down the upthrust, leaping from level to level of tombs. They dropped so fast, their race was really a barely controlled fall. Javassak ignored the jarring impact as he plunged twenty feet at a time and his boots punched craters into packed earth and cracked stone. Daurax raced at his side, hooves smashing through stone shelves as the juggernaut hurled itself into a nearly vertical run. The slaughterpriest Ressiak and the bloodsecrator Baham were only a few steps behind, and they led the rampaging gore pilgrims. The sight of Neferata falling had driven the pilgrims to a maddened frenzy of worship. A great enemy waited to be destroyed in the name of Khorne, and they were heedless of personal risk. Some fell, breaking limbs and necks, and some were trampled. The losses were insignificant. The Mortarch was injured, and she was alone. Javassak had more than enough followers with him to destroy her.

‘Mine!’ Javassak shouted again. ‘Her skull is mine!’

More than her skull would be his. The war would be won by his hand. Graunos would elevate him above all other lords. He could not begin to imagine the rewards from Khorne for such a victory. He could not imagine them, but he could taste them, taste the blood filling his mouth and running down his chin. He had bitten through his tongue after another hard landing, and he exulted in its flow.

The Brass Scythes reached the floor of the canyon. Neferata was only just rising to her feet. She was still alone.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ Javassak screamed. He raised his giant Axe of Khorne. The blade screamed too, hungry to destroy the usurper of blood.

Nobility is a useful weakness, easily exploited. I have heard it, time and again, through age upon age, proclaimed to be a strength. I have yet to see a single instance where this is true. Should the impossible appear, however, I confess without hesitation that it would interest me greatly.

– Neferata, Ruminations and Satires

Chapter Five

The Guardian Spire turned, and Vask shuffled, holding himself in place so that he might see the unfolding of the Hellezans’ revenge. He could barely stand after unleashing the arcane bolt. The spell had taken all his energy. He was a dried husk. He felt as if the next gust of wind would shrivel him to ash. When he breathed, his lungs rattled wetly, all phlegm and loose stones. The weight of Kasten’s mummy threatened to pull him over.

It was all worth it. He had struck at Neferata, and he had watched her fall. The moment of her plunge was the crowning achievement of his life. His entire existence had been directed to making that moment real. By his hand, he had ripped her from the sky. By his command, he would now see her finished.

The struggle was not over yet. Neferata was not destroyed. But Vask could see the end coming, and if he had had the strength, he would have laughed. Javassak led a flood of Khornate warriors to where she had fallen. The cleft between the risen cemeteries had become a cauldron of fighting. Neferata was alone against a lord of Khorne and his most fanatical followers. It was possible that they would be enough to bring an end to her.

Possible, but not certain. He would make certain, and he would have the Hellezan line take part in her destruction, right up to the point that there was nothing left of Neferata but dust.

‘Go,’ he croaked. The word was a cracked whisper, barely audible to his own ears. He stretched his arm out again, and his command was visible to the Lytessian horse guard below. Buglers sounded the charge, and Skarveth led the thunder across the plain towards the struggle in the canyon. The banners were high, and for the first time since the Age of Myth, the banner of House Hellezan flapped proudly in the wind, racing towards vindication.

Vask followed the sight of the horse guard storming past isolated clashes and driving straight into the canyon. ‘It is accomplished,’ he said to Kasten. ‘In your father’s name, the battle is about to be won.’

End her. Smash her reign forever. My father reaches out from the grave to claim his victory.

Vask found the energy to shout, ‘Mathas, you are avenged!’

The armoured behemoth blazed with the power of his god. Javassak hit at Neferata with axe blows that would have shattered temple pillars. He was fast, too. He was a rockslide, and he was lightning. And there was desperation in his eyes. He had been on the edge of failure before that bolt had brought her down. He knew what failure would cost him if he did not succeed, and if he was to succeed, it had to be now. His desperation was his weak point, if only Neferata could use it.

She couldn’t. She blocked his attacks with the staff Aken-seth. Each time the weapons clashed, the air flashed deep crimson. Eldritch fire engulfed the arms of the duellists.

Javassak had the offensive, and she could not take it from him. She could only react and block. In her right hand, Akmet-har, the Dagger of Jet, screamed in anger, as hungry as she was to plunge the blade past the seams of Javassak’s armour and strike him all the way through to his soul. But she could not find the opportunity. Though Javassak roared ‘Her skull is mine! Her skull is mine!’, he did not shun the aid his minions gave him. His slaughterpriest swung repeatedly at Neferata’s right flank, and the gore pilgrims hurled themselves to their doom in the service of their lord. Neferata slashed with the dagger, killing two more at each stroke, opening throats and stealing the essence of her enemies even faster than their blood could jet from their bodies. Their blows, the few they landed, meant nothing to her, but they kept her busy.

The Axe of Khorne and the Staff of Pain slammed against each other again, and again, and the storm of their war grew, surging dark red across the canyon floor, engulfing all the combatants in a vortex of bloody fire. It swept the weaker of the Bloodbound into the air, burned them and wrenched their bodies apart, lashing the ground with the rain of their blood. Javassak leaned ever more heavily into his blows, his desperation driving his wrath even higher. His eyes bulged, and the spike driven through his skull glowed red with heat. His skin blackened, smoke rising from the top of his skull. His pain transmuted into rage, and he brought the axe down with such force that when Neferata blocked it, the ground trembled and split beneath their feet.

The Brass Scythe and its lord pressed her harder and harder. She could hold them at bay but not counter their attacks, and Neferata hissed as she saw where the struggle was going. Trapped here, she could not aid her forces, and if they fell, sooner or later, even more reinforcements would come to Javassak’s aid and finally overwhelm her. Her being still rang like a struck bell from the surprise blow of the bolt from Knell, and Javassak was not giving her the chance to gather her forces and unleash her sorcery. She was using all her concentration to block the next strike, to cut down the gore pilgrims who dared to come at her with their blades, to hold back the slaughterpriest’s harrying attacks and to weather the blasts that hit her again and again from the bloodsecrator’s skull icons as he chanted and prayed to the Blood God. Some of the attacks were getting through. Blood ran down her face and shoulders. Her armour was scorched, and her wounds burned with the fire of Khorne’s wrath.

Nagadron could not help her. The bolt had struck him hard too, and before he could recover, the Bloodbound had swarmed him. Though his jaws snapped bodies in half, the sheer mass of the attackers was holding him to the ground.

‘You will fall!’ Javassak roared, and slammed the axe down.

‘I will see you on your knees before me,’ Neferata taunted, blocking the strike, triggering ear-splitting thunderclaps and another blast of eldritch flame. She was trying to goad him into an error. It was the only tactic left to her to try to break the stalemate before it was too late.

Then she heard a different thunder, one of hooves. It was the sound of time running out.

Javassak heard it too, and understood its import. He brayed with furious laughter.

Banners flying, horns blaring, the horse guard slammed into the battle. Javassak swept his axe back and paused, waiting for the opportunity this new force would give him. In his contorted face, Neferata saw the certainty that the battle was about to end.

Then the lead horseman shouted, and Javassak froze, his eyes widening in astonishment and disbelief.

‘For Neferata!’ was the cry. ‘For our queen!’

‘For Neferata!’ all the mounted warriors echoed.

As surprised as Javassak, Neferata lunged forwards to seize his moment of confusion. Javassak reacted quickly, smashing the thrust of her bladed staff aside and backing away. Before she could press her advantage, the slaughterpriest charged her flank with a howling scream. She sidestepped and stabbed with the Dagger of Jet, catching the shaft of the slaughterpriest’s axe and forcing it up. The zealot kept charging, colliding with her. She held her ground and knocked him back, but then had to whirl to counter a new flurry of blows from the recovered, furious Javassak.

The tide of battle began to change once more. A company of the horse guard tore into the gore pilgrims attacking Nagadron. They trampled the Khorne worshippers into a blood mire and slashed them from the Adevore’s back. In moments, the weight had diminished enough for Nagadron to take to the air. Gore pilgrims howled as he shook them free, sending them plummeting down to smash on the ground. With a vengeful roar, he parted his jaws and swooped back down into the midst of the enemy, sweeping them up with his teeth, shredding their bodies and claiming their souls. His black skeleton glowed explosively, blazing with the green of captured spirits. The terrible light burned into the gore pilgrims to either side of him as he flew, crippling them, doubling them over in agony, leaving them helpless as he cut them down like wheat.

Screaming incoherently, Javassak came at Neferata with such fury that rock shattered and smoked beneath his feet. The air burned as the axe came in at her, and she had to counter with both her weapons to arrest the blow. The explosion of the impact was blinding. For a moment, she was surrounded by fire and lightning. The force of Javassak’s hit drove her into the ground as far as her ankles, and pain thrashed through her body. Before the glare of the blast faded, and before she could turn from the lord of Khorne, there was a rush of movement on her right. The slaughterpriest was coming at her again, while the gore pilgrims rushed into the flames from all sides.

Neferata leapt backwards, breaking away from Javassak and somersaulting through the air to land a few yards back from the attack. Before she could turn to the slaughterpriest, he staggered to a halt, his scream of rage cut short. The leader of the horse guard had plunged his sword through the zealot’s chest. The slaughterpriest’s head nodded forwards, starting at its bloodied reflection in the blade.

Other warriors rode up beside their leader, decapitating gore pilgrims with blows as savage as they were precise. Together, they bought Neferata the chance she needed. She had the moments to focus on Javassak alone.

He charged, maddened, as unstoppable as his juggernaut mount. His desperation was as acute as his wrath. He knew this was his last chance, and he was taking it with the power of a hurricane.

Then the cavalry leader jumped from his horse and put himself in the path of the lord of Khorne. ‘For our queen!’ he shouted, and ran forwards, blade extended.

Incredulous, Javassak struck the warrior with a side swipe of his axe. The warrior’s armour was as cloth against the blood-forged weapon. The blow cut through his flank and shattered his spine, killing him at once and hurling his body out of Javassak’s way.

Javassak’s attack was brutal and dismissive. It was also his mistake. He was still coming at Neferata, but he had to pull his axe back again. She didn’t give him the chance. Setting aside, for the moment, her own astonishment at the scene she had just witnessed, she rushed at Javassak like a shadow, like the wind, and she drove Akmet-har through Javassak’s right eye. His skull cracked. His legs kept moving, and he carried her backwards for several yards as his life and soul poured into the dagger. His jaw sagged, its rage draining away to the blankness of death.

Neferata yanked Akmet-har free and propelled herself away from the shambling corpse. Javassak took three more steps, then crashed to the earth like a felled tree. A short distance away, his juggernaut screamed at the death of its master, then screamed again as Nagadron landed on its back with the force of a meteor. The Adevore closed his jaws around the juggernaut’s head and crushed it.

Neferata did not understand what had happened. She experienced the mixed emotions that mystery always raised in her. She was wary of anything that she did not control. At the same time, she was delighted by the novelty of surprise. The horse guard that had arrived to be the salvation of her campaign was no force that she had anticipated. There was meaning here to be plumbed, but it would have to wait. She had the advantage now, and she must press it home.

Confusion was spreading through the Brass Scythe. The lord of the warhorde was dead, and so was the priest who stirred the warriors’ blood to battle. Even as Nagadron pulled the head off the juggernaut, the rest of the horse guard turned on the bloodsecrator and brought him down, bringing a sudden end to his prayers. The leadership of the horde in this region of the battlefield was gone, and the forces that remained fell back as Neferata turned on them in anger and majesty.

She spread her arms, brandishing staff and dagger, and rose into the air. Nagadron rushed to her. The Adevore hovered beneath her while she lowered herself into the throne-like saddle once more. Her strength was rushing back to her, and with it her command of sorcery.

Nagadron climbed higher, taking her above the fray on the ground, up between the great wedges of earth. Neferata reached out again to the spirits she had earlier enslaved to her will. They were still present, unable to leave the land where they had been interred. They had lost their purpose when she fell, and they roamed aimless through the air above the battle, a disordered, aethereal cloud. They were a storm that could not gather. The spirits on the ground attacked whoever was near. Their aggression was mindless and indiscriminate. They did not know what they were or what they must do. They knew only the pain of their existence and their hatred for anything that breathed.

The battle was not won yet. She needed to wield this host to complete her task.

‘Hear me!’ Neferata cried, and they heard her. ‘You are mine, for I am your queen, and your sole purpose is my will!’

She gave them direction again, and they came, howling, to answer her call. The storm gathered, and she guided it past the canyon, down to the broader struggle, where Arveil was on the verge of retreat. At Neferata’s command, the storm broke, shattering the blade of the Brass Scythe.

The betrayal defied comprehension. Vask stared for a long time before he understood what he was seeing. At first, from this distance, all he could make out was that the battle had suddenly turned against the warhorde. There was confusion and struggle where there should have been a quick end. The only enemies in the canyon were Neferata and her dread abyssal. Skarveth’s attack should have finished the battle. Instead it continued. And when the eldritch blasts of the duel between the Mortarch and the lord of Khorne ceased, Vask saw Neferata ascend once more.

Vask could not assemble what he was witnessing into a narrative he could comprehend until Neferata left the canyon and he saw that the struggle went on. The horse guard of House Lytessian was fighting the Brass Scythe.

Understanding gave birth to an even greater incomprehension. So huge a betrayal was impossible. It was beyond conception. The centuries of preparation could not have come to this.

Vask stared, mouth agape, unable to do more than hold his position atop the revolving Spire. The scream built in his chest. His jaws strained wider and wider. When at last the shriek tried to come it was so huge that it could not escape his throat. He danced his pointless, shuffling dance, unable to give expression to his hate and anger.

Kasten had the words. Traitor! the corpse screamed. Traitors! TRAITORS! There were no other words, yet the words were too small. The corpse howled in Vask’s head. It screamed for the justice that had been taken away, and for a new retribution.

There could be no justice against Neferata now. Not on this day, though while Vask drew breath, and while Kasten raged in the darkness of his strange death, the struggle for that justice would not end. He would see her destroyed yet, now or in a century.

Retribution, though, was moments away. The blocked, raging scream inside Vask became a flood of new strength. Rage became power. Graunos refused Vask communion with the god he served. Khorne would not have him, yet Vask swore his fealty all the same. He was devoted to wrath. It was something that could not be taken from him. In his defeat, his anger became even mightier. Vask drew the strength into another sorcerous bolt. It could not be as powerful as the one he had launched at Neferata. It did not have to be. His targets now were mortals, and he had fury enough to spare to make them die.

He hoped Skarveth was still alive. He wanted the worst of the betrayers to feel his anger.

The building up of the spell took precious time. The Neferatians would soon be victorious, and attention would turn to Knell. Neferata would seek the one who had harmed her. Vask had to flee. His death would spell the end of the dream of Mathas Hellezan’s revenge. Being a fool now would make him a traitor no less than Skarveth. Vask felt the time slip away, but he stayed where he was. His fury held him where he stood. It would take its shape and find its victims. In this moment, it was his master.

His mouth still strained and Kasten still shrieked when he finally raised his hands, fingers crooked into claws, and unleashed the scream. His wrath was blinding. It was a comet of red, and it streaked into the base of the canyon. The space between the cliffs flashed the colour of incandescent brass. It seemed to Vask that he could hear the screams of the dying, as if they travelled back on the traces of sorcery to give him this small reward.

Traitors! Traitors! Traitors! Kasten screamed.

‘Traitors!’ Vask hissed. He could speak again.

His shoulders slumped, though he fought back the new wave of exhaustion. It was time to flee. Already, to the south of the canyon, he saw that the rest of the Brass Scythe were being exterminated. He tore himself away from the sight of the disaster and started down the stairs of the Guardian Spire. He had taken the risk. It had been worth it. He could think more clearly again. There was much that he had to do, so he could not let himself be caught.

He would be gone from Knell before Neferata came looking for him. He could not believe fate would let her find him. He would hide, and follow the guidance of wrath until he could strike again.

The battle was over. Once Neferata took command again of the spirit host, the slaughter of the Brass Scythe did not take long. Arveil recovered quickly and drove her forces through the enemy. When night fell, the landscape was littered with bodies, the barren ground turning marshy with blood. A few siege towers had escaped the great rockslide at Nighthall Keep and had emerged from the pass. Now, smoking from the fires that had consumed them, they leaned to the side, on the verge of collapse, useless structures lost on the broken land. They were blackened memorials to Javassak’s folly. Neferata flew Nagadron once over the entire field of battle, ensuring that the last pockets of the warhorde were being exterminated. Then she released her hold on the spirit host, commanding the phantoms back to their graves. She had Nagadron return her to the ground and, accompanied by Arveil, she headed back to the canyon.

‘What is it you seek here?’ Arveil asked as they approached the site of Neferata’s duel with Javassak. The Nightreaper had left her palanquin outside the canyon and now glided along beside Neferata, her robes flowing over the ground like liquid shadow.

‘An explanation.’ The horse guard was dead, annihilated by the second powerful bolt she had seen launched from the Knell. Neferata had sent forces to scour the city, but she did not expect the enemy that had attacked her to still be there. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing to the scorched banners on the ground. ‘House Lytessian.’

‘The same colours were carried by the foe that attacked me,’ said Arveil.

‘Precisely. There are multiple betrayals here, and they are all surprises. I will not let this mystery stand.’

‘I did not know the Lytessians were this powerful.’

‘Nor did I.’ Neferata had no qualms in admitting her ignorance in this situation. It was evident that she had not anticipated the ambush. ‘What dealings have you had with them?’ Their lands were outside Arveil’s sphere of influence, but not as far from her centre of control as they were from Nulahmia.

‘I’ve had very little to do with them,’ Arveil said. ‘They keep to themselves.’ She shook her head. ‘To have built up such a force…’

‘It took time and secrecy, and most of all determination. This is not a rebellion that came into being yesterday.’

‘You will want to seek answers at their home.’

‘Yes.’ And she would burn it to the ground. ‘But my immediate question is here. The entire mounted force of the Lytessians turned against their house. Their leader gave his life for me.’ The sacrifice fascinated her. It was an act of utter selflessness and of a loyalty that was so rare she found it hard to understand.

Neferata searched the corpse-strewn ground until she found him. The side of his armour was split and melted from the Axe of Khorne’s blow. Neferata knelt and removed his helmet. The scarred face she revealed was unknown to her. She had not expected to recognise him, yet the confirmation that she had never seen him before made his actions even more striking. His loyalty had not been compelled by promise or by threat. To the contrary, he had led his troops against the ties of his own house. They had all followed him. And they had all died. She cast her mind back across the ages, riffling through her storehouse of memories, searching for another occasion when someone had given their life in her defence and it was not a sacrifice she had demanded, encouraged or manipulated. She could not find one.

‘What colours are those?’ Arveil asked. ‘They are not Lytessian.’ She was looking at a banner that had fallen near where the warrior’s horse lay dead a few yards away from its master. The banner was badly burned, but the tatters that remained were not the gold and green of the house.

‘I cannot tell,’ said Neferata. ‘Not from those shreds.’ She doubted the answer was in the identity of those colours, either.

‘Then the dead will have to answer for themselves.’

‘Yes.’ Neferata paused, thinking the matter through. Summoning the spirit of the dead warrior was unsatisfying. An event had occurred here, one that she would be mistaken to ignore. She sensed opportunity, at the very least. She felt the impulse to reward the horseman.

More than anything else, she wished to explore the mystery before her.

‘I have work to do,’ she said to Arveil.

The Nightreaper bowed, understanding that she had been dismissed. She walked some distance away, and the escort of skeletons, mortals and vampires that had come with them pulled back, giving Neferata some space for solitude.

Free to concentrate, she paced around the warrior, her path drawing a leftward circle. She gestured and murmured as she walked. Glyphs appeared in the air, traced by her fingers. They glowed like tallow candles. A grey mist gathered inside the rings of glyphs. It covered the corpse like a squirming shroud. The ground beneath the warrior began to tremble. The mist grew more dense, grasping the corpse tightly. Barely visible through the fog, the man’s face began to change. His flesh sloughed away, turning liquid. Skin and muscle and blood became a muck of pink and red that pooled beside the armour, leaving only bone behind.

Neferata’s chant became more insistent. The foul sludge of flesh responded to her commands, and it moved over and around the armour, covering the warrior with the fog and then pulling away again. It scoured the metal, removing all trace of the colours of House Lytessian. When the last of the muck withdrew, the man’s armour was black as death. Even the engravings of the house were gone. There was nothing to mark the corpse as owing allegiance to anything other than Neferata. It could be refashioned, but not yet. Not until she knew more.

Neferata finished her chant. The ring of glyphs tightened around the body. They filled the fog with the light of blood. The shroud of grey and red pulsed, and the tremors of the ground where the body lay grew more violent. There was a thunderclap, and then stillness. The fog and the glyphs were gone. There was only the armour and the skeleton it contained.

The body stirred. The skull turned to fix its empty sockets on Neferata. Then the Hell Knight rose. His blade lay close by, and he picked it up. He faced Neferata and took a knee, lowering his head and presenting the blade to her with both hands, an offering and a pledge.

‘My queen,’ he said.

Skarveth had waited most of a lifetime, and then beyond, to utter those words. He had mouthed them, silently, over and over through the years. The first time had been in late childhood, when he had seen Neferata for the first time. That had been a critical moment. He thought of it as the second of two revelations that, through their close conjunction, had determined his path then and forever.

His grooming to become the next commander of the Lytessians was already well underway when he discovered the tunnel leading beneath the foundations of the house. He was twelve years old. He had been inculcated with three guiding principles – duty, honour and the struggle of the Hellezans. The first two he grasped intuitively. They gave shape to drives he had always felt, if imperfectly understood. The third remained an abstraction, a story he was told over and over, but the conflict seemed far away, a thing that had happened long ago. He saw the anger and the drive in the adults around him, but he did not see how their struggle was his.

Perhaps if he and Vissya had not been playing that day in the lower reaches of the house, he would have embraced the rebellion. He liked to believe he would not have. He liked to believe that fate had determined that he would see the truth before it was too late.

Even before that day, he knew, without having the words for his belief, that honour and duty, those great nobilities, needed an object as noble as themselves in order to be real.

He had been hiding from Vissya in a disused storage chamber. Determined that his younger cousin would never find him and thus lose this round of the game, he squirmed further and further behind dust-covered chests and heaps of battered, forgotten furniture, until he had his back to the wall. Something made him turn around. Later, he would decide he had heard the call of destiny. It might have been as simple as a slight breeze on the back of his neck. Whatever the reason, he saw a darker patch in the deep gloom. There was a fissure in the wall. If he crouched, there was just enough room for him to squeeze inside.

He entered the fissure before he could hesitate. The blackness was complete. He pushed forwards, expecting to come out in another room. Instead, the passage kept going, turning, twisting and descending. It widened slightly, and he could move more easily. He felt his way forwards, still blind but following the distant echo of a whisper. Curiosity fought with terror and triumphed. On he went, until he began to see light again. There was only the faintest, wavering glow at first. Gradually, it grew brighter, becoming candlelight. The voice became louder too. It wasn’t a whisper. It was a rasping croak, as if the speaker had been shouting for hours.

At last, the passage narrowed again, becoming another crack in a wall, and he emerged in a low stone tunnel. Skarveth crept to the right, following the voice, until he stopped at the entrance to a circular chamber.

Candles guttered over symbols daubed in blood. He did not know what they meant, but they frightened him. In the centre of the room, a monster shrieked at itself.

‘But when, Kasten, when?’ the creature hissed at the skull biting its shoulder.

Skarveth’s parents had shown him the portraits of Kasten and Vask. He recognised Vask, just barely. There was none of the nobility he had seen in the paintings. This was a twisted, degenerate, rotting grotesque. Vask ranted of blood and vengeance, and cursed every day that stood between him and Neferata’s destruction. Not a single word about freedom or honour passed from the spittle-flecked lips. When Skarveth crawled silently away, he was terrified, but he also felt the beginnings of another emotion that would become powerful in the days ahead.

Contempt.

Skarveth did not show Vissya his discovery then. He would, though, after the second revelation. That came a few weeks later, with the image of Vask fermenting in his imagination. He, Vissya and the other young Lytessians travelled with the elders on the long journey south to Mortannis. No one told him why they were going. When they finally arrived, the city was in the midst of a celebration. Neferata had defeated an attempt by a warhost of the Ruinous Powers to take Mortannis exactly one year before, and she was to pass down the central boulevard in triumph to mark the anniversary.

The elder Lytessians brought the children into the crowds lining the street as the martial parade went by. Neferata rode Nagadron ahead of a great cavalry of vampires.

Skarveth’s mother leaned down and whispered, so softly he could barely hear her, ‘There. There is the enemy of our family.’

Skarveth stared, eyes wide with wonder. This was the being he was supposed to dedicate his life to destroying? She was majesty itself. She was beauty and power. No one was her equal, and no one should dare to pretend otherwise. She looked down on her subjects with an imperiousness that came with a right that truly was divine. She smiled, and every Mortannian shouted as if she had smiled at them, and only them.

Skarveth felt that smile too. It pierced him to the core. Here was a figure worthy of duty and honour.

He pictured the withered monster in the depths of the house, and he saw his family for the disgusting traitors they were.

My queen, he thought for the first time.

He looked at Vissya, standing next to him. He saw the shine in her eyes.

When they returned to the keep in the Mourning Heights, he showed her the secret he had discovered. He showed her the truth. Then he showed it to others who had been in Mortannis with him.

The rebellion within the rebellion began, with the children revealing to each other the lies of their elders. They would hold their great secret close, growing in knowledge and wisdom. They became the cavalry that Skarveth would lead. They were the visible expression of Vask’s hopes, and they were determined to destroy his dreams.

‘My queen.’ The skeleton’s voice came out from between its jaws like a rasping echo. ‘You have given me a boon I cannot ever repay. Will you do me one more and accept my service, now and forever, in whatever form you deem fit?’

‘Rise,’ Neferata said, and the Hell Knight obeyed, sheathing his sword. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘I am Skarveth Lytessian,’ he said, ‘though the name I bear is only half a truth, and half the shame I must expunge.’

‘Then declare the full truth.’

‘I carry the blood…’ Skarveth paused. He removed one of his gauntlets and stared at his skeletal hand. ‘I carried the blood of a traitor.’ When he corrected himself, the hollow timbre of his voice rose, like the sighing of the wind. His skull tilted to one side, and if it was possible for the eternal grin of a death’s head to convey real joy, it did in that moment. ‘I carried the blood of Mathas Hellezan.’

‘I destroyed House Hellezan long ago,’ Neferata said. ‘In another age.’

‘You did, my queen. But the wife and son of Mathas escaped your judgement. They survived, and were taken in by House Lytessian.’

‘A long time for a rebellion to be concealed,’ said Neferata. She had to accord due respect to the accomplishment.

‘And a long time to prepare. It is the work of Kasten, son of Mathas. His will is great, even after death. It is embodied now in his descendant, Vask.’

‘Kasten became a necromancer,’ Neferata deduced, thinking of the size of the skeleton army that had attacked Arveil.

‘So is Vask,’ said Skarveth.

‘But not you.’

‘No. I was assigned other… duties… in the war.’ His hesitation loaded the word with contempt. ‘I was meant to be a more visible symbol.’

‘You were to lead a charge, rather than raise the dead,’ said Neferata.

The echoing voice turned into a bitter laugh. ‘The nobility of cavalry,’ said Skarveth. ‘The glory of the charge. The banners held high in the hour of vengeance. So much nobility. So much glory. So much pride.’ He looked at his hand again. When he faced Neferata, he was calmer, as if soothed by what he had seen. ‘My duties were not just in battle, though. It was through me that the Hellezan line was to continue.’

‘Has it?’

‘I am the last.’

He spoke with pride. Neferata saw that its source was not that he was a Hellezan, but that he had ensured there would be no others after him. The Hell Knight seemed to stand taller, pleased that one of his tasks, at least, had been absolutely fulfilled.

The jaws of the skull gaped and there was laughter again, this time a chuckle like the rattling of stones.

‘I don’t think Vask ever forgave me the scars left on my face by a wolf,’ Skarveth continued. ‘I lost the face he lived through. I lost the face he wanted to see as a symbol for the risen Hellezans.’ The voice became grim. ‘I hope to encounter him again. I would very much like him to see me now.’

‘It was he who attacked from Knell?’

‘It was.’

‘The Hellezans have grown formidable over the centuries.’

‘They have had time and their hatred for you to hone their abilities, and to find allies.’

‘From outside Neferatia?’

‘I suspect so, but cannot prove it.’

‘Today was proof enough.’ It was too much to believe that Vask had been lucky in his choice of when and how to strike. Graunos’ hand reached further than she would have liked to believe.

This was useful information, but it did not yet answer the greater mystery, the one which had led her to raise the Hell Knight. ‘Kasten and Vask are explicable. You are less so. Why did you turn against your family?’

‘Mathas Hellezan was a traitor. So was Kasten. So is Vask. I believe in honour. I believe in the possibility of nobility, though the version Vask tried to force upon me is a travesty. I was raised to believe in something that was a sham, when the reality of our families was nothing more than eternal vendetta. For myself, and for my troops, the one true form of honour is to serve you.’ Skarveth spoke as if he had waited his entire life and beyond to express this belief. The words carried a conviction that his rasp could not.

‘Your service is accepted,’ Neferata said. How extraordinary. Loyalty, nobility, honour… These were concepts she considered to be combinations of myth and weakness. But they appeared to be embodied in Skarveth. He had died for them, but in dying, he had changed the outcome of the battle. That did not seem like a weakness. The Hell Knight was a being she must study.

Skarveth bowed his thanks. ‘Command me however you will, and if it pleases you, use me to exterminate the last of my accursed clan.’

‘I will. And what of your comrades? Did they know in whose name they fought?’

‘They did.’

‘Then they shall rise too. You and your guard kept the secret of your true allegiance well.’

‘The ability to act in secret is the one point I have in common with my ancestors,’ Skarveth said wryly. Already, he was learning, through slight pauses and the careful choice of words, to convey expression in his sepulchral voice.

‘Are there any other portions of House Lytessian loyal to me?’ Neferata asked.

‘None. The family was already corrupt when it took in Teyosa and Kasten Hellezan. The rot has been complete since.’

‘Vask seems to have been very well informed about my plans for this day.’

‘He was.’

‘There are no Lytessians in my court at Nulahmia.’

‘They have other friends.’

More traitors in my house. ‘Come with me, then. Your guard will become your Black Knights, and your service to me will begin by rewarding betrayal with a great purge.’

Skarveth bowed again. The smile of his skull was eager.

No foe, however badly defeated, ceases to be a threat until they are dust, and even this is no perfect guarantee. At the same time, every trace the enemy leaves in life is a potential weapon against them.

– Neferata, Tactics

Chapter Six

Skarveth was at the head of his company once more. He felt that this was, in truth, the first time he had truly led them. He took pride in the action they had taken outside Knell, but they had been riding under false colours. He and his warriors had had to pretend to be something they hated. They were not yet their true selves.

Now they were.

He rode a skeleton horse, leading a skeleton troupe. The green-and-gold armour was gone. Everything was black now. They were a company of death, and they were a proud company. Skarveth’s life had been lived under the shadow of his treacherous ancestors. His days, since his coming of age, had been an eternal round of subterfuge and frustration. He could not say what he believed except in careful whispers to his comrades. His company was the single real accomplishment of his mortal existence, and now it helped define the shape of his new being.

He rode taller in the saddle than ever before. It was more than the currents of deathly power that flowed around his bones. It was the privilege of escorting the Mortarch of Blood on the ride to retribution at House Lytessian. And it was the knowledge that honour had won.

As they approached the wall, Neferata a short distance overhead on Nagadron, Skarveth turned to Vissya. Her posture mirrored his pride.

‘You followed me into death,’ he said. ‘You have my thanks, though I realise that is a small thing.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Vissya. ‘It is also unnecessary. We followed you, but you were taking us where we wished to go. And we have arrived.’

‘There has been a cost.’ He did not mean death. The company’s resurrection as Black Knights was a greater reward than any of them could have dreamed. But Vissya and the others had risen blind.

‘What cost?’ said Vissya. ‘Do I ride badly?’

‘You do not.’ The formation of the Black Knights was as precise as the horse guard’s had been in life.

‘We have become the full truth of ourselves, Skarveth,’ Vissya said. ‘Our queen has given us a rare gift. Vask sought to control what we saw and believed. Neferata has blessed us with a deeper perception. There is no loss. There is gain. I hear the world. I hear the living and the dead. I hear the shape of the underworlds. The image of the world, in my mind’s eye, is sharper and more true than I ever saw with eyes of flesh. I have a different kind of sight now. It is a magnificent one. And the path of my lance will be as straight as it has ever been.’

‘Then I am satisfied.’

They reached the wall and passed through the southern gate. It was hanging open, unguarded.

‘I sense no watch anywhere along this stretch of the wall,’ Vissya said.

There had been, though, when the army of House Lytessian had marched for Knell. Not every member of the house was fit for battle, and the lands still needed to be protected. ‘Killed or fled,’ said Skarveth. Even if all of them were loyal to Vask, they would not amount to a large force. In open battle, the Black Knights would finish them in moments.

They rode on, deeper into Lytessian land, rising in the highlands. Before long, Skarveth saw black smoke spiralling into the sky.

‘The coward has burned the house,’ said Vissya.

Skarveth’s grip on the reins tightened. ‘That task was rightfully ours.’ It would have been satisfying, and fitting, to have been given the duty of destroying House Lytessian after its secrets had been plumbed.

The house was blackened but still standing when they reached it. The fires were burning low, though clouds of smoke rolled over the landscape. Neferata descended from Nagadron and stood before the entrance, smoke eddying around her as if in obeisance. The conflagration had been hastily set. It seemed to have been an act of anger, a lashing out, rather than an attempt to erase all trace of what had been.

‘Search what remains,’ she said to Skarveth. ‘Look closely. Nothing is insignificant.’

‘By your command, my queen.’

Vask had been thorough in his destruction in one particular way. There were no survivors. The Black Knights found numerous charred corpses in the ruins, many of them run through before they had been burned.

‘Did they turn against him?’ Vissya wondered.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Skarveth. The few bodies that were recognisable were those of aged and infirm members of the household. ‘They were of no use to him where he was going, and a possible threat to him if they remained behind.’

The roof over the armoury had fallen in, and from what Skarveth could see of the wreckage, the chamber had been completely emptied before the fire had been set. In the cellars beneath the house, the tunnels that led deeper into the hillside were blocked. There was no point in trying to dig them out. Vask had sealed off the path of his flight utterly. It was as if the tunnels had never existed at all.

Many of the chambers on the main floor had been spared. Vask’s primary concern seemed to have been to take the weapons and block pursuit. One of the rooms that had escaped the blaze was the gallery, and Skarveth’s jaw parted in contemptuous anger when he paused at its threshold. This was the room he most wished to set alight. But he had a duty to show it to his queen first.

Skarveth and Vissya stepped aside for Neferata as she passed the ruined threshold and moved into the unburned hall. It was a narrow gallery, the walls lined with portraits. They were by different hands, in different styles, from different times and of different people. Yet they were all linked by the same family features.

At the far end of the hall were three bronze statues. The one in the centre was of Mathas Hellezan. The proportions were heroic. Mathas was a colossus, at least fifteen feet high. His chin was raised, and his blank metal gaze stared into the distance, as if he were looking past the horizon to the coming victory. The way Neferata had seen him at the end of his struggle was very different. He had been kneeling, defeated, broken to discover he had been under her sway from the moment he had become a vampire.

On either side of Mathas were two smaller statues. They were still easily ten feet tall. The one on the left she recognised as Teyosa. The other she deduced was Kasten. She had only seen him as an infant. The man he had become was an angrier figure than his father. These were the fountains of the long conspiracy.

Neferata studied the statues, then moved along the rows of paintings, stopping at each in turn, learning the features of enemies who had lived and died without her ever knowing they existed.

‘Vask taunts you,’ said Skarveth, his hatred for his ancestor clear. ‘That is why he preserved this hall.’

Neferata laughed. ‘The insult is obvious. So is Vask’s arrogance. Does he think none of this will be of use to me? Tell me, is there any family link between Lytessian and Hellezan?’

‘None. Their connection was their alliance against you.’

‘So none of these are pure Lytessians. This is solely the lineage of Hellezan.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there a gallery for the Lytessians?’

‘Not like this. Their portraits were more scattered, adorning rooms in the rest of the house.’

‘I see. This hall says much about the hold the Hellezans had over House Lytessian. The guests came to rule, it seems, and it did not take long for them to do so. They were parasites upon the host.’

‘That is the achievement of Kasten,’ said Skarveth. ‘He was the great parasite.’

Neferata stopped before the portrait of a woman in plate armour. She stared at it, wondering why it had seized her attention. Then she smiled, her eyes widening in surprise. The woman in the painting might not be Lord-Relictor Rhasan Darksight, but she was at the very least a close relation. This is your mistake, Vask. You should have burned this room. You escaped, but you have also given me this gift. ‘Does Vask know about the Anvils of the Heldenhammer that have arrived to the south of Angaria?’ she asked.

‘We heard rumours of Sigmar’s lightning, my queen, but not much else,’ said Skarveth. ‘I would presume he knew more than we did, but he said nothing to me.’

Even if she granted that Vask was fed information by Graunos, there were limits to what the daemon prince could know at this point. She doubted Graunos was aware of the individual Stormcast Eternals. ‘You were high in Vask’s confidence,’ she said.

‘I was,’ said the Hell Knight, clearly proud to have betrayed a leader unworthy of loyalty. ‘He mentioned them only to say they were a possible source of distraction to you. I did not get the impression he gave them much more thought than that.’

‘Good. Then I have what I need from this hall.’

‘Do I have your permission to put these portraits to the torch and take a hammer to the statues of treachery?’

‘You do, with one exception.’ She pointed to the armoured woman. ‘Preserve that one.’

‘She will see!’ Vask cried again. ‘She will know how long our vengeance has been gathering! She will fear us!’ He triggered another group of wards long prepared in case he should need to flee. With a series of crackling explosions, the tunnel down which he had come fell in, forever sealing off another portion of his subterranean web of passages.

‘She. Will. Fear!’ he repeated, raising his arms in defiant triumph as the wind and the dust of the cave-in rushed over him.

Her lesson is not finished, said Kasten.

‘But it should have been!’ Vask hissed. He turned and resumed his limping march deeper and deeper into the roots of the Mourning Heights. ‘It would be over if not for treachery. How did you not see?’ he yelled at the corpse. ‘How did you not know?’

The dead grip of Kasten’s teeth in his shoulder throbbed. There was no answer.

Vask had been alternating between defiance and bitterness since leaving the Guardian Spire in Knell. His voice was hoarse, but he could not stop. He had only the company of his anger as he staggered down the narrow tunnels.

Entombed! Kasten cried. Entombed! You should not have let this happen. We should be claiming Nulahmia as ours!

The passageways were crude, barely wide enough for him to pass through. The light of his torch bleached the walls grey and showed the marks of the picks that had carved out this route. The mining was more careful than it appeared. It had taken centuries of effort to construct Vask’s routes through Neferatia. The secrecy had to be absolute. They could not intersect any other underworlds. Generations had worked on these tunnels, following the design and the maps drawn up by Kasten. He had found the ways they must pass, and the paths they must avoid. No one who laboured on the tunnels knew more than a piece of the secret. Only Kasten and his direct successors did.

All paths from House Lytessian were now destroyed. Vask had sent his remaining forces away. There were meeting points where they would gather again, along with the conspirators of other houses. The Lytessians and their allies would take different routes than Vask. The portions of the tunnel web they knew were for their passages alone. They would never know how he travelled. He needed the secrecy more than ever now, even from those who were loyal.

‘Loyalty!’ Vask ranted. ‘Who is loyal? There is no trust even in blood.’ The weight of the corpse pulled him forwards, staggering. ‘Why did Skarveth do it?’ he demanded of Kasten. ‘Why did he throw away his destiny and his life? He was the inheritor. Everything we did was for him. After the victory, he would have led the risen Hellezans. The people would have flocked to the banner. In time, he could have ruled Neferatia! Why did he betray us all? Why?’

Make them pay. Teach them the price of disloyalty. Blood will have blood.

‘What blood? Who will pay? Those who rode with Skarveth are destroyed, and he is dead. Dead! Skarveth was the last of the Hellezans. Our line ends with me. The family is extinguished.’

Make Neferata pay. Make his betrayal meaningless. We will have our blood. My father will not have died in vain. I will not have fought in vain.

Blood, Vask thought. Always blood. In the end, there is only that, to be shed and sacrificed and consumed. Blood pounded in his head. He tasted blood in his mouth. And he owed it in the bargain he had made.

It was that bargain he had to focus on now. Skarveth’s betrayal had meant that he had failed to keep his end. But that was not his fault. And he felt ill-used. There was a reckoning due, and he did not believe it should fall on him.

Vask could barely drag one foot in front of the other by the time he reached his goal. He had not rested since before the battle, and his body could not take such exertions without suffering. He arrived at his sanctuary, the way sealed behind him, and stood for a moment in the centre of the circular cavern. There were provisions stacked against the walls, enough food and torches to get him through the next phase of his journey, wherever that turned out to be. Having made it this far, he felt himself succumbing to exhaustion. He wanted to lie down on the stone floor and drift into oblivion.

Anger, his and Kasten’s, kept him going. He shook himself, then walked around the runic circle scratched into the floor, lighting the eight candles of human tallow on its periphery. The candles sat atop piles of human skulls, the heads of the last of Vask’s servants to labour on this chamber. They had become its primary sacrifice too, their deaths sealing his pact with the forces of Khorne. That was how he still saw his situation – a pact, not an oath of fealty. When the candles were lit, he completed the ceremony with a store of blood he had kept from the same victims.

As he poured the blood over the engravings in the stone, he became aware of a vast displeasure in the spiritual distance. He tried to swallow the fear that rose in answer. He knew his sacrifice was a poor one. It was also the only one he had, and he clutched his anger as a shield against dread.

Vask retreated from the ring, chanting. The blood streamed from the runes and pooled at the centre. The flames from the candles rose higher. In answer, a mist of blood coiled upwards from the floor. It spread until it became a sphere within the ring, then drew in on itself, thickening, taking on shape. At last, the swirling droplets took on the form of Graunos. The vision flowed in and out of substance, clarity waxing and waning, as it turned its eyes down on Vask.

‘You have failed in your task,’ Graunos said. His voice, forged by the violent waving of the candle flame, was the rippling noise of wind and fire.

‘I did not fail!’ Vask protested. ‘I was betrayed. If I failed, what of Javassak?’

‘Do you question me?’

Traitors! Kasten wailed in Vask’s head. All are traitors! Even the gods hurl us aside!

Vask grimaced, thinking past his anger and the corpse’s to understand he should not be challenging the daemon prince. ‘I do not question you, Lord Graunos,’ he said, fear and rage wrestling with each other.

‘That is well. Remember that Khorne cares not whence the blood flows, and it flowed in rivers on the fields of Knell.’

‘Perhaps, but to the benefit of the Mortarch of Blood.’

‘The war is not over,’ said Graunos. ‘It has not even truly begun. She has hurt us, and you have failed, so redeem yourself and bring her pain.’

‘My house is destroyed. I am greatly weakened. I cannot aid you on the battlefield in the same way again.’

‘You have other ways of making war. You have your other allies in her court.’

‘She will be looking for them now.’

‘Good. Let her have reason to. Let her be distracted. And gather the strength that remains. You are not done on the battlefield.’

‘What can you ask of me that I can do?’ Vask asked, frustrated.

‘Make for Shadowvel.’

‘To what end?’

Graunos told him, and for the first time since Skarveth’s betrayal, Vask felt a glimmer of satisfaction. Skarveth was dead, and Vask had taken his revenge on all who followed the traitor. Graunos showed him the way to a much greater vengeance.

Trust is the currency of the fool.

– Neferata, Maxims

Chapter Seven

The sounds of the gathering in the great hall reached Neferata and Mereneth when they were still many corridors away. The Palace of Seven Vultures echoed with the celebration of triumph.

‘Your courtiers are very eager for you to know that they rejoice in your victory,’ Mereneth said. Her smile was thin and sardonic.

‘What is your evaluation?’ Neferata asked. ‘Are they motivated more by desire for reward or by the fear of punishment?’

‘By terror, without question. I made certain that news of the Lytessians’ treachery travelled quickly.’

‘Good. Then we are well begun.’

They were walking down the length of the Hall of Pillared Night. Rows of basalt columns flanked the vast central aisle like a forest of stone trees. Damned souls, chained to each other, spiralled up each pillar, writhing in slow, perpetual agony. Mummified arms held torches a third of the way up the columns, and the upper levels of the hall vanished into the mystery of darkness. High above Neferata and Mereneth, the gloom stirred with hints of movement, some sluggish, some rapid, twisting around the dimly glimpsed traces of vaults. The hall was redolent with the vastness of night and the pain of death. The chains were laced with lines of rubies. Their crimson glints symbolised the solemnity of the hall paying obeisance to the Mortarch of Blood.

Mereneth looked up into the night of stone. Her wings rustled uneasily. ‘I am sorry, my queen, for having failed you,’ she said. ‘I did not uncover the plot of the Lytessians. Because I did not see the danger I cost us greatly. I cost you greatly.’

Neferata walked in silence for a short distance, her echoing footsteps as ominous as an execution’s drumbeat. She had no intention of throwing away as skilled a spymistress as Mereneth. It was important, however, that Mereneth appreciate the mercy that she was about to extend. When she felt that Mereneth was convinced that sentence was about to be passed, she said, ‘Tell me why you did not see them as a threat.’

‘Because I did not see them at all. They were politically insignificant.’

‘Exactly so. I did not see them either. They were indeed insignificant. They have been for centuries. Until now. That is the genius of the Hellezan conspiracy. I am forced to admire it, because it was exemplary work. The descendants of Mathas Hellezan hid in a family of no importance or influence, and maintained that appearance until now. That is impressive. They made detection effectively impossible.’

‘I welcome the chance to redeem myself in your eyes, my queen.’

‘Tell me what steps you are taking.’

‘We are beginning with the Lytessians.’ Mereneth spoke with more confidence now that it was clear her usefulness was not at an end. ‘We are exploring any connections, however slight, between them and other families.’

‘Good. Do not stop there. Look also where you have no reason to look.’

‘I will, my queen. I will not repeat my error.’

Our error. The attack and its source had caught Neferata completely by surprise, and it originated in a much older mistake. Centuries earlier, in another age, she had accepted the conviction of her agents that all the Hellezans were dead. She had not ensured that this was so. That oversight had almost doomed her outside Knell.

‘Cells,’ Mereneth mused. ‘The conspiracy must be structured in isolated cells.’

‘Yes,’ said Neferata. ‘For the secret to be kept so long, few must know its full scope. It is possible that only the Hellezan at the centre has known everything.’

‘Vask?’

‘For this generation. And before him, another single ancestor. But yes, Vask is the centre now. We must find him.’

‘He will be in hiding, after the failure of his attack.’

‘And no doubt hiding well. But unless he intends to give up on his revenge, he will have to make contact with his co-conspirators.’

‘If we can find out who they are,’ said Mereneth, ‘keeping them under close watch would give us the opportunity to find him.’

‘We will do better than that,’ Neferata said. ‘We will make them take us to him.’

‘That would be ideal. Following them will be difficult, though. They will all be on their guard.’

‘Indeed they will be. If they are wise, they are terrified. I can use their terror.’

Neferata smiled, anticipating the game ahead. She would teach Vask and his allies what vengeance really meant. The retribution would give her great pleasure. So would the process. They were both facets of her art.

She took great pride in the aesthetics of violence.

The noise of the revel grew louder, and when Neferata and Mereneth finally reached the great hall, there was a new and greater crescendo. A wave of sound greeted Neferata, rising high and foaming with shouted praise. Mortal and vampire nobles rushed forwards, crowding each other in the effort to be the most visible in congratulating the conquering queen.

Neferata gave the multitude her coldest smile and walked slowly through their midst, down the centre of the great hall. She passed beneath the great chandelier of bone and volcanic glass. Its wraith-light blazed at her approach, the candles of human tallow burning more brightly at her mere presence, as if the light were hungry and had sensed it would be fed more souls. The hall danced with the shifting play of eldritch light and shadow, the two mixing in a liquid dance, revealing and concealing the faces of the celebrants.

If any of them imagine they can hide in the dark, they will be disappointed. The darkness belonged to Neferata. It obeyed her and no one else.

As she mounted the dais in the centre of the hall, someone shouted, ‘All hail Queen Neferata!’

‘All hail the Mortarch of Blood!’ the crowd answered.

‘Glory to Nulahmia!’ from another noble.

‘Glory to Neferatia!’ from all.

In the gallery above the rear of the hall, the court musicians struck up a thunderous fanfare. It drowned out the shouts of the crowd and drew the nobles to attention. When it ended, the revellers were quiet. They stood still, looking at Neferata expectantly.

She wondered how many were fearful.

She knew better than to trust any of them. They could all be traitors, given the right circumstances. The question was which members of her court had already found those circumstances.

‘You are welcome to this celebration,’ she told the multitude. ‘Though the war against Angaria has barely begun, still we have hurt the foe most grievously. We have earned our revels. Turn to them now! Let us feast and dance, and drink to the triumph of the present and to victory of the future.’

The nobles began to turn to each other again, sensing that the formalities were over. The orchestra sounded a chord, and the crowd at the centre of the hall parted to either side, opening up the space for dancers.

Neferata held up a finger, silencing the musicians, freezing the movement of the court.

‘There are those among us who do not celebrate,’ she said. ‘They wear the masks of joy. They shout with as much enthusiasm as anyone else. But this is not a moment of triumph for them. It is a defeat, one they will not accept lightly. Already, they plot anew. But they have lost the element of surprise. I know they are here. My vengeance comes for them.’ She paused and looked over the heads of the nobles to the towering iron doors of the hall.

The doors opened, admitting Skarveth and his Black Knights. They were fully armed, and they had drawn their swords. The doors closed behind them, and they formed a line of forbidding, martial death. The shadows rushed to gather around them. Already, the work had been done on their armour to mark it with Neferata’s heraldry, and the skeleton warriors stood with menacing pride. The air of the grave haunted their plate and shields, like a kind of mouldering cold visible as hair-thin, wavering tendrils of darkness rising from the knights. At the same time, the metal gleamed with burnished gloom, its decay transmuted into strength.

‘Behold the heroes of the hour,’ said Neferata. ‘Their loyalty and their sacrifice turned the tide against the foe. They have shed the taint of their treacherous house. They are now the Riders of Knell.’

Neferata paused, letting the eyes of the assembly shift uneasily back and forth between her and the Black Knights. She turned slowly, facing the entire hall, letting every soul, living and dead, feel the weight of her gaze. As she moved, she spoke again, softly now. Her voice reached through the silence like a striking serpent. ‘I address myself now to the traitors. I am magnanimous, and I present to you a gift. It is the gift of a warning. I could let you believe that you are safe, that you are hidden, that I do not even know of your existence.

‘I could do this. Instead, I tell you now, you are not safe. House Lytessian is no more, and the flames of its pyre scour the shadows which you believe conceal you. You hide, but we will see you. You are silent, but we will hear you.’

She completed her turn and paused once more. She presented the nobles with a different smile. It was still cold. It was also hungry. It was the grin of a supreme predator. She gestured to the Riders of Knell. ‘They will hear you.’

As the night progressed, Nagia Thresend enjoyed the victory ball less and less. It had begun well. She had moved through the revellers with confidence, secure in her position. She had danced enthusiastically before Neferata’s arrival. She had cheered and shouted with everyone else. She had done well. She had been certain her secrets were safe, and that she was the one on the offensive.

Nagia was the youngest of the heirs to House Thresend. The family was far from being among the mortal powers of Nulahmia. The Thresends narrowly had the means to maintain a presence in court, and had enough friends in the vampire nobility to keep their blood from being preyed upon. If they wished to maintain what standing they had, they had to keep their wealth concentrated. Nagia’s eldest sister, Fahasca, would inherit the bulk of the fortune. Nagia had few expectations. It was her duty to increase the family’s wealth, by whatever means she could. It was a duty that had always grated. She chafed under the shadow of vampire rule, and so she chose to believe that the toppling of Neferata would be a lethal blow against the power structure of the city.

This had been her secret conviction since her adolescence, more than thirty years. She had also known not to breathe a word of her belief to anyone. Not once in her life. Yet Vask had come to know. Somehow he had learned of her. She had first learned of him in her dreams. His presence had emerged from every chaotic flow of images, night after night, hunched and hooded, too consistent and clearly defined to be dismissed as her imagination. He spoke words of resistance and hope. One night, he told her another ally would contact her in her waking hours.

She treasured that day, more than ten years past. It lived in her memory with perpetual clarity. It was, she believed, her first real step towards the dreamed-of triumph over the Mortarch of Blood. Following her dream, she had gone that morning to the market near Scarab Gate. She had lingered before a silk merchant’s stall, feigning interest in robes dyed green and black. After a few minutes there, a voice at her elbow said, ‘There is purity in such art. But not only there.’ The words were those Vask had told her to expect.

Nagia turned. The man who had spoken was dressed as a travelling merchant, his clothing fine but weathered by the road. His face, too, had been worked on by long exposure to wind. Cracked and leathered, it made him look older than he was.

Nagia stepped away from the stall. ‘You have wares I should see?’ she said, as Vask had instructed.

‘I bring you more than simple wares,’ said the merchant, completing the dream refrain. ‘I bring you wonders.’

They left the stall and moved off through the crowd, appearing casual, speaking carefully. At first, Nagia let the merchant do most of the talking, wary of taking the further, irrevocable step of speaking against Neferata and so becoming an active conspirator. Her reluctance crumbled quickly. If she wished to be more than a dreamer, then she must take the risk. And so, as the crew of dealers and the loud give and take of bartering customers drowned out her voice to any listeners except the man at her side, she said, ‘I will do whatever is asked of me.’

He nodded and they walked on, their talk becoming more cautious, and more serious. The merchant did not give her his name. ‘I do not know yours,’ he said. ‘This is how it must be between us. I also do not know what your task will be, nor who will contact you next. It may be me. It may be someone else. I know little more than you do, and that is how our struggle will triumph. Only Vask knows everything. We cannot betray what we do not know, no matter what is done to us.’

The fear of torture and death had kept Nagia silent until this day. Her rebellion had been a fantasy, never realised. And now the merchant made it clear that her fears were justified. Somehow, that justification diminished them. She knew what she was doing. She knew what she was risking. And she was ready.

Since that day, she had come to know only fragments of the fight against Neferata. Vask had spoken to her in her dreams once in every great while, and there had been other encounters with fellow conspirators. These had come in the markets, on the grand boulevards and in the chapels of Nulahmia. She had been tasked with observing what went on in court. She had never been asked to take action. Even her observations had been safe. She did not have to go where she should not. She did not have to pry into secrets. Being present in court and relaying what she saw was enough.

That was why, this night, at the celebration of the triumph at Knell, she had initially been sure she was still safe. She had never really done anything to put herself in danger. Even if one of her clandestine meetings had been overheard, what would Neferata’s spies know? That she traded in court gossip. It would have been unusual, perhaps even suspicious, if she did not do so. She had nothing to fear. Her conduct was beyond reproach. Though she conspired against Neferata, she did so primarily in her heart. She had taken no action that would be out of the ordinary for a loyal subject.

Nagia had told herself this many times. She believed it. Too many years had passed for it not to be true. Neferata did not know a viper moved through her court. The conviction of invisibility made Nagia feel powerful.

When Neferata began to speak of treachery, Nagia was unconcerned. She had expected this. It was inevitable, in the wake of Vask’s failed attack. Nagia was safe, though. Neferata had no reason to look her way. It was the end of Neferata’s address to her enemies that caused her first prickle of unease.

You are silent, but we will hear you. They will hear you.

It was as if Neferata had been speaking directly to Nagia. Of course it seems like that, she thought, pushing back against anxiety. The words were chosen to have that effect on anyone with a secret.

She dismissed the threat. I am stronger than your games. She kept a look of worship and awe on her face. It was a mask perfected over a lifetime.

She put the presence of the Black Knights down to more theatre. They added the menace of immediate retribution to Neferata’s words. But they could not hurt what they could not find.

The threat delivered, Neferata gave the signal for the revels to resume. The musicians began a basse dance. Nagia put aside Neferata’s speech for later contemplation, and concentrated instead on her task. Her duty to Vask had not ended. If anything, what she did was more important than ever after the defeat at Knell. Neferata’s speech and her demeanour were something for Nagia to pass on. This was a night to be sharp in her observations.

She danced with Lord Arkayle. He was a venerable vampire noble. He had joined the ranks of the dead in his dignified prime, and he carried himself with self-conscious pride in his appearance. He was a minor aristocrat, owing fealty to the Lady Arveil, and had fought under the Nightreaper’s command at Knell. Nagia congratulated herself on being seen with a vampire whose loyalty, on this night at least, was beyond question. They bowed to each other, and in unison with the other dancers met in the centre of the floor, palm to palm.

‘I have heard of your bravery on the battlefield,’ Nagia said. ‘It is an honour to dance with you.’

They moved two steps to the left, then the right, and revolved around each other once.

Arkayle nodded as they repeated the movements. His gesture was sharp, precise, a restrained acknowledgement of the compliment, received with no false humility. He was ostentatious in his lack of ostentation. ‘It was my privilege to fight for the queen,’ he said.

Arkayle glanced at the Black Knights. His lips narrowed with displeasure.

‘You do not appreciate the presence of the Riders of Knell,’ said Nagia.

‘I do not begrudge our queen any action that she feels is necessary. The traitors must be rooted out. Even so,’ he said, his nose wrinkling with offended propriety, ‘I could have wished for tools better suited to the time and place.’

They withdrew, turned and came back together again. Nagia saw Arkayle watch one of the knights tread heavily past, boots striking hard on the marble floor.

‘They belong on the battlefield, not at a ball,’ Arkayle said.

‘I belong everywhere my queen directs me.’

Nagia had not seen the Hell Knight approach behind Arkayle. The vampire jerked, startled. The Hell Knight’s name had already become known throughout the court. It was difficult for Nagia to look at Skarveth Lytessian’s skull and keep her hatred from her face. You are the real traitor. He had betrayed all the generations that had come before him and protected a tyrant.

Skarveth moved on, keeping to the back of the dancers. Nagia remained partners with Arkayle through a few more dances, then excused herself during a break in the music. She strolled over to a gossiping trio of nobles clustered beside a pillar not far from the musicians’ gallery.

‘I came to attend a triumph,’ said Lady Sevall. ‘I thought we were here to celebrate, not to subject ourselves to suspicious eyes.’

‘Oh?’ said Lord Ankavas. ‘Do you have something to hide?’

‘No!’ Sevall sputtered. The vampire glared at the mortal. They were both tall, bald and wrinkled with age. In their finery, they looked like squabbling bedposts. ‘Of course I don’t. What I meant is that I do not appreciate being made to feel as if I do.’

‘If we are without guilt, then there is no reason to feel that way,’ Nagia put in, her tone reasonable and mild.

‘I think you are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ said Sevall.

‘I wonder what they understand,’ said Lady Ekansavad. She nodded at a pair of Black Knights moving slowly through the crowd at the end of the hall.

‘I keep waiting to see them encircle Drezhkhem,’ said Ankavas.

The others nodded knowingly. Drezhkhem did not descend from one of the noble houses. His public face was as a merchant, but his primary activity was money lending. He had been practising his trade for centuries, and there were many vampires and mortals in Nulahmia who were in his debt, and bitterly so. Seeing him revealed as a traitor would be a welcome spectacle for the crowd.

Sevall frowned. ‘Am I wrong? They don’t seem to be actually looking at anyone.’

‘They aren’t,’ Nagia agreed. The Riders of Knell turned their heads back and forth as they walked. The movement suggested that they were taking in all of the revellers around them. With skeletons, it was difficult at the best of times to tell where they were looking, but now that Nagia paid attention, she could see a difference between the ways Skarveth and his knights patrolled the hall. Skarveth clearly focused his gaze on one dancer or another. His warriors seemed to look through or beyond the courtiers, if they saw them at all.

‘They’re listening, I think,’ said Ekansavad.

‘To what?’ Ankavas asked. ‘Our conversations?’

‘If they are,’ said Sevall, ‘they can’t be hearing much that’s useful to them.’ The Black Knights never paused by any one group. They walked at a steady pace. They could only be picking up snatches of exchanges as they passed.

‘You’re right, though,’ Ankavas said to Ekansavad. ‘They are listening.’

Nagia’s mouth went dry. Neferata’s threat rose in her thoughts.

You are silent, but we will hear you.

They will hear you.

If the Black Knights were not listening for words, Nagia wondered, what did they expect to hear? She tried to think what other cues might give a precious secret away. Her sense of security vanished. She was terrified she had overlooked something. She became aware that her heart was beating hard.

The two Riders of Knell paused. They turned her way.

Forcing her voice to sound casual, she said, ‘If they find who they’re looking for, so much the better for everyone. They are awkward guests at a celebration.’ She nodded to the three nobles and walked away.

Nagia strolled towards the other end of the hall as if she were bored with the conversation and looking for more interesting company. The two Black Knights kept pace, walking in parallel with her on the other side of the dancers. Nagia looked around and saw another Rider of Knell, motionless, facing her way. Then the warrior began to march slowly and deliberately in her direction.

Nagia stopped beside a pillar. She pressed against the side facing away from the dais. She did not want Neferata to see her. More importantly, she did not want to see Neferata. If she beheld the queen looking at her, she would be lost.

She tried to steady her breathing. Her pulse hammered in her ears. They know, she thought. How? How do they know?

Maybe she was wrong. If the Black Knights knew her secret, why hadn’t they seized her? Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe they only seemed to be closing in on her.

She had to calm down. She was starting to behave as if she was guilty. That’s what she wants. You’re falling into her trap like the greenest fool. Neferata had declared that traitors were present. She brought in menacing warriors, ones who had been in Vask’s confidence. Then all the queen had to do was watch as fear spread and the conspirators revealed themselves.

Nagia pushed herself away from the pillar. She smiled at a group of passing revellers. Take part. Do not attract notice. Walk around the trap.

She took a breath and started to catch up with the chattering group. As she did, a Black Knight walked into view, five columns down, and stopped still, facing the wall on Nagia’s left, not looking at her.

Nagia froze. She held her breath, and her heart battered even harder.

The Black Knight turned abruptly and faced her.

They will hear you.

Nagia’s heartbeat was betraying her. These creatures could hear her terror. They were tracking her through her secrets. It didn’t matter how she behaved. Denials would be worse than useless.

They know! They know! They know!

She gasped, held breath escaping in a ragged stutter. The traitor in her chest hammered against the prison of her ribcage.

Leave! Flee! Get out of here! Now!

The Black Knight strode towards her.

The hope, tattered and desperate, that she could still somehow blend in with the crowd, that she could submerge her fear in the sea of others’ passions, pushed her to turn back to the main space of the hall. She would hide in the multitude. She would vanish in the collective anonymity until she could calm herself and be truly invisible again. She would…

She rounded the pillar, chasing the hope, and almost ran into four Riders of Knell. They were waiting for her, motionless, silent. The wavering threads of darkness surrounding them seemed to reach for her, beckoning her to judgement. Beyond the knights, dancers had faltered in their steps. They were looking her way, curious, nervous, eager to see if and how far they should distance themselves from her. She saw relief in their faces too. Neferata’s gaze would not be falling on them tonight.

She glanced at the dais. The Mortarch was no longer there. Indecision and terror paralysed Nagia. She couldn’t even think whether Neferata’s absence was a good or evil thing. She looked back at the Black Knights. They said nothing. They were waiting.

Do you want me to confess? Do you think standing before me will be enough to break me?

She wasn’t sure that they were wrong.

Then terror met defiance, and their fusion gave her the ability to move again. She turned aside from the Black Knights and walked down the row of columns to the main doors of the great hall. Her legs felt like rusted iron. She tried to maintain the illusion that all was well. There was nothing to see here. She was tired, that was all. She was retiring, not fleeing. Her departure had nothing to do with the Riders of Knell.

The Black Knights did not follow her, though they turned as if watching her leave. She looked back. The voids of their eye sockets were a terrible impassivity and the worst of all promises.

She forced herself to breathe evenly. Calm yourself. Convince them they are wrong. If her heart slowed and quieted, perhaps the Riders would believe she had simply been alarmed by their presence. She was mortal, after all. Death held every terror for her.

Two skeleton servants waited at the huge doors. They opened them for her without comment and bowed. There was nothing in their actions. They performed their duty no differently than she had seen them do so a hundred times before. If they had thoughts or opinions, they could not be expressed in the faces of bone. But to Nagia, their skulls were the mirrors of the blank judges behind her.

Nagia paused at the threshold. She told her legs to move. They refused. The skeletons looked at her, waiting.

She looked back again.

The full complement of Black Knights had gathered. Skarveth stood slightly to the side. He was watching his warriors rather than Nagia. He did look her way, though, when the others began to move towards her. They took slow, stately steps. They were unhurried. There was no possibility that she would escape them.

She would try.

Nagia walked through the doorway. She kept up her pretence that much longer. When the skeletons closed the doors behind her, the reverberating boom unleashed her panic. She broke into a run. She lifted the heavy folds of her dress and fled through the corridors of the Palace of Seven Vultures. She flew through uncanny emptiness. There were no courtiers to be seen, and if there were servants or guards about, she did not see them. Cold stone bore witness to her flight. Shadows pooling beyond the light of torches were knowing. There were eyes there, she was sure. Eyes and worse. She stuck to the centre of the passages, weaving from light to light, until she passed through the gates of the palace and onto the Pathway of Punishment.

Now, in the vastness of the night, she hoped to make friends with the dark. She needed it to conceal her. She could not hide in the great hall, but she could in Nulahmia. Though Neferata ruled the city, it kept secrets from her. Nagia’s allegiance had been one of those secrets until tonight. There were others. Somewhere out there were Nagia’s comrades in the struggle against the Mortarch. She wished she knew who they were. She understood why she must not. She was discovered, but they were safe. She could not betray them.

She could not hope for shelter from them. They were concealed from Neferata’s eyes, though, at least for now. Hiding was possible. She would find another way to disappear. She must.

The Pathway of Punishment zigzagged down Throne Mount, its boulevards lined with the tortured and the dead, thousands of bodies broken on instruments of agony for the pleasure of the queen. One of the wheels or stocks or hanging cages might be hers in the near future if the Black Knights caught her.

As she reached the first sharp bend in the road, she took one last look at the palace entrance. The Riders of Knell had emerged. Their line advanced slowly, inexorably, to the Pathway of Punishment.

Nagia ran. Fresh terror gave her a burst of energy, and she rushed down Throne Mount. The road was long, though. Three turns later, still some distance from the base of the Mount, she was staggering. Her breath rasped painfully. Her heart pounded with renewed frenzy, exhaustion compounding with fear. Her chest felt as if she had been kicked by a horse. She kept looking back, and a frail thread of hope returned to her. There was no sign of the Black Knights. She let herself believe she was putting distance between them and herself.

Once she had stumbled to the bottom of Throne Mount, she stayed off the grand boulevards of Nulahmia. She stuck to the narrower streets, never staying on a single one for long, taking intersections at random, changing directions for several blocks before resuming her original westward journey. She was soon past the great warehouses and the estates of the wealthiest merchants. The dwellings became humbler, the roads darker. Rows of houses, each containing dozens of apartments, leaned towards each other, their peaked roofs sometimes touching over the middle of the foetid alleys. The further into the poorer districts Nagia went, the thicker the darkness became. Despair wafted down the streets, a visible miasma emanating from people who clung to life because their fear of enslavement after death exceeded the misery of existence.

This was a region Nagia had come to know through a sense of necessity. Minor though the Thresends were, they had never known poverty. Their manor house bordered on this quarter, though. In her youth, Nagia had explored the streets, driven by a sense of adventure and curious to gaze upon the poor, whose life was so distant from hers she thought of them as a different species, creatures almost mythical. Since she had joined Vask’s struggle, she had made a more serious effort to learn the dark alleyways and dead ends, thinking of the quarter as a wilderness in which she might, should disaster strike, find concealment.

There would be no friends for her here. She knew that. Before tonight, when they saw her, the people had been suspicious of her motives and fearful of how she planned to use them. A noble in flight would be even less likely to engender sympathy. The people would keep their distance, and if the forces of the queen asked if they had seen her, they would not protect her.

As Nagia stumbled through the dimness, she caught glimpses of pinched, narrow, pale faces looking at her through grimy windows. She wanted to shout at them. She wanted to tell them, I am fighting for you, too! Join me! Help me!

They would not believe her. They were too much enslaved by their fear of Neferata.

She placed her hopes in the architecture of the quarter, in its squalor, in its miserable density that turned it into a maze. Lives vanished here. Souls vanished here. Hope vanished here. Surely she could too.

She was not thinking beyond the next few hours. If she survived them, then she would consider what to do next. She had the thought of fleeing to Angaria. The plan was unformed, a fantasy. She knew nothing of the empire except that it was the enemy of Neferatia. That was enough for now. All she needed was a vague dream of escape to keep her going.

She took the roads at random, choosing the darkest and bleakest. She was trying to become lost. In the logic of her terror, she felt that if she didn’t know where she was, neither would the Black Knights. The stench of the quarter was suffocating, and she had to breathe through her mouth. Sewage collected on the sides of the streets. Bodies slumped in corners, forgotten and unmourned, devoured by rats, swarmed by flies. The clammy, buzzing night wrapped around her, and Nagia felt truly invisible.

She turned a corner. The silhouette of a Black Knight waited for her at the other end of the alley.

With a sob, Nagia spun and ran back the way she had come. She paused at the next intersection, looking down every path. The way to her right was lost in profound darkness. Even so, she caught a glimpse of a cape flapping and heard the scrape of a boot on stone.

She fled, hope disappearing. She chased the dark, but it was no longer an ally. With every turn, she felt the noose drawing tighter. She was running in smaller and smaller circles. Her routes of flight were disappearing.

And then, at last, they were all gone. She worked her way by touch through a passage between two blank walls. It was so narrow, the buildings on both sides brushed her shoulders. Human debris squelched beneath her feet. She came out of the alleyway into a tiny courtyard. A disused well crumbled at its centre, clogged with rubble, leaking filthy water over the cobblestones. Faint illumination came from lantern light in the windows of the surrounding buildings. It washed over the courtyard like a shroud.

There was no way out.

Heavy footsteps rang in the passageway. Nagia faced the narrow line of deeper blackness and retreated until her back was against a wall. One by one, the Riders of Knell entered the courtyard. The air was still, yet their cloaks billowed slowly, as if caught in a sluggish, aethereal wind. They paused, their heads turning back and forth.

Nagia shrank against the wall. She held her breath. She willed herself to vanish.

Her heartbeat thundered, and the Black Knights closed in around her. Their movements were so unhurried and majestic, it was as if time slowed down in their presence. As they drew near, Nagia felt as if she were submerged in water, her own movements held by the lethargy of nightmare. She could not have run even if there was any way of getting through the line of Riders.

A cloud of darkness had arrived with the Black Knights. It spread over the courtyard, blotting out the light from the windows. Nagia could still see, though. A sepulchral glow emanated from the bones of the warriors.

Skarveth entered the courtyard shortly after the other Riders. He stopped beside the ruined well, watching his warriors.

The Black Knight directly before Nagia stepped forwards and pressed the tip of a sword against her throat. A woman’s voice, grating and echoing, issued from the skull. ‘Did you think you could hide, craven traitor? You cannot conceal the secrets of your heart from us. How did you believe you could run?’

Nagia stared into the empty eye sockets. She saw the shallowness of her dreams of rebellion and subterfuge. Before that darkness, they turned brittle, cracked and fell to dust. Her breath came in gulping, fearful gasps.

Then a voice even more awful than the face of death said, ‘I will deal with her.’

The Black Knight sheathed her sword. She stepped away from Nagia. She and her comrades bowed before Neferata. Nagia had not seen the queen arrive. She was simply present. The city was hers. Nagia cursed herself for ever believing otherwise. The queen could be anywhere. Her rule was everywhere.

Neferata clasped Nagia by the throat. Her grasp was effortless, smooth, cold and unbreakable. Her lips parted, revealing her fangs. ‘Do you wish to be a spy?’ she said. ‘Do you wish to be the unseen traitor? Do you wish to be the worm that destroys from within? Then I will grant your wishes.’ She lifted Nagia from the ground.

Nagia squirmed. Her feet kicked in the air. She tried to shake her head, to engage in one last act of denial. Neferata held her fast and bent her head back, exposing her neck.

‘Your dreams have always been a delusion,’ she said. ‘Your will is, and always has been, irrelevant. You are Nulahmian, and so you belong to me.’

Nagia screamed once as the queen’s fangs sank into her flesh. Though she could no longer cry out after that, there was no mercy as Neferata fed.

When she was done, Neferata dropped the insensible Nagia. When the woman regained consciousness, she would have no will except what Neferata chose for her.

The dark cloud swirled over the courtyard, concealing those present from curious eyes. ‘You were not seen to pursue her?’ Neferata asked Vissya.

‘No, my queen. We herded her through her panic.’

‘Then you have done well.’

‘Her departure from the great hall was certainly noticed,’ said Skarveth.

‘And so will her return be,’ said Neferata. ‘Her flight will be read as fear, and create more uncertainty. The other traitor remains at the dance.’ Two hearts had been beating with guilt at the revel. The one belonging to Lord Karlinth had been ignored. ‘Before dawn, seize Karlinth. Execute him at the top of the Pathway of Punishment. Mark the end of the celebration with his destruction. Nagia Thresend will become a mere distraction. Let the conspirators think that we think we have found all that we sought.’

‘And we allow the Thresend traitor her liberty for now?’

Neferata bent down to examine her prone thrall. ‘Yes. We will wait for her to take us to Vask.’

The change in troop deployment happened immediately after the Battle of Knell. Velaza didn’t realise its full extent at first. She witnessed the sudden spike in the mobilisation as the marches through the centre of Mausolea became an unceasing river of warriors. Day and night, the civilian population fled to the side streets as the great boulevards rang with the thunder of thousands of boots and the creaking grind of hundreds of supply carts. Brayherds’ bellows rattled the shutters of windows, and the tall silhouettes of siege towers loomed over the habitations. The deafening beat of war drums reached across the city. The incinerating beam that raged from Skulldagger Bastion blazed with ever greater fury.

The prince of Angaria had responded to defeat with a tidal wave of anger. Velaza had expected he would. For a few days, she could even look upon the scale of the marches as a sign of just how complete the rout must have been. He will wait no longer. He will throw himself into war whether he is ready or not.

That was exactly what Neferata wanted. She wanted Graunos’ injured pride to goad him into an attack governed by anger instead of strategy.

But as the days passed and the size of the Angarian march only grew, Velaza began to worry. Past a certain size of army, she wondered how much it would matter what thought there was behind it.

What would be worse, though, was thought and rage working together. From her perspective, on the streets of Mausolea, she could not tell if that was happening or not. It was Guessa who witnessed the ill omens. She spoke of them on the fourth night of the march, when she returned from her flights to the west and Neferata’s spies gathered in their cellar.

‘I didn’t comprehend the full import of what I was seeing until I was close to Mausolea again,’ Guessa told them. ‘I flew around the city to be sure. Graunos is no longer sending troops to the south.’

‘They are still leaving by the south gate,’ Velaza pointed out.

‘Only to relieve congestion to the west. Once they are outside Mausolea’s walls, they rejoin the rest of the army. Graunos is throwing his entire strength towards Neferatia.’

‘Nighthall Pass is closed to him. What good is that size of army if he cannot effectively get it into Neferatia?’ Tavensia asked.

‘Perhaps he has found another way in,’ said Epikente.

‘One unknown to us?’ Guessa sounded doubtful.

‘We cannot rule out the possibility, unlikely though it is,’ Velaza said.

‘Even granting that,’ said Epikente, ‘dismissing the threat of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer is foolish.’

‘We expected the possibility of a rash act,’ said Guessa. ‘Perhaps this is it.’ She did not sound happy with her own surmise.

‘Turning away from one threat to aim all his wrath at the source of a recent defeat,’ said Velaza. ‘That sounds very much like what we had hoped would be the result of the Battle of Knell.’

‘Too much like it,’ Epikente said gloomily.

Velaza nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’ She wished otherwise. ‘This is so evidently the mistake we have been looking for that it must be something else.’

‘I have listened to the conversations of the Bloodbound,’ said Epikente. She could come very close to the enemy without ever being noticed. ‘They are angry but confident. Morale is high. If there is any desperation in the bastion, it has not reached the troops on the ground. If anything, they are straining at the bit. They want vengeance for Nighthall Pass and Knell, and they are sure they will get it.’

Velaza grimaced. ‘This prince of Khorne refuses to be goaded.’

‘Let us imagine what he is doing, then,’ said Tavensia. She looked at the map of Angaria on the table they stood around. ‘If what appears to be a mistake is not one, then we must look to the south.’

‘Yes,’ said Velaza. ‘Has Graunos withdrawn any forces from the southern gate?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Guessa. ‘No more are heading in that direction, but none, as far as I can tell, are returning.’

‘Then Graunos has not decided the Stormcast Eternals are harmless.’

‘The simplest explanation is that he has reinforced the south enough to hold back the Anvils of the Heldenhammer,’ said Epikente. ‘And that he is determined to crush one foe before the other. Neferatia has always been his goal, and is the greater threat. So he will attack us first.’

‘That would be a tactically sound decision,’ Velaza agreed. ‘He is the one with the most to lose in having war occur on two fronts. The problem is that there still does not seem to be a way for him to attack Neferatia.’

‘A bluff,’ Guessa whispered, sounding impressed in spite of herself.

‘It could be.’ Velaza wanted to be wrong. ‘A massive thrust towards the west to draw all attention from the south.’

‘Implying he knows we’re here,’ said Tavensia.

‘He has to assume Neferata’s eyes are on him. She presumes the same.’

‘Graunos misdirects us, and plans to strike the Anvils of the Heldenhammer first,’ said Guessa.

‘And conceals his fist.’ Velaza did not believe the forces already at Angaria’s southern gate would be enough to prevail over Sigmar’s warriors.

There was a pause. The spies looked at each other.

‘We are agreed, then, in our interpretation of what we have observed?’

‘We are,’ said Epikente. The others nodded.

Velaza moved to the concealed chamber to bleed another prisoner and convey what she and her sisters had seen and concluded to Neferata. When she had finished speaking to the shape that had formed in the blood mist, the queen said, ‘I have a new task for your group. Observation will no longer suffice. It is time for you to take direct action. Let disruption be your watchword. Make Graunos feel my hand in the heart of his realm. Disturb his thoughts and plans.

‘Disruption, Velaza. Disruption.’

When war is inevitable, it is not always advisable to strike first. It may be advantageous to lure the enemy into acting first, and doing so against their own interests. What is an eternal truth is that the foe is making similar calculations. Thus, the battle rages long before the armies meet on the field.

– Neferata, The Invisible Flames

Chapter Eight

Nagia woke. She was in her bed in the Thresend manor. She sat up, surrounded by morning light. She had not pulled the bed curtains before falling asleep, and she blinked against the brightness. The house was silent. She had all of the east wing’s upper floor for her private use, and the servants knew not to disturb her when she slept.

She could not remember returning home last night, and she could recall only portions of the celebration at the palace. She had danced with Lord Arkayle. There had been conversations and gossip. Neferata’s chilling speech was clear in Nagia’s memory, and she remembered the Riders of Knell too. She had become nervous at some point and had decided to leave, but there her recall began to fail. Everything became vague. Somehow, she had made it to her bed before passing out. There had been nightmares, too. They were dim things now, filled with hints of pursuit, smothering and pain.

She wondered how much she had had to drink at the revel. She did not feel hungover, though. There was a slight muzziness in her head, but the light, now that she was fully awake, did not hurt her eyes. The anxiety of the night before had passed. Neferata had threatened her enemies with doom, but she had not seen into Nagia’s heart. The secrets were safe. Nagia was safe. She felt surer of purpose than ever before, her way forward absolutely clear.

Nagia dressed hurriedly and left the house. She had to get to the palace. She had to be seen. She wanted to erase any doubts about her that might be lingering in the minds of others. If, as she thought, she had departed the ball dramatically, it was important to restore normality. She did not want anyone, especially Neferata, to think she was hiding.

She made her way down the great boulevard of the Queensroad and up the Pathway of Punishment. Where the Pathway reached the top of Throne Mount, a crowd had gathered. People stood around a bifurcated torture device. Two iron poles pointed upward in opposing diagonals. Manacles held the arms and legs of the victim to the shafts. A clockwork mechanism at the base had slowly, hour by hour, pushed the poles away from each other, until the body of the condemned had been ripped apart. All that remained was a bloody, shredded mass dangling from the two halves. Nagia pushed her way to the front of the crowd and stared at the ruin of flesh and torn cloth.

‘Oh, there you are!’ Lady Sevall was at Nagia’s right elbow. ‘I was wondering where you’d run off to.’

‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

‘That’s the problem with being mortal. You should think more about my offer.’ Sevall had invited Nagia to become her thrall for the first time three years ago. She renewed the invitation regularly.

‘Perhaps,’ Nagia said absently. She gestured at the corpse. ‘Who was it?’ The skull and face had been separated from each other. The skull hung, wet and gleaming, on the left. The face dangled on the right, limp, a clump of red rags.

‘Lord Karlinth,’ Sevall breathed. ‘Imagine! I’ve never seen him put a foot wrong, whether he was dancing or paying court.’

‘Maybe that in itself should have made us suspicious.’

‘Very true! Very true!’ Sevall shook her head in a display of performative sorrow that didn’t even begin to disguise her glee.

‘What happened?’ Nagia asked.

‘It was as the ball was breaking up,’ Sevall said. ‘The Riders of Knell had left just after you did.’ She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. ‘I don’t mind telling you, dear, that I was worried they were going after you.’

Nagia smiled brightly. ‘Yet here I am!’

Sevall laughed. ‘And I couldn’t be more pleased!’

‘Thank you.’ Nagia had her doubts. The only thing that would have been more exciting for Sevall than the execution of a fellow noble would have been two executions.

‘At any rate,’ Sevall continued, ‘the Riders came back, and they seized Karlinth as we were leaving. He protested, of course. They never said anything. Just dragged him from the palace and chained him to the death engine.’

‘Did it take long?’

‘You only just missed the end. His final scream was less than an hour ago. It was a spectacle, my dear. A fine warning.’ She nodded in satisfaction.

‘A warning indeed,’ Nagia agreed.

‘We must hope that it is heeded,’ Sevall said piously.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I would prefer to see the traitors caught.’ Nagia spoke with confidence. She had escaped suspicion last night under the very eyes of Neferata. She had been nervous in the past, every time she had taken the most insignificant step of rebellion. That anxiety was gone now. She was sure she would never be caught. ‘I think that would be preferable to simply frightening them into inaction. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, of course, of course.’

Nagia stayed a few minutes longer before the remains of Lord Karlinth. She wondered if, even now, there were other allies of Vask who were being rounded up. She hoped not, but if they were, that made her commitment to the cause all the more important.

Fuelled by determination, she entered the palace and did her rounds, meeting with her usual circles of fellow courtiers. The talk was all about Karlinth, though there was curiosity too about Nagia’s sudden exit the night before. She explained that she had taken ill.

‘The thought of such treachery in our numbers could make anyone take a bad turn,’ said Lord Halfrenk, another mortal. His complexion was so sallow, he appeared to be in perpetual ill health. It was an impression he never took pains to discourage.

Nagia thanked him. As the day wore on, her lie gradually turned into truth. She did feel unwell. She was hungry and thirsty, but anything she tried to eat or drink made her stomach convulse. Cramps tightened her guts. As evening approached and she made her way back to the manor, she could barely walk upright. She staggered in through the main doors and leaned against the wall in the entrance hall. She waved away the doorman who came to help her.

One of her maidservants appeared at the landing of the main staircase. She ran down to Nagia, looking worried. ‘I will fetch Lord Thresend,’ she said.

‘No,’ Nagia snapped. ‘Let my father be.’ She reached the foot of the stairs, grasped the banister and began to haul herself up. ‘I don’t want to see anyone.’

‘But, my lady…’

‘I want to be alone. I want everyone off the top floor. Do you understand?’

The maid nodded, though it was clear she didn’t understand. Neither did Nagia. She didn’t know why she had given the orders. There was no reason for them. She was having trouble thinking clearly. All she knew was that she had a ferocious impulse to be by herself. The instinct was too strong to be fought.

She climbed the stairs, past ancestral portraits so dirtied by centuries of smoke from candles and torches that they were no more than murky silhouettes. The stairs seemed endless, her chambers suddenly on a mountain’s peak. She was gasping and retching by the time she at last reached the top floor. She weaved back and forth, bent double, clutching her stomach. She felt as if vicious creatures were chewing their way out from her insides. She would have screamed if her jaw hadn’t been clenched tight. Her breath hissed out from between her teeth.

She stumbled through the door of her bedchamber and fell to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut as the pain spiked again. When she opened them, she saw that she was not alone. A woman she had never seen before stood next to the open window. Her wings were draped around her like a cloak. She had dark skin and a noble bearing. Nagia did not know what house she might be from, but from the way the vampire gazed at her, Nagia sensed that she stood far above the Thresends. She held one end of a chain. The other end was around the iron collar of a man who was blindfolded and gagged. Nagia didn’t know who he was either. She guessed he was one of the countless anonymous souls who made up Nulahmia’s underclass.

‘Who are you?’ Nagia asked, squeezing her arms tightly around her agonised stomach.

‘My name is Skeentha,’ the woman said. She stepped closer, yanking the chain and forcing the man to crawl forwards.

‘Why are you here?’

Skeentha looked down at her contemptuously. ‘Because you need to feed, and you are evidently too stupid to understand what your body cries out for.’ She brought the man to within a foot of Nagia. Then she removed his collar, and with a quick slash of her clawed fingers tore open his neck. Blood spurted onto the floor, a glistening invitation.

Nagia’s hunger launched her forwards. She wrapped her hands around the man’s neck and lowered her head to the wound. She drank the blood in greedy mouthfuls. She was drinking pleasure itself, and life itself. Her pain vanished, driven out by a wave of ecstasy. Her body shuddered so violently she almost lost her grip on the man’s neck. She clutched him even more tightly and buried her face in the wound. She drank, and strength returned to her limbs. She drank, and lost herself in the glory of blood.

Skeentha laughed. ‘You do not even know what you are,’ she taunted. ‘Yet you revel in what you have become.’

Nagia barely heard her. She did not understand what Skeentha meant, and she didn’t care. She drank until, sated, she fell unconscious.

When she woke the next morning, the previous evening and night had faded from her memory. It worried her that she seemed to be engaging in drunken excesses. Now, more than ever, she had to be careful. She promised herself to observe more restraint today.

She got out of bed and paused, staring at the floor. She frowned. There was nothing in her room that shouldn’t be there, and there was nothing missing. At the back of her mind, though, she felt that there had been something here very recently. Something very important.

The feeling passed. She shook her head and dressed.

She went to the market, as she did every other morning, a routine that made it possible for her to be contacted, as rare as the event was. She had been there an hour when she saw, walking towards her, the merchant who had first brought her into the struggle against Neferata. His face was grave. When he saw that she had recognised him, he gave the smallest of nods then turned around.

Nagia followed him to his stall, where she bought several of his silks. In between the bartering, he said, ‘You must go to Mortannis. You will be given other directions there.’ When she looked surprised, he added, ‘There is to be a gathering.’

‘That will be risky.’

‘There is no choice.’

‘Do you know what is happening?’

‘Not precisely. But events are unfolding rapidly. Measures are being taken. We may yet turn defeat into victory.’

Nagia smiled and turned back to the silk. She felt the thrill of excitement. The risk might once have frightened her. No longer. She was invisible.

In her confidence, she laughed silently. Oddly, the laughter in her head did not sound like hers.

‘Contact has been made,’ Mereneth told Neferata.

They were meeting in a small room just off the throne room of the Palace of Seven Vultures. The Silent Chamber’s walls were among the thickest in the palace. Headless spirits interlaced with the stone. They could not see or hear. They could only strike out with a frenzied, slashing storm of limbs. Some were aethereal, and others were vulcanised bone. They would rip any intruder apart, turning flesh and spirit to tatters. The walls were basalt. So was the door. Only Neferata had the strength to open it. Wards covered the interior of the chamber in a spiderweb pattern of protection. The space was empty except for a slab of night-black diamond that served sometimes as a table, sometimes as an altar.

Neferata used the chamber for small, private councils. It surrounded the words spoken inside it with a wall of silence. Nothing entered or left the room without Neferata’s explicit consent.

‘Nagia Thresend spoke with Ersath Zay,’ Mereneth continued. ‘A merchant whose family escaped the fall of Shadowvel.’

Neferata smiled. ‘And now he travels, doing the bidding of Vask under the guise of selling his wares, seeking to avenge the death of that city. How tiresomely quaint.’

‘Shall we take him?’

‘No. Observe him and track him too. Do nothing else but follow the threads. Nagia may lead us directly to Vask, or she may not. But one of these threads will take us to what we seek.’

‘It shall be done, my queen.’

‘And what do you make of this contact occurring so soon after the execution of Karlinth?’ Neferata asked.

‘I might have called it panic,’ said Mereneth. ‘Though I do not rule out that possibility, the news from Angaria makes me doubt it.’

‘Quite,’ said Neferata. ‘If Vask is acting out of desperation, Graunos is using his panic to attack us on two fronts. We may have pushed Graunos to strike sooner than he intended.’

‘But he may be trying to do the same to us,’ Mereneth said.

‘We will assume that he is. And whatever we see of his preparations, we will remember that they are not the clear markers of his intent.’ She thought for a moment, picturing the gathering armies along the western chain of the Stonepain Mountains. She had to strengthen her forces in answer to Graunos’ actions, but she was holding back from a full commitment. There were still too many questions. What Graunos appeared to be planning was impossible. Worse, it was foolish. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I do not think he will try to cross the mountains again. He might try to force us to make that mistake. We need to learn what Vask plans. Then I will know how to make them alter their plans to my desire.’

It was Tavensia who took the first steps in the attack. They were trivial in appearance, actions so small no observer could imagine them having any effect. She took advantage of Graunos’ unusual strengths for a prince of Khorne. His army of Chaos was shot through with strong traces of order, buttresses supporting a monstrous engine of war, the better to bring about total destruction.

Tavensia had established herself as a useful scribe and had, over the course of months, become part of the battalion of functionaries that regulated the flow of supplies to the prince of Angaria’s grand army. While Velaza and the others waited for night, Tavensia acted during the day, making the slightest alteration in the flow. It was a minor reordering that would have a similarly minor effect on the timing of which supplies left the city at what time. The change would not matter to any of the Bloodbound. Not unless it was joined by other actions.

The appointed time came several hours after nightfall. Velaza and Epikente made their way to the western gate of Mausolea. Graunos had remade the walls, rebuilding them and transforming them into a tribute to Khorne. They were walls of brass, fifty feet high. The skulls of enemies and victims adorned pikes along the battlements. More skulls, thousands of them, were embedded in the walls and cast in brass. Their sockets and gaping jaws blazed a burning white, and from them spread the wrath of Graunos, turning the walls an angry red, slowly pulsing with heat. To touch the walls was to burn.

The gates were even hotter. They shone like fire, rows of skulls across their width screaming silently forever. They were so hot, it seemed they were on the verge of melting. But they were strong, incandescently brutal barriers to any who would enter the city against the will of its master. They were open now, as they had been for days as the endless army marched through them. Passing through was like crossing a threshold of flame, and the troops roared as they left the city, shaking the rooftops with their defiance of pain and ignited fury.

Velaza and Epikente emerged from a side street, onto the Boulevard of the Crimson Oath a short distance from the towers. They crouched in the ruined doorway of a house that had been torched after slaughterpriests had chosen the inhabitants as sacrifices for Khorne. Hidden from the marching army, the spies looked to their left, towards the towers that flanked the gates. Their curving walls were a duller red than the gates. Even so, Velaza felt their angry heat tightening the skin of her face.

‘We will have to move quickly,’ said Epikente. They had prepared for the task by imbuing their clothing and gauntlets with protective wards. There was much that vampire flesh could withstand, but the heat of Graunos’ fortifications was unnatural, and it burned in more ways than the physical.

‘That window will be useful,’ Velaza said. She pointed to an arched aperture about a third of the way up the left-hand tower’s height. It looked to the south-east and was large enough to fit through.

‘I’ll look for one in the other tower,’ said Epikente. ‘Hunt well, sister.’ She vanished into the house. She would climb the ruin, then use the rooftops, working her way back a short distance. There, centuries before, when Angaria was still part of Neferatia, the Boulevard of the Crimson Oath had cut through the fortified mansion of a family that had fallen from Neferata’s favour. The centre of the mansion had been destroyed, but its wings had survived to become separate houses, looking back at each other across the paving stones. The demolition had been purposely perverse, leaving a perpetual mark of the injury, and the houses looked like the amputated wings of a great bird. They reached out to each other with curving walls arching up and almost halfway across the road. They were empty now, as were most of the houses along Crimson Oath. The inhabitants had fled the proximity to the Khornate marches, and more than a few had become sacrifices too. Though the broken mansion’s wings stopped well short of meeting and forming an arc, their tips were close enough together for Epikente to leap them, and so cross the Crimson Oath unseen by the forces below.

Velaza knew what Epikente was doing, and she knew the route the other vampire would take. Yet from the moment she left, Epikente was as hidden from her as she was from the foe. Velaza grinned as she returned to the side street and cut through narrow lanes until she reached the last of the houses before the wall. If she could not spot Epikente, none of Graunos’ minions would either.

You cannot see what is coming. She glanced towards the army. But you will know when it arrives.

Between her and the wall was a strip of barren stone fifty yards across. The glow of the wall washed over the space, but even here there were shadows to be found. Though Velaza did not have Epikente’s skill, neither was she seeking to disappear in the full light of day. She was a spy for Neferata, part of the Mortarch’s invisible army, and the night was hers. It did not belong to Graunos. Let him fill the darkness with his strength and fury. It would swallow him and his kind. This was the realm of death, the one true inevitability. Graunos was a usurper. Angaria belonged to Neferata’s dominion, and Velaza would prove it.

She crossed the strip, silent and shrouded by night. She raced up to the wall, and the heat was so intense it felt as if she were forcing her way forwards against a river’s violent current. Where the tower met the wall, the fortifications were deep in shadow. Velaza ran to the angle and grabbed the tower wall. The fingers of her gauntlets ended in steel talons. The force of her grasp sank them into the brass, and she started to climb.

Heat surrounded her. It rolled over her in waves, as if keeping time with a monstrous heart buried inside the walls. It wrapped around her like a constricting fist, seeking to burn away the wards and turn her to ash. They held for the moment, and she climbed, gouging wounds into the wall. She defied the curse of the fortifications, and in seconds she was at the height of the window. She glanced down at the ground. She was not observed.

Oppressed by heat, defended by shadow, she swung out from the corner. She scuttled like a spider over to the window and jumped through.

Velaza found herself on the landing of a staircase that spiralled up the interior wall of the tower. Inside, the heat was no longer lethal. It was merely the intensity of a desert in the season of Crematory. It would serve no purpose for Graunos to incinerate his guards.

Velaza flew up the stairs, silent and swift as a night wind. At the top, the iron door to the guardroom overlooking the gate was closed. She pressed her ear against it and waited. She had faith that in the other tower, Epikente was doing the same.

The timing now became crucial. She and Epikente had to attack simultaneously, and once they did, they would only have the shortest time to complete their mission before they were spotted. They would not need long. But they had to know the moment was right.

Velaza listened for a sound outside the tower, a sound that, if it occurred, would raise no suspicion in the guards on the other side of the door.

The Sepulchre of the Rictus stood on a square that faced onto the Boulevard of the Crimson Oath, about a mile from the wall. It was a single block of basalt a hundred feet high, hollowed out and polished to a black sheen. The exterior was carved into the image of an immense skull, the flesh taut, pulling the lips back over the teeth in the final grin of death. The skull was tilted back, its blank eyes staring up at the sky, seeing nothing but the eternal absence of mercy.

Graunos had ordered the sepulchre defaced. Huge braziers burned in the eyes, and the worshippers of Khorne had destroyed the tombs inside, piling up the bodies into an altar mound dedicated to the Skull God. An iron crown of spikes twenty feet high had surmounted the skull, and now brass had replaced them too. But Graunos had permitted the bell at the centre of the crown to remain, and it still rang the hours.

Guessa had flown to the top of the sepulchre ahead of Velaza and Epikente’s advance. By now she would have killed the bell-ringer and would be watching from the crown. If Tavensia’s stratagem bore fruit, she would ring the bell at the normal hour. If something had gone wrong, Velaza would hear silence. She and Epikente would wait as long as they could for the bell to ring. There was a margin for delay, though it was not a wide one.

Motionless, Velaza listened, her sense of time counting down the moments to when the Sepulchre of the Rictus should sound the third hour.

Now, she thought, and the tolling began.

Velaza breathed the words of a spell into the door’s lock. Silently, the door unlocked and swung open. Velaza stepped through, drawing her axe.

The room beyond was small, stifling. Half of it was filled with the gate’s mechanism. The edge of a massive gear protruded into the room from outside the tower. The links of the chain wrapped around it were each over a yard wide. A heavy crank, large enough that it would require the strength of the three bloodreavers in the room to turn, operated the gear, winding the chain up and opening the south door of the gate. A lever taller than Velaza held the mechanism locked.

The bloodreavers assigned to the tower had been chosen for their absolute obedience. None of the Bloodbound were patient, and guard duty ran against their atavistic need to slaughter. But the ramparts and gates of the city needed their sentinels, and they had to be drawn from the Khornate ranks. The men before Velaza had demonstrated that they could remain where they were told. They would remain here forever.

Velaza decapitated the first bloodreaver with a single blow before any of them knew she was there. She hit with such force that the head arced forwards, bouncing off the chain while the body slowly crumpled. The other two bloodreavers turned awkwardly, fatally surprised. Velaza raised the axe high and slashed down, driving the blade through the top of the second bloodreaver’s head, cleaving helmet and skull in two. The last of the guards managed to draw his own axe and raise it. Velaza whirled on him, pulling her weapon free and swinging it horizontally into the enemy’s chest. The bloodreaver dropped his axe, gore bursting from his mouth. He gurgled something that might have been a curse, then fell to the stone floor.

Velaza hurried to the low balcony next to the gear. She looked across the gate to the other tower. Epikente was there, ready. Velaza looked down at the enemy line passing through the gates, and she saw Tavensia’s handiwork. Teams of brayherds were pulling long wagons stacked with wooden casks. Tavensia had worked on the timing of when these supplies were to be added to the march. She had ensured they would reach the gates at this precise moment.

The mechanisms in the towers were designed to shut the gate quickly in the event of an attack. Velaza and Epikente pulled on the release levers at the same time. The huge gears spun, feeding the chains out with rattling speed, and the gates of Mausolea slammed shut. Bloodreavers and brayherds shouted with alarm as the immense, red-hot brass monoliths came together. Warriors rushed to the gate to get through and ran back to avoid destruction. The threshold became boiling confusion. The screams came as the yards-thick slabs burned flesh and ground bodies together.

Scores of the enemy died in just the first few seconds of the closing of the gate. What mattered to Velaza and her sisters, though, was what was in the wooden flasks.

The sides of the wagons buckled and splintered. The brayers had been hauling the carts four abreast, and dozens of flasks cracked open like eggs. Their supplies of oil, intended for deployment from the siege towers, burst out and made contact with the burning wall. The oil ignited explosively. Pushed by the closing gates, a wave of liquid fire rolled back over the Bloodbound. The oil-drenched timbers of the other flasks caught fire, and the conflagration reached further and further, engulfing the boulevard in an ocean of crimson flame. The enemy died in the hundreds, screaming in pain. Drenched in burning oil, worshippers of Khorne ran blindly, spreading death.

As she descended the wall, unseen in the riot of destruction, Velaza looked upon the boulevard as the current of fire flowed on. It crashed against the bases of two siege towers that were following the supply caravan of oil. The flames roared up their sides, reaching behind the iron plating and leaping from timber to timber. The brayherds hauling the towers died or fled, trapping the crews in the rising tide of fire. The towers became immense torches. By the time Velaza had reached the ground and crossed back to the shadows of the houses, the towers had begun to waver.

Velaza kept hidden but close to the Boulevard of the Crimson Oath, watching the full effect of the attack. When she reached the broken wings of the severed manor, the streets shook with the crash of the falling towers. They closed the boulevard with a barricade of burning timber and blackened iron.

Epikente had already crossed the gap and was waiting for her. Velaza inhaled the smell of burning flesh and greeted her sister with a smile.

Skarveth Lytessian dismounted from his skeletal horse and began to walk the last mile to Shadowvel. Neferata followed him. He did not know she was there. Knowing how long it should take him to reach his destination, she had left Nulahmia only recently, flying on the invisible wings of a whispered spell to witness the end of his journey. She travelled without Nagadron, becoming entirely an unseen creature of the dark.

Skarveth crossed the plain, a single figure willingly exposed to the sentinels on the ramparts of Shadowvel. Neferata called the night to her. Darkness wrapped itself around her like a shroud. She hovered quite far above Skarveth for the moment. There would be sorcerous eyes seeking to pierce the night for any allies the Hell Knight had brought with him. There were none. Neferata was the only secret, and she would remain so, even from Skarveth. It was important that everything he said to the Anvils of the Heldenhammer was, as far as he knew, the truth. There would be time yet to draw closer. It was the coming encounter that she wished to observe.

What have you set in motion? Neferata asked herself. And why have you done it?

Curiosity was the simple answer. It was also incomplete. Neferata was plunged so deeply into the sea of subterfuge that she would never break surface. She knew this, and accepted it. She revelled in it. Some of the games to be played had definite end goals. There were foes to overcome and wars to win. There were other games that were experiments. They were exercises in discovery. This was one of them. She wanted to see where the events she had triggered would lead. It was more than curiosity that pushed her, and more than an instinct. It was impossible for her not to play the game. It was as deep a part of her nature as the thirst for blood.

She had come across two descendants of Mathas Hellezan within a short space of time. These were beings she had thought could not exist. She must have them meet, and see what happened next.

Shadowvel rang with the sounds of preparations for war. More Stormcast Eternals had arrived through the Realmgate since Lord-Celestant Venthor Warfire had put an end to the Children of the Bell. They mean to mount an important campaign. Still, for all their power, it would take more than this to conquer Angaria. That would be obvious to the most fanatical of Sigmar’s knights.

And you are waiting for something, Lord-Celestant, aren’t you? Neferata was amused. You are too obvious. You are not versed in these arts of deception. I doubt you are conscious of even having made the attempt. Everything you do is governed by the dictates of your honour. This is simple strategy, not manipulation. You expect Neferatia and Angaria to tear each other to pieces, and you will use our war to carve out a greater share of Shyish for the holy cause of your god.

The simplicity of the tactic made her want to laugh. Nevertheless, she appreciated the challenge.

The more she considered the usefulness of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, the more intrigued she became about the outcome of a meeting of the Hellezans.

‘Stand fast!’ a voice boomed from the ramparts when Skarveth was a hundred yards from the gate of Shadowvel.

Skarveth ceased walking. He stood beside his horse, sword in its sheath. He was the embodiment of pride in death.

‘State your business!’ the guard demanded.

‘I would speak with Lord-Relictor Rhasan Darksight,’ Skarveth said.

Silence greeted his pronouncement. The Hell Knight was, Neferata believed, exactly the kind of warrior that would invite anger and contempt from this Stormhost. You have flesh, and you bleed, and you live. Yet you are still revenants. You belong to Shyish. Skarveth is the reminder of your truth.

The silence became protracted. The Anvils were not going to speak with Skarveth more than was necessary. They had not denied his request, though, and that told Neferata what she wanted to know.

After a few minutes, a door in the eastern gate turret opened and Rhasan emerged, her helmet under her arm. She strode across the ground and stopped a short distance from Skarveth. Neferata risked descending until she was close enough to observe the details of Rhasan’s face. Cold eyes stared into black sockets.

‘Well?’ Rhasan said. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’

‘I have something for you.’ Skarveth opened the sack hanging from his saddle and pulled out two scrolls. One was of vellum. He presented them to Rhasan. ‘The message is for Lord-Celestant Venthor Warfire.’ Neferata’s seal held the scroll shut. ‘My queen expects that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer will find its information useful. There are details there on the movements of Graunos’ army. They were gathered in Mausolea.’

The Relictor slipped the missive into her belt. ‘Neferata seems very generous with the work of her spies.’ She sounded sceptical.

‘She hopes this will be taken as a gesture of good faith.’

Rhasan grunted. She held up the larger scroll. ‘And what is this?’

‘That,’ said Skarveth, ‘is for you.’

Rhasan regarded the canvas suspiciously, then unrolled it. Her eyes widened, shock breaking through her reserve, when she saw the portrait. She looked at it for a long moment, then back at Skarveth.

Skarveth answered her unasked question. ‘We are kin.’

Rhasan’s hand closed over the handle of her axe.

‘This doesn’t please you,’ said Skarveth. Mirthless laughter shook his bones. ‘I lived my entire mortal life consumed with loathing for my bloodline. Our bloodline. So you do not have my sympathy. You do have my understanding.’

‘You claim parentage with this person?’ Rhasan looked at the portrait again, then rolled up the canvas once more.

‘I would deny it if I could.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She is a descendant of Mathas Hellezan, as are you, as am I.’

‘That name means nothing to me.’

‘How fortunate you are. Mathas Hellezan was a traitor. He led an uprising against Queen Neferata. His cursed line has continued to plot in secret for centuries. The rebellion became open again at Knell.’

‘This means nothing to me either,’ said Rhasan. ‘The schisms of Neferatia are not my concern.’

‘I do not expect them to be,’ Skarveth said. ‘You asked who this was. I have told you.’

‘Why have you brought this to me?’

‘My queen told me to. Now that I have done it, I am freed of the last remnant of a treacherous clan. Keep the portrait. Burn it. Do as you see fit. That, I am happy to say, is of no concern to me.’

Rhasan studied Skarveth for a moment, as if she could read expression in his skull. Then she said, ‘Neferata wished me to have this. She wished me to know of my ancestry.’

‘She did.’

‘This portrait could be a forgery.’

‘It could be. It is not. On that you have my word of honour.’

Neferata watched the firmness of Skarveth’s declaration give Rhasan pause.

‘Why does she wish this?’

‘I do not know,’ said Skarveth. ‘She did not know of its existence until recently. Are you offended that she found something of your roots and decided that you should know too? Should she have kept this to herself?’

‘I am indifferent to this,’ Rhasan said after a slight hesitation. The statement was a bit too flat to be entirely convincing. ‘I doubt this is the whole truth of the past,’ she continued, brandishing the portrait. ‘Whatever the past might actually be, it is a lost world. The actions of the present and the hope of the future are all that matter.’

Skarveth clacked his teeth together twice in a suggestion of laughter. ‘You are wrong. The past shapes us whether we remember it or not. It governs our actions, even if they are in revolt against what our ancestors would have us be.’

Rhasan looked uncomfortable. She did not answer Skarveth directly. Instead, she mounted an attack from another direction. ‘We are also shaped by forces acting in our present. Your queen is not motivated by kindness. What did she hope to gain in this encounter?’

‘I do not know that, either.’

‘So you do as you are told. You act out of blind loyalty.’

‘Is that how you follow Sigmar?’ Skarveth asked.

‘Do not insult me.’

‘Then do me the same courtesy.’

‘From what you say, I gather that you were raised a rebel. You reject that. You reject your kin. You choose to destroy them, and to ally yourself with the tyrant of Neferatia. I wonder what I should see in such actions.’

‘You should see loyalty,’ Skarveth snarled. ‘Honour. Duty. I believe you are familiar with those concepts. Neferata is my rightful queen, and I am her obedient subject. My duty was not to the self-interested vendettas of Vask Hellezan. I know who I am. I know my roots, and they go far deeper than the beginning of the ridiculous perfidy of Mathas Hellezan.’ The hollow voice rasped in anger. ‘When my queen bade me come here, I did so gladly. And I was curious.’

‘Is your curiosity satisfied?’

Neferata watched Skarveth look at Rhasan, at the skull on the helmet she carried and at the figures of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer standing on the walls of Shadowvel.

‘I am satisfied on one point,’ he said, calm once more. ‘No matter what may be said, and what may yet happen, I believe we are agreed on the paramount nature of loyalty.’

‘Perhaps we are.’

‘Then I will leave you.’ Skarveth grasped his horse’s reins, then paused and pointed at the canvas in Rhasan’s fist. ‘I would burn that. It has no value. Neither of us is bound by the Hellezan past. As I said, the roots of true loyalty run deeper. But you are of Shyish. Remember that.’

He mounted his horse and rode off.

Neferata lingered, watching Rhasan. The Lord-Relictor waited until Skarveth was a good distance away before unrolling the canvas again. She stared at the portrait, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. Her fists closed around the corners. She raised her arms, about to tear the portrait in two. Then she paused. She kept looking at the armoured woman who resembled her so much. Even now, Neferata could not decide whether the portrait was of Rhasan herself or not. If Rhasan had the same difficulty, then the effect of the art must be thoroughly disturbing.

Rhasan rolled the canvas up once more. Her lips pressed into a grim line, she walked back towards Shadowvel.

Neferata rose into the night. She had much to think about. The encounter had gone very well. Rhasan fascinated her. There are possibilities here. Rhasan’s reactions to Skarveth, to his news and to his arguments only made her more interesting.

Skarveth kept drawing her thoughts too. Hearing him speak when he believed himself not to be observed by her was instructive. Such moments always were. What was different was the nature of the revelation. Or, rather, the confirmation. When she listened to her subjects, Neferata was used to uncovering secrets, whether they were ones she would use against them or ones that they planned to use against her. Skarveth’s words were in concert with his actions. It was difficult to deny the loyalty he had demonstrated in turning against Vask and giving up his life. But Neferata could imagine such a sacrifice being made for the ends of later victory. She did not think it likely, but she did not rule the possibility out. Skarveth was proving himself worthy of her confidence, though, in every action he had taken since then. His anger, when he had defended the idea of loyalty to Neferata, had sounded real. Skarveth appeared to be something Neferata had decided did not exist – the selfless, genuinely loyal subject.

There was so much to think about.

From the crown of the Sepulchre of the Rictus, Graunos and Kathag looked down at the wreckage along the Boulevard of the Crimson Oath.

‘This is my city!’ Graunos roared. ‘Mine!’ The bellow rumbled across Mausolea. In the street below, the people of the city stopped in their work of clearing away the debris and stared up at the colossal figure. They fell to their knees. Many covered their ears and hid their heads in terror.

Appearances of the daemon prince outside Skulldagger Bastion were rare and terrible. The slaves who looked upon him expected to die.

‘It is your city,’ Kathag agreed. ‘That is precisely why she attacked it. She seeks to provoke you into making a mistake.’

‘She has provoked me,’ Graunos said.

‘Let the mistake be hers,’ Kathag urged. He would not go down that road again. He would not fall into her traps. He had to save Graunos from the same error.

Anger was giving Kathag clarity. It was keeping him from fatal judgements. It was the anger he felt at the way in which Ruhok had let himself be led by the nose by Neferata, walking right into the total slaughter of his horde.

Not this time, though. If Kathag had to plead with Graunos, if he had to abase himself to keep the lord of Angaria focused, he would. He would have his vengeance, and he needed his new patron to see as clearly as he did.

The daemon prince growled, and the sepulchre vibrated, the tremors of Graunos’ rage running down its height. Then, to Kathag’s relief, Graunos nodded.

‘Yes,’ Graunos said. ‘Agreed. We will not play this game of hers. Especially not on her terms.’

‘She wants us distracted, misdirecting our strength.’

‘And then she strikes, having made common cause with the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.’

‘That alliance does not yet exist,’ Kathag pointed out.

‘Nor will it.’ Graunos looked at the burned wreckage again. ‘How long until the western gate is passable?’

‘A day.’

‘A day,’ Graunos repeated. He growled again. There was a new quality to the anger. It was deeper, more focused. ‘A mere day. She provokes me to the edge of foolishness, all for a single day.’

Good, Kathag thought. He sees beyond the immediate damage. His satisfaction withered when he saw the way Graunos was looking at him.

‘Do not think to instruct me,’ the daemon prince warned.

‘I would never–’ Kathag began.

‘Oh, wouldn’t you? I think you misunderstand your position. I am not the instrument of your vengeance. You are the tool of my anger. Its compass is greater than you can conceive. I rule here now, but the realm of Hysh still trembles at my name. This empire is but a drop in the ocean of my wrath. I will see all of Shyish crumble in flames. I will offer Nagash’s skull to Khorne before I am done.’

Despite the grandiosity of the speech, there was an undercurrent that was coldly sober. Kathag’s throat went dry. He must not underestimate the being in front of him. There were reasons why Khorne had elevated Graunos from his mortal station to become the great monster who crushed thrones in his grip.

And he was not done. He would rise yet.

Graunos seemed to read Kathag’s mind. His lips pulled back in a fusion of smile and snarl. ‘But first, the Mortarch of Blood,’ he said.

His lesson delivered, Graunos turned from Kathag. He faced south. ‘The Anvils of the Heldenhammer are an irritant. Go to the south. Ensure our tool does what we desire. Make an end of them.’

Perception is the lie at the foundation of reality.

– Neferata, Strategies of Illusion

Chapter Nine

Shadowvel had been killed several times over. Death lay heavily over its ruins. Purged of the noxious taint of the Children of the Bell, it remained an empty tomb. Even with the thousands of Anvils of the Heldenhammer occupying it, the city did not stir back to life. Its deaths were too profound. It had been too long since there had been any mortal inhabitants. Rhasan wondered if things would change. If people returned to the city, perhaps it would become a living thing once more. It would resist resurrection, though. It had been dead a long time, and was used to it.

Its fortifications were eroded, corners rounded and ramparts crumbling like old bones. They were still solid enough to serve a purpose, and the Anvils had reinforced the walls since their arrival. The city would do as a base from which to launch a campaign, but it did not live. It was a shell containing Sigmar’s warriors, nothing more.

Rhasan walked with Venthor on the northern parapet. They looked out at the Stonepain Mountains. The sky beyond the peaks pulsed red, as if the chain were a cauldron barely containing the boiling venom of Graunos.

Venthor held the message that Skarveth had given to Rhasan. ‘Do you think what this says is true?’ he asked.

‘I think it might well be,’ said Rhasan.

‘No further reinforcements on their way to Angaria’s southern gate.’ Venthor smiled sourly. ‘How convenient for us. How perfect an invitation.’

‘Too perfect, you think.’

‘As a stratagem to lure us into disaster, it is hardly subtle.’

‘Which is why I think what she says is true. What good would it do her to try to mislead us? She could not have any expectation that we would fall for such a trap.’

‘We’ll have confirmation one way or another soon,’ Venthor said.

They were expecting the return of Knight-Venator Jehnneka Stormire. She had led a flight of Prosecutors over the mountains, gauging the enemy’s force in the Angarian south.

‘At any rate,’ Venthor went on, ‘what she tells us here will hardly matter. It has little bearing on when we strike. So let us assume that what she says is true. What is her purpose?’

‘A gesture of good will, her emissary called it,’ said Rhasan.

Venthor snorted. ‘I would find it easier to believe in a fastidious nurgling. But she certainly commits herself to that charade.’ He glanced down at the letter again. ‘She urges us to coordinate our attacks with hers.’

‘And there is no sign of when she plans to attack.’

‘That would have been convenient,’ said Venthor. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were not basing the strategy of their attack on the daemon prince on the assumption that the two foes of Sigmar would be fighting each other. But that situation would have helped. Venthor could not engineer the outbreak of their war on his terms, but Rhasan knew the hope had been present in his mind. ‘She seems to want us to be fighting side by side,’ Venthor said.

‘And what if we explored that possibility?’ Rhasan asked. She had debated the wisdom of the action. She had strong misgivings, but she could not dismiss the tactic out of hand. She did not trust Neferata’s overtures. And yet…

‘I said the matter was closed,’ Venthor snapped.

‘I think it should be reopened,’ Rhasan said, keeping her voice even. ‘She has nothing to gain in deceiving us.’

‘So you have said. You sound very certain of that.’

‘I am not. But I cannot see how doing so would help her in her struggle with Graunos. Being truthful with us, on the other hand, does have clear benefits.’

‘Our cooperation being foremost.’

‘Yes. My point, though, is that cooperation could benefit our cause as well.’

Venthor shook his head. ‘Even if that were so, whatever good might come of this for us would be as nothing compared to her victory.’

‘Which would be what?’

‘Whatever she chooses it to be. I simply will not be party to the triumph of Sigmar’s enemy.’

‘Things are rarely that straightforward.’

‘Sometimes they are.’ He folded up the letter. ‘She asks us to delay. We will not. We will strike when we are ready, and on our terms. I will not have an army of death on our flanks, waiting to turn on us when its perfidious queen decides the time is right.’

Venthor was adamant. There was no point in pursuing the question with him. Rhasan fell silent, uncertain whether she disagreed with the Lord-Celestant or not.

The two warriors walked on. Rhasan was looking north when the Prosecutors appeared, the blazing light of their wings surrounding the darkness of their armour, and she saw them first. She raised her hammer in greeting. Jehnneka Stormire returned the salutation, and the Knight-Venator angled off from the Prosecutors to descend to the parapet. The light of her wings dimmed as she approached, then winked out upon landing, their mystic flight no longer needed. Jehnneka rapped a fist against her breastplate.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ she said in greeting. ‘Lord-Relictor.’

‘What news, Knight-Venator?’ Venthor asked.

‘Good news, I believe,’ Jehnneka said.

‘That Neferata and Graunos have finally ceased their standoff and tear at each other’s throats?’

‘Not that, I am sorry to say. But there has been a shift. The reinforcements to the southern gate have ceased.’

Rhasan exchanged a look with Venthor.

Jehnneka removed her helmet and frowned. Brown-skinned and a giant in stature, she had the face of an eternal warrior. Her gaze was ferocious, but a shadow fell over it too, the shadow that haunted all the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Forged out of death, pursued by its vengeance, they were the most doom-touched of Sigmar’s immortals. ‘It seems my report is already known to you.’

‘We were told, but the source was unreliable.’

‘Neferata continues to meddle,’ Jehnneka guessed.

‘Indeed,’ said Venthor. ‘What is your evaluation of the Wrathgate?’

The passes on the western side of Angaria were few, twisted and narrow. With the destruction of Nighthall Keep, there was no way for a large army to cross except stretched out and fatally vulnerable. The situation was different to the south. There was a gap in the Stonepains, the Axeway. Its name came from its shape. It was as if the mountains had been cleft by the blow of a god’s blade. The pass was several hundred yards wide and ran straight between smooth, sheer cliffs. It was Angaria’s most vulnerable point. Graunos had used it to his advantage in his war of conquest, and he had taken steps to ensure the weakness no longer existed. He had erected a brass gate. A hundred feet high, thirty feet wide, it blocked the entire pass. It could open, unleashing Graunos’ fury in a flood upon the lands beyond. Closed, the Wrathgate was the great obstacle to the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, just as the Axeway was the route they must take to strike into the heart of the empire of Chaos.

‘It is well defended,’ Jehnneka said.

‘As we would have expected,’ said Rhasan.

‘Quite,’ Jehnneka agreed. ‘The garrison is, though, significantly smaller in size than a full warhorde. There are certainly defences other than the physical barrier of the gate and the force of arms, but we cannot be sure of their nature.’

‘Can you speculate?’ Venthor asked.

‘Above the gate, suspended by a shaft running between the mountainsides, there is an immense sculpted skull. I doubt its purpose is ornamental.’

‘So noted,’ said Venthor. He nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘Neferata and Graunos may not be engaged in battle as we would have hoped, but their standoff is having much the same effect. Graunos’ defences will not be enough. Our way forward will be difficult, but it is clear. We will take the Wrathgate. Once it is ours, Graunos might slow our advance, but he will never be able to stop it.’

‘And now that we know that the message from Neferata is the truth, this changes nothing,’ Rhasan guessed.

‘Agreed,’ said Venthor. He was looking off into the night, towards the darker, vertical line in the mountain chain that marked the Axeway. His mind was on the march, Rhasan saw. He was picturing the strategies needed to take the Wrathgate. He had dismissed the new overture from the Mortarch of Blood.

Rhasan cursed her misgivings. But she could not shed them.

Nagia’s journey to Mortannis was uncomfortable. The winds blew hard over the hard land. Lament was the transitional season between Loss and Crematory, and the air seethed with its turmoil. The winds changed direction constantly, fiery one hour, frigid the next, never less than furious. Seeking anonymity, she rode with a trade caravan, and there were no provisions for her noble status. The saddle on the nag she rode was worn. Her body ached everywhere, and the pains only grew worse with the fall of night, magnified by the queasy hunger that was her constant companion now. She did not know what illness had taken her. It gradually turned each day into a nightmare, twilight into agony. When she woke in the morning, though, she always felt refreshed and strong. Sometimes she found scratches on her arms that she could not remember acquiring, and dark stains on her clothes she was sure had not been there the day before. The nights were blurs, as if she had been drinking heavily. At least the illness did not prevent her from taking action, and the further she travelled, the more focused and clear she felt.

When she arrived in Mortannis, she spent most of the day in aimless wandering before being jostled outside an inn. The woman apologised, and whispered, ‘Todost’. Nagia departed for that village, less than ten leagues from the much larger Mortannis. And in Todost, another encounter sent her to Valpurg, and in Valpurg she was told to make for the Field of Sighs.

Half a day’s journey from Valpurg, the Field of Sighs was a cemetery that stretched for hundreds of miles in every direction. Many of the towns and villages who had sent their dead here no longer existed. They had vanished into the dust, forgotten by all except perhaps Neferatia’s ever-watchful ruler. The traces of their dead remained, and there were millions here. The cemetery occupied a vast, rolling plain. Trees that never bore leaves thrust their gnarled-hand silhouettes up from the stony ground. Wrackdaws, huge carrion birds, perched on the branches. Their heads were fleshless skulls, gaping in eternal hunger. When they flew, they gathered in flocks that turned the sky black. Choking, necrotic dust fell from their leathery feathers. Tomb robbers haunted the shadows, scuttling down the narrow, cramped passages between the sepulchres and mausoleums. If they were caught in the dust storms created by the wrackdaws, they added their numbers to the tally of the Field of Sighs.

The grave monuments were so high and densely packed that no one who entered the cemetery could see far. Only the wrackdaws had any significant perspective. No walls contained the cemetery, its growth held back only by the network of deep gorges in the west and south and the sullen cliffs to the east and north. No wall was needed. The Field of Sighs offered nothing to an invading army. It was isolated, strategically useless. To those who wished to disappear, though, it offered much. The disappearance was very often final. Once inside, it was easy to lose one’s way and never emerge. But it was also the perfect place to hide.

Nagia rode alone to the Field. Midway there, she discovered that someone had slipped a piece of vellum into her purse. On it were instructions. She was approaching from the south, crossing rusted, swaying suspension bridges across the gorges. After the last of them, she was to look for a double-pyramid sepulchre on the edge of the cemetery. After that, no other landmarks were indicated. Her path was traced for her in counted steps.

She placed her faith in the missive. She put even more faith in the righteousness of her cause. It was infallible. She did not know how she had come by this confidence after the defeat at Knell, but it had the force of revelation and it pushed her forwards.

She spotted the twin peaks of the monument as she began her final crossing. She left her exhausted horse at the end of the outer line of tombs and marched into the Field of Sighs as night fell. The hunger did not trouble her as much as it had. She felt it still, but in the background. It receded before anticipation. She sensed an end to her travels. She sensed the approach of new revelations. She sensed victory.

She counted her steps carefully, turning down one dark passage after another, often having to turn sideways to squeeze between the cold stones of the graves. Lament’s wild winds screamed through the crevices. Nagia was lost in the jumbled labyrinth. It occurred to her that she would not be able to find her way out again. She was not troubled. She did not feel the need to try.

After a while, she became aware of other travellers in the Field of Sighs. She caught glimpses of them at intersections and turning out of passages just as she entered. She did not think they were grave robbers. They were always individuals, always moving in parallel with her or, if they were ahead, heading in the same direction she was about to take. At last, she thought, she was seeing her comrades in Vask’s crusade. A turning point had been reached. They were no longer to be isolated. This was a gathering.

Her belief in impending victory grew with every step.

She walked for hours. Twice, a flock of wrackdaws passed overhead. She sheltered in the archways of nearby mausoleums. She experienced no discomfort from the falling clouds of dust, and she ignored the birds after that. She did not know why she was immune. The question seemed unimportant, and she shrugged it off.

When at last she reached her destination, she was but one of a crowd. Mortal and vampire, they nodded to each other in greeting. Most were strangers, yet they were comrades, and this first encounter felt like a celebration. Nagia was almost giddy, the background discomfort of her hunger utterly forgotten.

Vask’s followers converged on a monolithic sepulchre. Time had erased the names that had once adorned it. It was a huge, brutish monument to the forgotten dead. Its gates had rusted away, and the opening was a gaping cave of darkness. In the company of hundreds of others, Nagia entered the tomb. There were no torches to light the way, but her eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The graves in the centre of the sepulchre had been displaced, and stairs cut into the floor. The new construction was relatively recent, and crude. It looked like it had been done hurriedly. The steps were uneven and rough, but all they were required to do was provide a way underground.

The descent was long and monotonous. The foundations of the sepulchre gave way to bedrock, and the stone walls gradually pulled away from either side until the staircase seemed to be descending through a vast emptiness. The effect was disorientating. Nagia felt that she was moving through a black limbo. There was no way to guess how far she had come, and there was no bottom in sight.

But she knew when she crossed the threshold. She could not see it. There was nothing different in the stairs before and after it. But she sensed it in her soul. She had been in one place, and now she was in another. There were ancient energies building up around her. There were eyes in the darkness. There was power here, and age, and a single-mindedness of purpose.

In the Silent Chamber, Neferata frowned. Nagia’s will was utterly slaved to hers. Not only was the thrall’s every thought exposed to Neferata’s scrutiny, she could not think anything that Neferata did not want her to think. When Neferata used the black diamond slab in the Silent Chamber to focus her spells, the hold became even stronger. She saw what Nagia saw, heard what she heard.

But suddenly, she was blind.

‘All has vanished,’ she said. Mereneth was attending her, waiting for the orders that would come once Neferata had uncovered Vask and his secrets.

‘Has she been destroyed?’ Mereneth asked.

‘No. I still sense her. I have control of her mind and can read her thoughts. What I cannot tell is where she is. She has crossed a barrier into a place I cannot see.’

‘In Neferatia? How can that be?’

It should not be. Furious, Neferata stared at the altar and concentrated. Under the power of her gaze, the diamond began to smoke. Neferata reached out with the full power of her witchsight, extending it down through the Field of Sighs, seeking the cause of her blindness.

The great cemetery was in the southwestern region of Neferatia. The Mortarch sank her consciousness into her land, into the villages and towns and dukedoms that surrounded the region. She pushed deeper, into the underworlds, into the sunless lands forbidden to the living. There she found the blankness. ‘Someone has erected a mystical wall,’ she said. ‘It blocks my view.’

‘That is a very powerful spell. Whoever has done this must have laboured long and hard in its making.’

‘Indeed.’ Neferata admired the craft in spite of herself. ‘I would never have noticed it had I not been looking specifically for a blind spot.’ Her awareness would have slid right over the wall.

Neferata held the location in her mind, refusing to let go of the blankness. She shifted her focus slightly, pulling back now from the barrier to find its location.

‘The sealed territory is an underworld,’ she said.

‘Below the Field of Sighs.’

‘I do not think so. It would be poorly hidden if it were. I believe Nagia and her fellow traitors have crossed a sorcerous gate. It has transported them to this new location.’ Neferata continued to withdraw from the barrier, learning the contours of the land, painting a portrait of the territory. An image appeared in the black mirror of the diamond altar. It took on a familiar configuration of plains, the edge of mountains and a ruined city.

‘Shadowvel,’ she said. ‘The underworld is linked to Shadowvel.’

Consequences. Nothing ever ends, and there are always consequences. She laughed, almost delighted to see a lesson she had long insisted upon become truth once more, even if she paid the cost. ‘Do you see the pattern, Mereneth? See the repetition and return. I destroy Mathas Hellezan and his revolt, and in a new Age, it rises again, even stronger. I punish Shadowvel for its arrogance, and I torment the souls of its captive dead. And now the thousands who died in the centuries before my judgement have thrown their lot in with Vask.’ Her laugh turned into a predatory hiss. ‘My enemies must face repetition too. I am stronger than they are. They will be punished anew, more utterly than before.’

‘The dead of Shadowvel – would they be numerous enough to be able to create that barrier against you?’ Mereneth asked.

‘Yes. With time, with patience, with effort, and with the direction of Vask, or of what he has become. He showed at Knell what he is capable of, and what he can conceal.’

‘This is an extraordinary feat for any necromancer.’

‘It is,’ Neferata agreed. ‘Skarveth says the mummy of Kasten Hellezan is fused to his body. The will of the dead thing is mighty and lives on. Kasten must have become powerful in his own right before his death. We are fighting two enemies who have become one.’

‘Do my sisters fly for Shadowvel?’

‘Not yet,’ said Neferata. ‘We know where Vask might be. That is not enough. He may move again. I need to know what he plans.’

‘But if Nagia’s senses are closed to you…’

‘Her thoughts are not. They are still mine.’ She would deduce what Nagia perceived from her reflections. It was a flawed glass through which Neferata looked, but it would do.

The cave, if it was a cave, was limitless. Torches lit the space, and the deathly light of spirits filled the air above Nagia’s head with the pale green glow of existence beyond the putrefaction of the body. The walls were so far away, they were invisible in the gloom. The ceiling was too high to be seen. The floor was smooth, polished stone, and from what Nagia imagined to be the centre rose a single towering stalagmite. Vask stood upon the rock column, and before him was his great army. Nagia had never imagined it would be so huge, especially after Knell. It was as if that defeat had never happened.

Nagia saw why Vask had chosen to gather all his loyal forces together. Though her purpose had been stronger than ever, there surely might have been others who doubted. They could not now. There were thousands here, tens of thousands, mortal and vampire and skeleton and ghost. There were so very many spirits. They had not been present at Knell. Vask would not have been able to gather an army of this size without it being noticed too soon. But here, in their domain, they were prepared now. Vask had forged an alliance with them, and this renewed army was ready to march.

Nagia was hundreds of yards away from Vask. He was a tiny, hunched figure, though her eyesight was surprisingly sharp and she could see him clearly. She had not expected the grotesque being. His appearance was at odds with the nobility of the cause. The leathery corpse that clung to his torso seemed to be tearing at him and biting him. It was monstrous. When Vask spoke, his voice was rough, as though he had a bone caught in his throat. His words, though, resounded throughout the infinite cave. Though his body was twisted and battered, his resolve was like iron.

‘We were bloodied at Knell,’ said Vask. ‘We were defeated there. We must not pretend otherwise. When you look at the multitudes gathered in strength with you, my children, my warriors, you may say to yourselves, “I will forget Knell. It doesn’t matter.” This is wrong. Knell does matter. We must not forget it. Let it be the goad to your fury. Let the memory of Knell become a fresh need for vengeance. Let there be no lies or dissembling. Truth and wrath are our watchwords now, our shields and our swords. Truth and wrath, my warriors. When we march, we march for Knell!’

‘TRUTH AND WRATH!’ throats living and dead bellowed. ‘FOR KNELL!’

‘I am here to tell you how we march, and against whom,’ Vask went on. ‘I am here to tell you that vengeance takes on more than one form. You are used to years of indirect action, of waiting patiently. Though we ride to war, I tell you that you must be patient a little while longer. Our loss at Knell has had consequences. We had our chance to destroy the Mortarch, and traitors took that away from us. We have a new opportunity now. It is the first step towards facing her once more. We have the patronage of the great prince of Angaria. Allied with him, we will see Neferatia fall.’

The throng roared again.

‘Neferatia is not Angaria’s only enemy. There are others. So we will attack and destroy these other enemies, and thus pave the way for Neferata’s end.’

Nagia’s thoughts became dominated by images of a vague plain, covered by innumerable bodies of Stormcast Eternals. Their armour was fanciful colours. Armies of the dead marched triumphantly over them, the hobbling figure of Vask at their head. It was a fantasy, as ridiculous in its conceit as it was in its details. It was also useful.

‘Vask is going to attack the Anvils of the Heldenhammer,’ Neferata said.

Mereneth raised her eyebrows. ‘After what happened at Knell, that does not seem like the wisest course of action open to him.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Neferata. ‘Given his hatred for me, I cannot imagine that this was his idea.’

‘How is this attack anything other than utterly self-destructive?’

‘Graunos would not throw away a valuable tool. His ambush against us occurred while we were already fighting Javassak. If he attacks when the Anvils march on the Wrathgate, Sigmar’s army will be caught in the Axeway.’

‘That is unfortunate for the Anvils of the Heldenhammer,’ said Mereneth. ‘They will not go down easily. We can let our enemies damage each other for us.’

‘I do not think it is always useful for us to have the Stormcast Eternals as enemies,’ said Neferata. ‘Their destruction, in this instance, is not in our interest. It would suit Graunos well, so it does not suit me.’

The images in Nagia’s head changed. She pictured herself gifted with omniscience, looking out upon Nulahmia from the air, then from the ground, seeing an imaginary construct of Neferata’s armies marching from the city.

‘Ah,’ said Neferata. ‘She and her cohorts from Nulahmia are to watch our movements and give Vask warning. Good.’ She shaped a new thought for her thrall.

The pang of disappointment Nagia felt when she learned an attack on Neferata herself was not imminent disappeared, seared away by the light of inspiration. ‘My lord!’ she cried. ‘My lord! We can destroy the Anvils and Neferata!’

Her voice sounded thin in her ears, a tiny thing lost in vastness. She made it cut across the cave, though, calling out in the brief silence between the army’s roar and Vask’s next words. Vask cocked his head, looking almost as astonished as she was at her temerity.

But he has to know. I must tell him. She held the key to the greatest of victories. This was her moment of destiny.

Her interruption caused an angry stir in the multitude. Vask held up a hand, quieting the rumble. ‘What is it you see that I do not?’ he asked, curious and threatening at once.

‘Neferata will march on the Anvils of the Heldenhammer very soon, my lord. She sent an emissary to seek an alliance, and he failed. I saw his return in court.’ The memory had just risen in her mind. She cursed herself for not having recalled such vital information sooner.

‘You think that failure portends war,’ said Vask.

‘Yes, my lord. Neferata believes she holds Angaria in a stalemate to her east, so she turns her eyes to the enemy already on her side of the Stonepains in the south.’

‘When will this happen?’

‘Soon, my lord! It must be soon! If we delay but a short while, this will come to pass.’

Vask looked at her for a long while. He muttered something to the mummy on his torso. He cocked his head, listening, then nodded. ‘Come forward,’ he said to Nagia.

The throng parted for her, and Nagia made her way across the cavern to the base of the rock column.

‘Climb up,’ Vask commanded.

Nagia obeyed. She found handholds and struggled up the stalagmite. When she stood before her lord, he seemed even smaller as she looked down at his hunched form. His eyes burned, though. This close to him, she feared they might set her on fire.

‘I will see what you have seen,’ Vask said. ‘I will see your memories.’ He reached for her head with both hands.

‘Yes, my lord,’ Nagia said numbly, though he had not asked for her consent.

The withered fingers grasped her temples. Long, cracked nails dug into her flesh. She shivered as something dry and hot with anger reached into her mind. It scraped against her memories, leaving scratches behind. It clawed her from the inside, yet when Vask finally released her and she fell to her knees and retched, her heart swelled with the honour to have served him.

‘Neferata ambushes the Anvils of the Heldenhammer instead of us,’ Vask announced. His head had dipped down, his eyes on the corpse he carried. His voice was lower, almost a mutter, though it still carried. ‘She does what we planned, and then we crush them both.’ He hissed with satisfaction. ‘So it must be. It is destined. It is written. It can be no other way.’ He looked up at his army. ‘And Graunos will see,’ he said, still not addressing Nagia. ‘He will come out in force. We will end the war with a single blow.’

A burst of ecstasy and pride filled Nagia’s mind.

‘It is done,’ Neferata said. She pulled back from the thrall. She would monitor Nagia’s thoughts. That would be sufficient for now. There was no further action she need take. She had planted the seed. ‘Vask has taken the bait. He believes I am about to march on Shadowvel.’

‘What do you intend, my queen?’

‘To gather a large force and march on Shadowvel. Our preparations must be highly visible. They will give Nagia much to report.’

Mereneth blinked. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I am going to make a truth out of Nagia’s lie. We will do exactly what Vask hopes and expects. There is no one more foolish and prone to fatal mistakes than an enemy who believes his most fervent dream is becoming a reality. The true gift is ours, Mereneth.’

‘You expect to finish Vask.’

Neferata shrugged. ‘I do. That is necessary, but not very interesting. What will be interesting is what happens with the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, don’t you think?’

She had nudged the players in the war into a configuration of her liking. It was time to take a great gamble. There was excitement in that thought. And bloody joy.

There are few ecstasies in a war whose every outcome is preordained. It is fortunate that such a war is impossible.

– Neferata, Treatise On Pleasure

Chapter Ten

Neferata mustered her army for the march in a shallow valley a few miles outside the walls of Nulahmia. The largest part of her forces remained east, against the Stonepain Mountains. What she was gathering for the southern campaign was greater than what she had taken to Knell. There were dukedoms she would be passing through on the way to the Axeway, where she would gather even more reinforcements. It was dusk, and the winds of Lament had blown in thick, boiling clouds. A cauldron in the skies reached down to the brewing violence below.

Skeletons stood in ordered, identical ranks. Wraiths flew over them, and then returned to the circle of black coaches where the will of dead vampires commanded. Shavasta and her Blood Knights rode up and down the length of the column, eager for the signal to begin the march.

Not yet. Not just yet. We cannot arrive too soon.

Skarveth approached, marching up the rocky rise to where Neferata stood with Mereneth. The Hell Knight bowed. ‘My queen,’ he said. ‘Lady Mereneth. I have come, as you commanded.’

‘Tell me,’ Neferata said, ‘what are your current thoughts regarding the problem of Angaria?’

‘I have no doubt that the campaign in the Axeway will be successful. However, I do not believe that taking the Wrathgate will be enough for a successful invasion of Angaria.’

‘And why is that?’

‘The narrowness of the pass. It allows for many more warriors to march abreast than Nighthall ever did, but it will always be a bottleneck. Graunos may not be able to stop us. He will be able to slow us down, perhaps long enough to bring the rest of his forces to bear.’ He paused. ‘I also believe that nothing I have just said was unknown to you.’

Neferata smiled. ‘Go on.’

‘If the largest part of your army is in the east, you are not expecting to stage the full invasion through the Axeway.’

‘I am not,’ Neferata agreed, ‘for the very reasons you stated.’

‘There are no siege engines. This is an army that will travel quickly, but it is not intended to take the Wrathgate itself.’

‘Exactly so.’

Skarveth looked down at the army, and then up at the high ridge behind Neferata.

‘There is something else that troubles you about our preparations,’ the Mortarch said.

‘We are not that far from Nulahmia. Though we are hidden from eyes inside the city, anyone curious enough to make a short journey will see this.’

‘I am counting on it.’ Neferata glanced up at the ridge. Nagia had concealed herself well. She was there, though. She had been most of the day. ‘Some secrets are not meant to be kept. It is the appearance of secrecy that is their value. Now, given what you have already deduced, you should have come to a conclusion.’

‘I have, my queen. I believe you have found another way into Angaria.’

‘I have. There is a way to take our forces through suddenly and with terrible power. That way is closed to us for now. I wish to open it, because events are aligning. And when it is open, we will also be in a position to strike Graunos in a way that he cannot imagine. You and Lady Mereneth will open this way for us. I need a diplomat and a thief.’

Mereneth smiled. Skarveth hesitated before answering, conveying his puzzlement.

‘I will do whatever my queen commands,’ he said. ‘Though I do not consider myself especially diplomatic.’

‘You are well suited to the task where I must send you,’ Neferata said. ‘You embody honour in a manner rare in this realm. Its aura surrounds you. I do not say this to flatter you. I do not say whether it is a weakness or a strength. But where I will send you, it is necessary. It must be seen that you are truthful. You will go to Obsidia, and Mereneth to Velkyn.’

‘The sealed underworlds,’ Skarveth said, beginning to understand.

‘Hothalas rules in Obsidia,’ said Neferata. ‘With the coming of Graunos, she sealed all of her realm’s borders. Much of it adjoins Angaria. If Graunos saw anyone enter his empire from Obsidia, that would draw his attention, and Hothalas would risk destruction. She has turned her back on me during our struggle with the Ruinous Powers, but I will forgive her if she lets my army through. I need something else from her, too. You must get her piece of the Sundered Crown.’

‘To what end?’

‘Mereneth will get the other. The crown of the broken realms of Obsidia and Velkyn will be forged anew.’

The Crown of Anguish had been whole once. Obsidia and Velkyn had been a single underworld, one province subterranean, the other floating islands in the clouds. Two sisters had ruled together. The wraith Hothalas and Kranyax, the great banshee, ruled over a domain that was as deep and as wild as the passions of the souls within its boundaries. As above, so below. There had been no distinction between the two states. Mourning spirits moved from the sorrowful caverns far beneath the surface of the earth to the howling heights in the air without crossing boundaries, carried by the tempests of emotion.

And then the Ruinous Powers had come.

The upheavals of the Age of Chaos ripped the realm in two. The depths and the heights were no longer one. Hothalas, in the pits of mourning, sought to continue the governance, but Kranyax, who was the uncomprehending anger before loss, disappeared into the madness of the passions. As the distance grew between herself and her sister and Kranyax’s reason disintegrated, she thought herself bereaved and betrayed. She then made the betrayal real. She attacked Hothalas, laid waste to entire regions of Obsidia and tore away the sky-borne province of Velkyn as the final traces of her sanity burned.

During that struggle, the crown was sundered. Anguish had a single crown. Before the war, it had been present for both sisters, though neither wore it. It sat beside the thrones in Obsidia and Velkyn, present in both places at once, complete in its form, its essence whole too, because Melancholy and Frenzy were but aspects of Anguish. When Kranyax attacked, she tried to seize the crown entirely for herself. By severing the underworlds from each other, she shattered the essence of the crown, and its shape split too. Now, each half existed in one place only, one in Obsidia, the other in Velkyn, the symbol of the shattered unity.

Skarveth knew the history. It was part of the common lore of Neferatia, and its truth was felt profoundly by any soul in Shyish who had experienced the twin faces of Anguish. In his mortal life, he had accepted the schism as eternal, as one of the unchanging facets of Shyish.

Now his queen had commanded that he should labour to end the eternal.

The road to Obsidia began in a single, isolated, nameless tomb a short distance to the north of Knell. Skarveth pulled open the rusted gate, opening a vault large enough for him to lead his horse inside. A huge sarcophagus lay in the centre of the vault. It was empty, hollow, and when Skarveth leaned against it, it swivelled aside, revealing a ramp descending into the earth. A few hundred feet down, the ramp ended at a road cobbled with the fossilised crowns of skulls.

Skarveth mounted the horse and travelled the Obsidia Road. The sound of hooves against skulls was hollow, echoing. Skarveth rode for more than a day through the darkness. It became difficult to keep track of time. The tunnels and their road were unchanging except for sloping ever deeper. Skarveth only knew that he had crossed through the portal when the dark began to give way to a faint glow in the distance. The tunnels grew wider, the glow brighter. At last, Skarveth emerged into vastness, an infinite limbo of night and spectral illumination that held the gate to Obsidia.

Two colossal pillars flanked the entrance. They were caryatids hundreds of feet high, their heads disappearing into distant shadow. The one on the right was a robed wraith clutching a scythe. Its jaws were parted in a scream of rage. It bore half a crown upon its head. The other column had been comprehensively defaced. There were no features visible, and barely a shape. The blows that had smashed the sculpture had been furious. The figure was gone. All that remained was the shape of pain. The pillar had been twisted by the blows that had taken away the body and the face. At its peak was the other half of the crown, the only portion of the column that had not been attacked. Hothalas, wounded and furious by Kranyax’s demented assault, had tried, at the end of the war that had severed Velkyn from Obsidia, to send her sister to final oblivion. She had failed, and had been reduced to venting her wrath on the image of Kranyax at Obsidia’s gate.

The stone of the pillars was itself a ghost. It was a memory of strength. What vanished in the ravages of time had an aethereal existence here. The pillars, the gate between them and the walls beyond glowed with a baleful spirit light. A low wail of anger came from the caryatid of Hothalas. Though the skeletal jaw never closed, it always appeared to be opening to howl its anger anew. The wounded column moved too, writhing slowly in its agony.

The gate was made of the huge bones of some titanic creature. They lined up vertically, a barrier of the dead. Hundreds of smaller skeletons filled the crevices between them, squirming like insects, enslaved souls endlessly pulling to reinforce the gate. The wall extended to either side until it vanished in the dark. It was the same construct of bones.

Spirits moved along the ramparts and watched Skarveth from the top of the gate.

‘Who dares approach Obsidia?’ The words were spoken in unison by a choir of phantoms.

‘Skarveth Lytessian, emissary from Neferata, Mortarch of Blood. I have business with Queen Hothalas.’

‘You will wait,’ said the voices.

Skarveth waited. An hour passed. He did not move. He knew how to be patient. He had been patient his entire life, waiting for the right moment to strike at Vask. He could be patient again here. Eventually, a door at the bottom of the gate opened with a reverberating sigh. Skarveth flicked the reins and rode through.

Obsidia erased the division between city and cemetery. There were no trades here, no commerce. There were no places of learning, yet there were libraries, where old knowledge was buried and never read. No artists created new works except at the express command of Hothalas, yet there were galleries filled with all that had been lost across the Mortal Realms.

Skarveth moved through a domain of tombs and monuments, of grand buildings made of bone, all of it bathed in the perpetual pale green light of mourning. Spirits in their thousands wafted through the streets. Many watched Skarveth, curious and hostile. Others ignored him and everything else, drifting as mindlessly as snow over graves and between open coffins.

An escort of hexwraiths rode beside Skarveth. Their armour was a tattered echo of his. In his death, he had retained the physicality of his body. They only had the aethereal trace of theirs.

Together, they travelled down the skull-cobbled boulevard towards the Palace of Anguish. It was constructed from the ghost of iron. The palace was black, its glow sullen. With its low structure swooping into a disproportionately high spire, it resembled a scorpion poised to strike. The spire was as smooth and curved and vicious as grief.

Skarveth and the hexwraiths advanced between wings that reached forwards like pincers. The main doors were open for them. Skarveth dismounted and entered, still under escort. The interior was all hard surfaces and harsh angles. Its walls were draped with the banners of fallen armies and the heraldry of betrayed kingdoms.

The hexwraiths brought him to the base of the spire. They left him there to climb the steps of its great, serpentine staircase alone. On the first step, Skarveth felt a sharp pang. In his mind’s eye, he saw the face of his mother, who had died not long after his fateful journey to Mortannis. She was loyal to a treacherous creed, but she was also loving and gentle. Her smile embodied Skarveth’s understanding of joy. And when a plague spread by the forces of Nurgle took her from him, that smile, in its absence, became the symbol of his first true experience of loss.

On the second step, he thought of his father. A scholar, not a warrior, he spent his life writing the moral justifications for the rebellion. He had been attacked on Lytessian grounds by a carrion leopard that had leapt the wall. He survived the encounter, but barely, and his mind had not. He lived a few years longer, his body a recognisable shell, the scholar within gone forever.

And so it went up the staircase. Each step brought another memory, and another sting of loss. Comrades who had fallen defending the Lytessian grounds, who did not live to die at Knell and rise again as Neferata’s Black Knights. Memories of wrong actions taken and right ones that had not been. As he climbed, Skarveth experienced every painful memory of his existence with the freshness of first grief. He had no breath to gasp. He had no eyes that could weep. His skeleton could feel no physical pain, and so his soul convulsed with even greater agony.

The ascent was a torment. When he reached the top of the staircase and entered the throne room in the stinger of the scorpion’s tail, there was no relief. Instead, all the losses blended together in a harrowing tapestry. The pain tolled like a mourning bell.

There was no reversing time. Those dead, he would not see again. Those choices, he could not undo. There was no remedy except to accept the pain, to carry it with him as he advanced towards the throne.

The wraith Hothalas sat on a throne of shadeglass. It was shaped into an amalgamation of daggers and claws. No mortal could have sat upon it without being impaled. Hothalas’ raiment hung like torn grave clothes. The flesh that still appeared on her bones was withered, her lips blackened and pulled back over her teeth. In truth, there was no skin and there were no bones. They were all an aethereal, translucent shape. The pain in her image at the gate paled before the piercing grief of the queen herself.

She wore no crown, whole or broken. Her sceptre was laid across her lap. The staff ended in a splayed, mummified hand.

Skarveth bowed low. ‘Queen Hothalas–’ he began.

She interrupted him. ‘I do not care for masks of diplomacy. We both know what fine words cover. Let the blades be visible. Let us be honest. Let us not waste each other’s time. I am not surprised this moment has come. From the day that Graunos conquered Angaria, I knew what Neferata would want. She desires to bring her army through Obsidia, doesn’t she?’

‘She does,’ said Skarveth.

‘Are you here to make a request or to issue a command?’

‘A request.’

‘I wonder if Lady Olynder would make the same request of me.’

‘Whether she would or not, she is not here.’ Skarveth almost reminded Hothalas that her domain was subject to Neferatia, but he stopped himself in time. That would not help. And Hothalas’ mention of the Mortarch of Grief was not one he could take at face value. Neferata had warned him of this likelihood. Hothalas vacillates between worship and envy of Olynder, she had said. One moment she wishes to usurp her rule, the next she wishes to be under Olynder’s thumb forever. There is no middle ground. And there is no predicting her mood. Ignore such invocations and stay your course. ‘Neferata makes this request in the hope you and she will march triumphantly together.’

Corpse lips pulled further back. The queen hissed. ‘And if I said no to this request, what then?’

‘I have no answer for that.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ said Hothalas. ‘What Neferata wants, she gets. It will be her army, not one messenger, that knocks at my gate next. Do I have the power to make her turn back? What do you think?’

‘I think such a war would be as painful and costly to both sides as it would be unnecessary.’

‘It would be grievous, you are right. Unnecessary? Perhaps not. If I let her through, do I know she would defeat Graunos? Do I know he will not come to annihilate Obsidia?’

‘Queen Neferata sends me not with threats but with promises,’ Skarveth said, trying to steer the dialogue into a different path.

‘Ahhhhhhh. Promises.’ The sigh was the sound of infinite loss. The word was bitter irony. ‘I know the nature of promises very well. So do you, Skarveth Lytessian. So do we all. Promises are the gallows of our hopes.’ Hothalas moaned with grief. The walls shivered with pain. Tears ran down them in rivulets. ‘And what does Neferata promise?’ she asked. ‘That I am the key to victory? That she will surely defeat Graunos?’

‘Neferata vows to defeat him.’

‘That is not the same as a promise. That is an intention. Graunos is strong. He is no fool.’

‘With her vow, she also gives you a promise,’ said Skarveth.

‘And that is?’

‘That the Sundered Crown will be reforged.’

Hothalas fell silent. She stared at Skarveth for a long moment. ‘How will this happen?’ she said at last. Skarveth heard something like hope in the wraith’s voice. It was an emotion this queen had purged from her realm long ago. She was allowing herself to imagine an end to the schism. Or an upheaval that would, at least, undo her sister’s mad work.

‘I will need you to entrust me with your half of the crown,’ he said.

‘I see.’ The hope vanished. Hothalas’ eye sockets blazed with another loss.

‘Neferata has also sent a loyal servant to Velkyn.’

‘To ask my sister for her half.’ The Queen of Anguish could not laugh, but there was pained amusement in her groan.

‘She is not going to ask for it,’ said Skarveth.

That brought Hothalas up short. ‘Does she have the skill to do this thing?’

‘I believe she does.’

‘And then what? Is all that was sundered to be made whole again?’

‘No,’ Skarveth said. ‘That cannot be done. Neferata does promise you, however, that if you do as she asks, where now there is two, soon there shall only be one. We shall bring the crown together in Angaria, and this promise will be fulfilled before Neferata’s army passes through Obsidia.’

Hothalas sat back in her throne. A shroud of darkness fell over her until Skarveth could see nothing except the dim embers of her gaze. He waited while the queen contemplated the promises and the risks, and pondered old grievances. At last, the shadows scuttled away and the great wraith leaned forwards.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You shall have your prize, and I shall march to war.’

Mereneth flew amongst the clouds above Angaria. They flickered with crimson lightning. The wrath that boiled in the lands of the empire joined the chaotic winds of Lament, creating vortices. The sky was in fury. Given a chance, it would seize Mereneth and hurl her to the earth. She read the air currents and used them to her advantage, duelling with the storms and winning. When the winds blew east, she rode them. When they turned against her, she tucked her wings closer to her body and cut like an arrow through the wall of hostile air.

Mereneth flew on, further and further east, deeper into the clouds, seeking a different anger, the one that did not belong to Graunos. She found it at last high above Mausolea, in storms so thick they were black, storms that never cleared, storms that concealed Velkyn from the jealous eye of the daemon prince.

She flew into an archipelago of floating cemeteries.

Sepulchres clung densely, like clusters of needles, to the islands of flying rock. The smallest were barely ten feet across. The Throne Rock, at the centre of the configuration, was a rough circle five miles wide. There were many other floating worlds over Angaria and beyond, but all these had been brought together and were held by the maddened will of Kranyax.

There could be no negotiation with Kranyax. There could be only theft.

Mereneth flew beneath the floating rocks. Though the islands were honeycombed with graves, there were fewer tombs on the undersides, and fewer eyes to see her.

Crackling tendrils of aethereal energy linked the islands to one another. The platforms were caught in a web whose centre was the Throne Rock. The web was the essence of Kranyax. She was mindless yet wilful, an incoherent scream of pain that clutched everything to her in a vortex of possession. Kranyax would never let go. She had stretched herself over her domain to hold its islands in a grip that could end only with her own destruction.

Mereneth passed beneath rock after rock. Barren, inverted peaks frowned down at her. The banshee’s raging denial of loss vibrated through the air from the web. It cut into Mereneth’s heart, and she had to harden herself against giving in to the mourning rage. She kept her goal before her mind’s eye. She was not flying to defeat. She had come to inflict loss, not to suffer it. She pictured what her success here would unleash. The scale of Neferata’s vision filled her soul with a rush of ecstasy. She flew faster, determination renewed. She was one more streak of lightning in the storms. She would not be seen until it was too late.

The Throne Rock emerged from the roiling clouds. Mereneth saw it first as a massive bulk above her, like a solid chunk of night. She angled upwards, and it filled her vision. Desultory spirits swirled around the monuments that jutted downwards from gullies and atop crags. A volcanic cone emerged from the centre of the rock. Bodies tumbled from its crater. They were the unearthed dead, scavenged from the tombs of Velkyn and elsewhere by the banshee queen’s servants in an endless, fruitless quest to prove to her that she was not alone in her bereavement. But she would never emerge from her endless howl. Kranyax destroyed the offerings, and the shattered remains of the dead plunged from the interior of the castle, down through the base of the Throne Rock and out of the dead volcano. Huge carrion beasts surrounded the lip of the crater. Their skeleton forms were almost entirely neck, serpentine lengths that twisted and swayed for hundreds of feet before ending in jaws that could snap a galleon in half. Their short, wide bodies sprouted dozens of legs with giant, curved claws that held them fast to the rock. They snatched at and fought over every body that fell, leaving only dusty fragments.

Mereneth flew as close as she dared to the crater, staying well out of the range and notice of the beasts. She looked into the cone, contemplating its possibilities. There was a gamble to be made here. She did not wish to take it yet. She accepted that later she might not have a choice.

As satisfied as she could be with her decision, Mereneth angled away. She left the cone and its monsters behind and made for the edge of the Throne Rock. From there, she found a violent updraft and shot upwards, past the lip of stone, and flew over the central necropolis of Velkyn. Tombs shouldered around the castle, leaning forwards like supplicants. The keep of the mad queen resembled an explosion made of stone. Its walls bulged outwards from its base, forming a sphere of spectral rock glowing a dull greenish brown. Spiky towers thrust out in every direction from the surface of the sphere, some sprouting other towers, branches multiplying from jagged cuts. The castle was expansive, spreading the pain of loss like a dark sun. It also huddled in on itself like a closed fist, the wall a barrier to anyone who sought to pierce the closed, obsessive pain of Kranyax. The top of the sphere curved inwards into a narrow funnel, as if the construct were also imploding and would soon disappear in the void of its own creation.

Mereneth flew as fast as she could, jinking into strands of clouds to conceal herself from the hordes of spirits below. Caught in the agony of their queen, they moved around the castle in an endless double spiral, the stream flowing out from the centre to the periphery and then back in again. The spirits reacted to every twitch of their queen’s pain. The spirals convulsed as aethereal power jolted through them at random intervals. Held by Kranyax’s possessiveness, consumed by the anger of loss, none of the spirits looked up to see Mereneth’s approach to the Keep of the Howl.

She flew to a point just close to the middle of the sphere, then aimed at a window midway up one of the towers. She slipped inside. The stairwell was empty. The tower was canted at such an extreme angle that the stairs were useless. The interior was more like a corkscrewing tunnel than a spire. Her wings folded, Mereneth scuttled along the walls like a spider, following their twists.

At the base of the spire, she passed through an arched doorway into the main body of the Keep of the Howl. She experienced a moment of disorientation as the angle of the tower gave way to a level floor.

Where shall I find the crown? Mereneth had asked Neferata.

Close to Kranyax. She holds tight to all that is hers. Her madness is a jealous one.

When she saw the shape of the keep, a black sun for the archipelago, Mereneth had been certain the throne room must be near its centre. The great banshee would be at the very heart of her realm, drawing everything to her even as she stretched herself outwards to grasp it all.

As soon as Mereneth left the tower, she knew she had been right. She was in a high, wide hall. The only light came from a faint aethereal ribbon that ran to her left and right. It hovered midway above the floor, pulsing slightly as hate and pain rippled through its length. The glow illuminated walls and decor that appeared to have been frozen in the midst of liquefaction. Stone, sculpture, paintings and tapestries were barely recognisable or distinguishable from each other. They flowed together, becoming wrinkled, lined, tortured. They were immobilised motion. If the river of the keep’s being began to move again, it would be pulled into the maw of Kranyax’s loss.

Mereneth turned to her left, in the direction of the flow. The hall curved inwards gradually. She considered the spiral current of the spirits at the base of the keep. This was another spiral. If she followed the nautilus coil that embodied the constricting madness of its queen’s grief, she would find what she sought.

She stayed close to the outside of the wall, one shadow among many. Wraiths flew past her in both directions. They did not see her. They were too bound to their mistress, and saw only the tasks the spasms of her will had assigned to them. That would change, Mereneth thought, if she had the misfortune to draw Kranyax’s attention to herself.

As the spiral of the hall tightened, Mereneth began to feel the pull of the banshee. The queen’s voice rattled up the hall from the centre of the spiral. Mereneth had not been aware of it consciously when she first entered the fortress. It had been a slight tug, a tiny needle at the back of her eye. As she went deeper, the needle became a hook and the hook grew larger. The voice tore at her with endless, sudden, raging shock. It was a rasping, grating shriek. It was the first, terrible surprise of an unexpected scream turned into a constant state of being.

Mereneth followed the curve of the tunnel, and the coils of the Keep of the Howl wrapped around her. She was descending into a psychic hurricane. But though she was facing into the storm’s huge fury and the wind of shock roared into her face, instead of pushing her away, the gale pulled her in, a maelstrom’s inexorable current drawing her to the centre of grief’s anger. Losses long forgotten surfaced. The memories were daggers plunging into her soul, the wounds surprising and vicious. They were the early blows of grief, when bewilderment gives way to rage. Rage at fate, at foes, at the loved ones who dared fall and at the great savagery of chance. Mereneth relived shocks many centuries old, from another age. She no longer recognised the mortal she had been. That creature was a weak shadow, unable to dream of what she would become, unworthy even of that dream. But loss came for her, and a child’s squall at the death of her sister struck Mereneth with the force of a spiked gauntlet. The blows came endlessly. The flooding of her village hit her, and then the baby brother devoured by tomb spiders, and the raiding party that burned her family’s home. Neferata had given Mereneth strength and purpose when she drained her of blood. Vampirism for Mereneth was rebirth, and the forging of her true self, yet the losses did not end. Instead, she had centuries upon centuries to accumulate more, to see comrades fall in battle and to betrayal. She relived the vertigo of losing Lady Raina, her mentor and spymistress to Neferata in the Age of Myth, killed by Mathas Hellezan.

All the dagger blows of loss of her existence came for her, at once and repeatedly. It took all her discipline not to be swept up in the wave of anger. She held to her purpose, and knowing what it would lead to gave her strength. The fury of the banshee’s wail came from the wrongs that could never be righted. The losses of chance were the worst, because chance could not be made to answer. It ravaged with no thought, no reason. There could be no revenge against it.

But what Mereneth suffered now would end. She would repay the mad queen in kind. I will give you such a reason to scream, she promised.

Deeper, deeper, the hall’s turns becoming tighter, the monstrous howl filling all of existence, the petrified flow of the walls becoming more violent in tormented lines. The line of aethereal power in the air grew brighter, more intense, more furious. Mereneth stayed on the floor, against the outer wall, far beneath notice. She moved quickly, holding back just enough to avoid being caught by the current of Kranyax’s howl.

She slowed down when she saw a doorway at the end of the hall. Fighting to keep focused as the wail tore at her mind, she slipped through the archway and crouched in the shadows beyond, invisible. She took in the throne room and the monster who raged at its centre, and looked for her target.

The room was a twisting dome. Here, the stone really was flowing. Though the doorway did not move, the matter of the walls and floor whirled violently. Mereneth felt the spin through the soles of her boots as a continuous, vibrating ripple. The swirling ghost-matter of the keep tried to sweep her up and capture her in the macabre dance around the great banshee. It was Kranyax who created the spin. She turned and turned in place, endlessly circling as if she could find the cause of every pain and finally sink her talons into it. She floated midway between floor and ceiling. Her long robe was stained in the bruised, violet hues of grief’s anger. Her hair was enormously long. A comet’s tail of bone-white and muscle-red, it brushed against the walls, gouging them, hurling them into the spin. They bulged inwards, the force that whirled them also pulling them towards Velkyn’s queen.

Kranyax turned her face violently from side to side, always searching, always hungry. Spirits streamed in from every doorway in the galleries of the dome, bearing the bodies of the dead. Kranyax seized each with desperate urgency, as if each one was the cause of her pain and she would get her vengeance at last. But as soon as she held one body and had torn it apart, she was reaching for the next, and the next, her need as unquenched as her anger. The bodies fell into the shaft below her, to descend through the heart of the Throne Rock and finally be devoured by the carrion beasts on the volcanic cone.

Mounds of gold, jewels, icons and weapons surrounded the shaft. They were the relics of Kranyax’s existence, the pain of her memories given form. Some of them were as ghostly as the matter of the Keep of the Howl. Others were as solid as the rock upon which Velkyn was built. The mounds shifted, groaning, as Kranyax spun. A sceptre tumbled from the top. It picked up speed as it rolled, bounced off the edge of the floor and hung, suspended, over the shaft. It did not fall. Kranyax’s need snatched it and hurled it back into the mound. The great banshee would let nothing go. She clung to her griefs with jealous wrath.

Mereneth scoured the mound with her witchsight. She saw many crowns on it, all of them whole. The hill of memories was in constant movement, old pains burying new ones, then being buried in their turn. The relics that emerged at the top did not stay there long. Mereneth would have to move quickly. She was more than ready to. Every moment she passed in the presence of Kranyax increased her pain.

The Velkyn half of the Sundered Crown appeared. It was a crescent of iron forged in the likeness of savage thorns. No jewels were mounted in it. The crown was a black, sullen lump of pain.

It would be the source of still more.

Mereneth sprinted away from the wall. She ran in a curve, staying under the arc of Kranyax’s hair. She leaned into the spin of the room and timed her arrival at the mound so that she was just below the position of the crown. She spread her wings and shot up the slope. There was no room for stealth in this theft. She had to rely on speed. She raced against the suddenness of loss to deliver a shock of her own.

She was at the top of the mound. The Sundered Crown began to sink out of sight once more. Mereneth’s feet barely touched the surface of the hill, and she snatched the crown. It was heavier than she had expected, weighed down with accumulated ages of grief. She held it with both hands and launched herself down at the shaft.

Kranyax’s wail stuttered. The mad queen felt the theft. The presentiment of new loss stabbed her. Mereneth felt the wild gaze fall on her.

She was over the shaft. With a powerful beat, her wings propelled her down and then swung back. An arrow, she sliced into the darkness.

The wail came for her. It roared into the shaft, an avalanche of rage. It fell on Mereneth, and it tore a scream from her throat. It attacked her soul with such force it threatened to rip her body open from the inside. She screamed again, not in anger but in defiance. She held the image of Neferata before her. The Mortarch of Blood commanded her, not the crazed thing in the Keep of the Howl. The hurricane of anger battered her from side to side. It sought to force her back up. Her descent slowed. The air was turning thick as mud. She spread her wings again and beat them furiously, forcing her way through the wail. Kranyax’s anger almost yanked Mereneth’s wings from her shoulders, but she held fast to her being. She had her prize. She knew what she would do with it. Neferata’s purpose exalted her, and she began to pick up speed again.

Kranyax’s wail became desperate. It shook the walls of the shaft. Fissures appeared, racing down the walls ahead of Mereneth. Wedges of stone broke free and plummeted with her. They were large enough to crush her to nothing. She weaved between them, tucking into a ball and then diving down again. When a massive shard fell, she flew just above it, and it became her battering ram through the wail.

The walls changed. They became irregular. Mereneth had dropped below the foundations of the keep. She was in the volcano’s throat now, and falling faster. The queen’s shriek was losing its grasp on her. If Kranyax had relinquished her death-grip on even a small part of her realm, and so used a greater portion of her strength to seize the spy, Mereneth did not think she could have prevailed. But the banshee could not reason. She could never release what she held.

Mereneth flew closer to the falling stone until she was almost touching it, blending her shadow with it. The mouth of the volcano was close, and with it the devourers. Mereneth braced herself against the still-powerful gusts of the wail, holding herself near the centre of the rubble. Smaller shards exploded out of the shaft and collided with the rock. Shrapnel sliced into Mereneth’s leather armour and tore her face. She held her position.

The shard and Mereneth shot out of the crater amid a rain of rubble. Braced against the blows of the wail, she was vulnerable to the true winds of the storm outside, and they caught her. They threw her away from the shelter of the rock, revealing her to the carrion beasts. No other bodies had fallen for them while she held Kranyax’s attention, and they let out huge, rattling caws, angry with hunger. Three of them saw Mereneth. Their sinuous necks shot forwards. Their jaws, filled with teeth as long as her arm, parted. Clutching the Sundered Crown, she spread her wings wide, breaking her fall suddenly and rising back up into the wail. The monsters’ lunges missed. Two of the beasts collided, and they snapped at each other in anger, their necks entwining as they sought to bite down and decapitate their rival.

The third swooped its head up, empty eye sockets trained on Mereneth. Its maw opened wide and it lunged again. It was too close for her to evade, the jaw too long for her to fly over or under. So she flew directly into the maw, then angled hard right as the beast’s jaws closed again. The teeth brushed against her legs above and below as she passed between them, and snapped shut behind her.

Mereneth turned again, diving close to the struggling monsters. She spiralled down around their necks. They were still fighting when she dropped out of their reach and was free.

There was one last, immense blast from the wail as Kranyax felt the loss become final. The fury tore one of the devourers apart, and its fellows turned their attention to snapping up its disintegrating bones.

Mereneth angled straight down, heading for the base of the clouds and Angaria below them.

Doubts in enemies are useful, but their convictions are equally so. I choose to encourage the certainties of my foes. In this way, they commit themselves all the more fully to their mistakes. A well-timed warning of disaster, especially if true, can ensure the embrace of catastrophe.

– Neferata, Truth as Destroyer

Chapter Eleven

‘The Anvils of the Heldenhammer are on the point of marching, my queen,’ Lady Skeentha reported. Returning from her scouting journey to the south-west, the spy had landed in front of Nagadron, bowing to Neferata, who stood beside the Adevore’s lowered head, her armoured crown under her arm. Skeentha paused, looking past Neferata at the march-ready army behind her. ‘But you know this already,’ she said.

‘I expected it,’ Neferata said. When Skarveth had met with Rhasan, she had seen the Anvils’ level of preparedness. Deducing when they would be ready to move had been a simple matter. ‘Your confirmation is useful,’ she said, and Skeentha lowered her head in gratitude. Knowing when the Stormcast Eternals should be ready was not the same thing as knowing they were. She held the war’s events in her grasp. She was about to make the pieces tumble before her, one after another. But for her design to be fulfilled, the timing of her actions had to be precise. If she marched too soon, Venthor might choose to attack her as the immediate threat. If she departed too late, Vask might change his mind about the idea that Neferata had, by means of Nagia, implanted in his mind. ‘It is time,’ Neferata said. ‘There will be no more waiting. The true battle for Angaria begins now, and there will be no rest until it has fallen.’

‘Your victory will be glorious, my queen,’ said Skeentha.

I shall have it so. The pieces on the board were arranged in accordance with her desire. Nonetheless, her opponent was powerful. She must not underestimate Graunos.

‘I have another task for you,’ Neferata told Skeentha, sparing a quick glance at the ridge above her gathered army. ‘We have come to the moment of completion.’

‘I understand,’ said Skeentha. ‘I know what I must do. There will be no error.’

‘Good. Then go.’

The spy departed, and Neferata donned her headdress. In full battle regalia, flanked by her morghast archai once more, she was ready and eager for the battle ahead. She mounted Nagadron and turned back to look at her forces. She was satisfied with what she saw. This was not yet the grand army that would soon invade Angaria, but it looked like it might be. To the thousands of skeletons, wraiths, vampires, mortals and ghouls, she had commanded the addition of three siege towers. They were impressive structures, forbidding things of dark wood and iron, their upper portions glowing in the deepening twilight with the fire within. They were also a form of theatre. She had no intention of using them for the purpose they appeared to have. She was not marching to take the Wrathgate. Her prizes were of a very different sort.

‘It is time!’ Neferata proclaimed. Her voice rang across the plain. Its command reached every soul in the ranks, alive or dead. She tugged on Nagadron’s reins, and he rose. ‘March with me,’ Neferata called. ‘This night, we bring humiliation and destruction to the enemies of Neferatia!’

The army roared, and as one, her servants of war advanced.

As Nagadron flew south, Neferata thought, Humiliation and destruction. She was not sure which fate was the more delicious.

Nagia fled her hiding place. She had found an outcrop at the top of the ridge. There was a crevice between the boulders in which she could be concealed while she watched the army’s preparations. There was no reason to stay there any longer. The earth shook with the tread of thousands of feet. The air screamed with the cries of banshees. Neferata was heading south, as Nagia had told Vask she would. She was heading south now. Vask had to know. The endgame had begun.

It was full night when Nagia reached Nulahmia. She passed through the gates with a trade caravan that was just arriving and made straight for the closed market. She was taking grave risks, but there was no choice. The message had to be passed on.

Nagia stood outside the shuttered stall of Ersath Zay. She knew his name now. Everything had changed since the gathering. She could feel the onrush of fate, and it thrilled her. She stayed in the shadows and remained silent. Her presence was signal enough. Ersath was always watching, and he would see her. She was there only a few minutes before Ersath appeared. She did not have to say anything. He nodded slightly and vanished.

Nagia left the market and returned to the Thresend manor house, satisfied in her work, agonised in her being. The hunger had returned, descending viciously within moments of Ersath’s departure. It was as acute as the first night. No. It was worse. All the way back from the market, iron talons of pain spread through her guts. She could barely walk by the time she reached her home. She staggered through the doors and up the stairs to her wing. She hurried to her chambers as fast as she could on stiffening, weakening legs. A memory from the first night of the pain was trying to surface, a memory of salvation. In her bedchamber, something had happened. The pain had been taken away. Her thoughts were muddled, thick and tangled. They were being stirred by a clawed finger. The closest thing to coherence she could manage was the hope that the salvation would be there again.

Nagia entered her bedchamber and locked the door. Bent double, she was halfway to her bed when a shadow detached itself from the wall beside the window. A woman stepped into her vision, and the claw withdrew from her thoughts. She could think clearly again, even through the pain. Memories rose from the dark waters where they had been submerged. She remembered this woman. Her name was Skeentha. She had brought a young man to Nagia’s room.

There had been blood.

Blood had sated the hunger. Blood had taken away the pain.

Nagia’s throat went dry. ‘What am I?’ she asked, though she knew.

The answer Skeentha gave was not what Nagia was expecting. ‘You are a traitor.’

‘No,’ Nagia began. Shame, stronger than the pain of hunger, shook her. Despite herself, she was frightened. ‘You are mistaken. I am loyal to our queen.’

Skeentha smiled, and Nagia heard laughter. It came from inside her head. She was sure she recognised the voice. It was neither hers nor Skeentha’s. The laughter unveiled more memories. The rest of the night of the victory revel came back to her. She remembered her flight through the streets. She remembered the Black Knights closing in on her. She remembered Neferata. And she knew whose laughter was in her mind.

Skeentha walked towards her. Nagia staggered back a few steps. There was no point in running, so she straightened as much as she could.

‘I am proud of what I have done for our just cause,’ she said.

More laughter, and Skeentha joined in too. ‘Is that what you think?’ she asked. ‘Then you are wrong. You are a traitor twice over.’ She seized Nagia by the neck with both hands.

You have done so very well, said Neferata. Now it is time for your reward.

Skeentha’s grip choked Nagia. She could neither speak nor scream. She wanted to cry out, to give voice to her horror as she realised the trap she had helped set for her comrades. Then the pain came as Skeentha shifted her grip. She pushed down on Nagia’s shoulder and yanked her chin up at the same time. The sudden flare of agony was terrible, but more terrible yet was the cracking and tearing that came with it. Worst of all was the sudden giving way.

‘Now you can see everything,’ Skeentha said. She turned Nagia’s head around to show her, in her final moments, the geyser of blood from her decapitated body.

Neferata turned to the morghast archai flying on her right. ‘Kerdathax,’ she said, ‘I need you to be a messenger for me.’

The armoured skull of the monster cocked in puzzlement. ‘A messenger, my queen?’ it asked with a voice of crackling thunder. The creature was a destroyer of armies. It descended only to kill, not to speak.

‘Yes. That it comes from you will ensure that its importance is clear.’

If Kerdathax was still puzzled, it asked no further questions. ‘I will not fail you, my queen.’

‘Oh, you will. I am counting on it.’

The Anvils of the Heldenhammer had barely left Shadowvel behind them when the monster approached from the north-west. It flew on tattered wings and bore an immense spirit halberd. The weapon’s blade was almost as tall as a man.

The morghast hovered just above the ground, a short distance ahead of the anvils. It held the halberd in one hand, upright. That was as much of a signal of peaceful intent as a creature such as this could manage. Rhasan, mistrustful, readied her axe for attack.

As they drew nearer, the morghast called out, ‘Lord-Celestant Venthor Warfire, I bring greetings from Neferata, Mortarch of Blood.’

Venthor pulled Felkreth to a stop and held up a hand. The Stormhost halted. Venthor’s dracoth growled low, glaring at the monsters. To Rhasan, Venthor said, ‘Come with me to listen to what it has to say.’ And he urged Felkreth forwards again.

Rhasan walked beside the dracoth, and they stopped a few paces away from the morghast. ‘Well?’ said Venthor.

‘The queen marches from Nulahmia to join you. She asks that you delay your advance a short while, that we may fight at your side against the daemon prince.’

Venthor grunted. ‘Your queen refuses to understand my clear statements on the possibility of an alliance. The days when the forces of death and the forces of Sigmar could make common cause are over. We are at war. I will not be drawn into her games. I will not pause, and if I see her coming up my rear flank, I will know that she is coming to attack, and I will respond accordingly. Am I clear this time? If she misunderstands again, the consequences will fall upon her head.’

The morghast said nothing. It issued a rattling growl, then flew off into the night.

‘Do you think she really means to attack?’ Rhasan asked as they returned to the Stormhost. ‘Warning us about her arrival is an unusual strategy.’

‘Everything about the Mortarch is unusual,’ said Venthor. ‘And everything she does is for her benefit, not ours. We might just as easily presume that announcing her coming is intended to make us lower our guard, and so be vulnerable to her attack.’ He shook his head. ‘I meant what I said. I will not be drawn in.’

‘I am not sure that is something we can avoid,’ Rhasan said uneasily. She had been unable to get the conversation with Skarveth out of her mind.

‘We can,’ said Venthor. ‘I have declared our actions. What she does next is up to her, but I refuse to guess. I will treat her presence as an act of war, as she will now know. This is clarity. This is certainty. There will be no game. And there will be no delay.’

With the coming of dawn, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer entered the Axeway. The sheer cliffs of the Stonepains rose on either side of them. The pass led straight ahead. Though it was wide, daylight barely reached into its depths. The shadows of the Stonepains covered the ground. The light was grey as dead skin. Rock crunched under the steps of Stormcast Eternals and dracoths. The winds screamed down the length of the Axeway, so sharp it seemed they were slicing the cliffs anew.

Jehnneka Stormire, flying forwards with her Prosecutors, sent a scout back to warn that the Wrathgate was close. Soon after, its glow appeared in the distance. Watching the gate grow larger as she marched, Rhasan thought about how straight the Axeway was, and how vulnerable any attacking force was to its defenders. There was no chance of taking the barrier by surprise.

‘Anvils of the Heldenhammer!’ Venthor called. ‘Our goal is in sight. Prepare for the enemy’s fury. Let it break against our armour! Let us answer the false light of the Ruinous Powers with the pure lightning of Sigmar.’

The warriors of the Stormhost roared, weapons held high, and at their Lord-Celestant’s signal, they charged forwards. A tide of sigmarite armour raced towards the wall. The thunder of the advance rumbled through the pass. The cold fury of a just war filled Rhasan’s soul, and the fall of the Wrathgate seemed as certain as destiny. Nothing could withstand the collective juggernaut of a Stormhost. A hammer of indescribable might was about to smash into the barrier.

As the great mass of the host rushed towards the wall, light struck the top of it. The Prosecutors dropped straight down from the clouds. They sent a hail of aethereal javelins ahead of them, and a second, searing, murderous dawn broke over the top of the Wrathgate. The defenders appeared as silhouettes at the moment of their destruction. Rhasan saw the human warriors of the Bloodbound sundered by the explosions of aethereal energy. There were other shapes, inhuman ones, that were caught in the fire of Sigmar’s judgement. They were lithe, horned, and their limbs were angled in a way no living human’s ever had been.

‘Daemons on the ramparts,’ she called to Venthor. ‘Bloodletters.’

‘I see them,’ Venthor said, and Felkreth snarled. The Lord-Celestant sounded grimly satisfied. ‘Graunos will fight hard to keep this gate. It is important to him. Its loss will be fatal in the long run.’

The Prosecutors pressed their attack. The top of the Wrathgate flashed again and again. Bodies fell, tumbling and broken. The upper portions of the ramparts glowed an angry orange, and Rhasan saw the first cracks appearing. The gate was massive, and there was a long way to go, but this was a very good start.

The skull, though, worried her. It, too, was beginning to glow. There was a crimson glimmer in the eyes. The weapon was gathering power from the deaths on the wall, and the Bloodbound were still replacing their losses as fast as they happened.

There might still be hope of smashing the defenders faster yet and overwhelming them before the skull’s hunger was sated. Rhasan called upon the lightning. Shouting her invocation, feeling the energy flow into her and from her with a ferocity unique to Shyish, she sprinted forwards and slammed the shaft of her hammer into the ground. Her storm broke over the ramparts. Searing flashes incinerated bodies. For a few moments, the centre of the ramparts was clear. But the light in the skull’s eyes grew even brighter.

Khorne cares not whence the blood flows, Rhasan thought bitterly.

‘Lord-Celestant!’ she called.

‘I see it,’ said Venthor. ‘Sequitors! Ready the shield!’

The Sequitors were marching in a long formation stretching down the length of the spearhead of the advance. As one, they raised their soulshields towards the gate and its baleful icon’s gaze. Silver energy crackled, leaping from shield to shield. As the Sequitors channelled their defence, aetheric power gathered over them and then spread, shimmering over the other ranks of Stormcast Eternals.

The Anvils of the Heldenhammer advanced swiftly. The assault by the Prosecutors stopped the Bloodbound from mounting a concerted response to the closing Stormhost. The volleys of arrows that they managed meant nothing to the Stormcast Eternals. They flew through the aetheric shield, but it had been created to defend against a much greater, more meaningful attack. The arrows bounced off and snapped against the sigmarite armour, harmless as rain.

The Stormhost was close now, the gate looming high, the skull a rictus of hate above it. The warriors spread out, across the entire width of the pass. They would hit the gate along its full length. Venthor’s plan of attack would have been absurd with an army of mortals. But the brass of even as massive a structure as the Wrathgate could survive the assault of a Stormhost for only so long.

The Prosecutors struck again, strafing the defenders with javelins. Light, green and white, erupted over the Wrathgate. A steady fall of bodies struck the ground far below. And then the skull’s eyes were blinding, their red even brighter than the burning glare of the Prosecutors’ attack. The skull turned on the mechanism that suspended it until it looked down on the assailants. Its jaw gaped wide, and the flames of rage descended upon the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

The pass vanished from Rhasan’s sight. She was suddenly in the mouth of an erupting volcano. Daemonic fire filled the air above her. It blinded her with corrupted light. It breathed destruction over the sacred banner of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, seeking to blacken its iconography, and then burned harder yet. The hatred in the fire would not rest until the symbol of fealty to Sigmar evaporated.

But the banner did not burn. The shield of the Sequitors held. It flared with light as blinding as the fire’s. Absolutes of purity and ruin clashed explosively, and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer moved forwards again.

The ground beneath Rhasan’s feet began to soften. She pushed on, though the burn that made it through the aetheric shield seemed to be heating her plating to incandescence. The flames were unending. Their intensity kept growing. Rhasan’s ears were filled with the roar of aethereal rage. Coherent thought became difficult as the world fell into fire and pain.

Through it all, she had her purpose, and Venthor’s voice of thunder resounded in the pass, urging his warriors onwards to the Wrathgate.

The flames of Chaos began to fade. And though the ground was half molten, the base of the gate was within reach.

The Prosecutor turned from the skull and reached back to summon another aethereal javelin. Kathag seized his chance. With a roar, he leapt, weapon in hand, and grappled with the Stormcast Eternal. They crashed to the parapet and rolled. The javelin appeared in the Stormcast’s hand. It was too late. Kathag brought his Axe of Khorne crashing against the Prosecutor’s gorget.

The struggle was decided before the blow even hit. Kathag’s blade was blood-tinted brass streaked with a deathly grey. Claws spiralled off the end of the shaft and along the top of the axe. His reward from the Skull God when he ascended from the title of Exalted Deathbringer was a reminder of failure and a goad to greater victory. The grey in the axe and the curl of the claws symbolised the vortex of grey nothing that had consumed Lord Ruhok’s warhorde. Kathag had been part of that defeat. His survival did not mitigate his failure. Every time he used the axe, his god’s favour and his god’s scorn confronted him, and they pushed him to ever greater victories and ever greater feats of violence.

There was another echo of the Maw of Uncreation that Neferata had unleashed on that day in Nulahmia. When Kathag swung the axe, reality twisted and snapped around its passage. Eddies of disintegration radiated outwards from the blade. When Kathag attacked, the world bled as much as his enemies.

The Prosecutor’s armour curled like burning paper before the axe strike. It shattered, pieces caught and swallowed by the vortices in the air. The blade severed the warrior’s head at a stroke. For a brief moment, blood came from the warrior and from his armour.

The tribute to the Skull God was short-lived. It always was, with the Stormcast Eternals. Kathag rose and turned away from the body with contempt before the mystical lightning called it back to Sigmar.

Death had lost all meaning for the Stormcast Eternals, Kathag thought. Even these dark Anvils of the Heldenhammer did not know what it truly was any longer. And with no purpose in death, there was no purpose in life, either. Kathag’s existence had plenty of meaning. There was the conquest of empires. There was vengeance against Neferata. And there would be the exultation of hurling Sigmar’s warriors back.

The wrathfire had not stopped the Stormhost yet, but it forced the Prosecutors to retreat behind the shield created by their comrades. Then the skull exhausted its energy. The blast of fire came to an end. The skull would grow strong again with new violence and new souls. When it was fed, the fire would come again. The skull’s breath was nothing compared to the great beam that circled Mausolea. It was a small tributary of that power. It served well enough, though.

Except the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were still advancing. They had weathered the first blast and were attacking the base of the gate, ignoring the ramparts, depriving the skull of the fuel of violence. Kathag might have to start feeding it his own troops directly. He would if he had to, but the waste would displease him.

He shouldn’t have to. His hand might soon be forced, though, if the second phase of the campaign did not begin immediately.

He looked out over the battlements, past the lines of Stormcast Eternals. The Axeway beyond them was quiet. That was wrong. The enemy should not be having this chance to regroup.

Kathag growled. There was no time to waste. ‘Brezhek!’ he shouted.

The Gorechosen slaughterpriest rushed to Kathag’s side. Brezhek’s left eye was gone, replaced with a brass skull. His right eye blazed all the brighter, and he had cut off his eyelids so his wrath would never sleep. ‘What is your command, Lord Kathag?’

‘The skull needs volunteers for glory. Get them. Now.’

‘At once.’

What are you waiting for, Vask? We’ve handed you the chance for victory. The Anvils are expecting you. Attack them, as Graunos commanded. Attack!

Vask remained stubbornly absent.

Kathag stared into the Axeway, thinking of the enemy that was temptingly within reach. He thought he could destroy them.

He stopped himself. You know better. Arrogance destroyed Ruhok. You spoke reason to Graunos, and he listened to you. So listen to yourself. Rage must be directed, not squandered.

If he ventured out of the wall, he would be fighting on the terms of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

Kathag looked at the skull. Already, Brezhek had gathered a group of skullcrushers, and they were hammering bloodreavers to death underneath the skull. Soon, the eyes were blazing with anger again.

Too soon, Rhasan thought as the monstrous weapon fired once more. The Bloodbound must have been sacrificing themselves by the hundreds. The Sequitors hurled their aetheric shield against the fire, but they had not had the chance to recover. There was a thunderclap of exploding energy, and the fire of wrath broke through the shield.

The blaze pushed the Stormhost back. It was too powerful to withstand without the shield.

Shelter. We need shelter.

Rhasan would create the shelter, and the time to regroup and strike again.

Staggering under the agony, her flesh roasting inside her superheated armour, Rhasan summoned Sigmar’s lightning and sent it to her left, against the cliff wall. Though she could not see her target, a huge, cracking roar told her she had struck home. A portion of the cliff gave way. Beyond the cataclysm of red, something huge thundered, and then a massive shadow loomed through the flames. Rhasan lunged out of the way as the rubble shouldered through the fire. She ran back and threw herself over the new hill of stone. It blocked the flames and the worst of the heat. She could see again, though the pain of her injuries tried to blind her anew. A moment later, Venthor joined her. Smoke rose from Felkreth’s hide, and the beast was thrashing in agony.

The Stormhost’s formation became a narrow one as its warriors took refuge behind the rockfall. The daemon fire was so ferocious, it would melt the rock eventually. But only if the foe kept destroying his own troops to keep the fires burning.

The battle at the Wrathgate turned into a siege. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer attempted to storm the gate, and Kathag forced them back. Always they came again, smashing the gate with greater force. Each time, Kathag replenished the skull’s power with the blood of his own troops, killing off hundreds more when the Stormcast Eternals resisted the attacks with their sorcerous shield. Kathag could continue to do this for some time. He could not do so indefinitely.

And still Vask refused to appear.

Kathag prowled the battlements in frustration and anger. Pausing briefly from his relentless slaughter at one point, Brezhek approached him. ‘Has Vask betrayed us?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Kathag. He was sure of that, if nothing else. ‘Vask’s anger is too strong. He would never ally himself with Sigmar’s dogs.’

‘Then why does he wait?’

‘There is another reason. I do not know what it is.’

‘He will be punished for this delay.’

‘Oh, he will,’ Kathag promised. No triumph would be great enough to compensate for Vask’s absence. The necromancer had doomed himself.

The siege dragged on. Kathag’s frustration and anger grew. Every charge of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer weakened the gate further. Time was running out. The skull had just finished turning another rockslide into melted slag, forcing the Stormcast Eternals back again, but not for much longer, when a bloodletter daemon stalked over to him.

‘News, Lord Kathag,’ it hissed. ‘Newssssssss.’ The daemons were more restive than Kathag’s human troops, and the mortals were straining at the bit to charge through the gates. The daemon looked at him with open contempt, but he ignored the insult. It had to obey him, and his dismissal of its taunting provoked it still further.

‘What news?’ said Kathag.

‘An army approachessssss.’ The bloodletter growled at the prospect of a new threat and the sense that someone was interfering with Graunos’ designs. At the same time, it grinned in eagerness, because a greater battle meant greater violence, and in the end, that was a suitable gift for the Skull God.

‘What army?’ Kathag asked. Then he knew. ‘Neferata.’

The daemon nodded. Its lips drew back over sharp teeth in a smile and a snarl. ‘The dead are coming,’ it said. ‘The dead come to bleed and die anew.’

Kathag turned away from the bloodletter, dismissing it. He felt none of the daemon’s violent joy. He felt only anger. He understood now why Vask had delayed. The necromancer knew that Neferata was coming to the Axeway pass. He was waiting, planning to attack both the Mortarch of Blood and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. He was dreaming of destroying them both in a single blow.

‘Dreaming,’ Kathag spat. He knew what must have happened. Neferata had tempted the necromancer into this overreach. ‘She let you discover what she was doing, didn’t she?’ Kathag asked the absent Vask. ‘You fool. Can’t you see that you’re doing exactly what she wants? You think you outwitted her with your spies? You think you can win when you are playing her game?’ He slammed a fist against the edge of the parapet. Brass deformed under the blow. Vask’s delay had already cost Kathag troops, feeding the skull and maintaining the siege. Neferata’s manipulations were hurting him, too. ‘Attack, then!’ Kathag shouted. ‘Do it, Vask! Here is your ambush. Here is your perfect trap. Prove me wrong. Let me see your victory.’

Kathag summoned Vergren, his Exalted Deathbringer. ‘Ready our forces,’ he said. ‘We march through the gates soon.’

The Deathbringer grinned. He had filed his teeth to points almost as sharp as a daemon’s. ‘Sigmar’s dogs are on the run?’

‘No,’ said Kathag. ‘The tide of battle has turned against us.’

Vergren stared, baffled. ‘How is that possible?’

‘The Anvils of the Heldenhammer are the tools of another enemy. She will be here soon, and she has already drawn blood. We may not defeat her here, but I will still have a trophy for Khorne.’

Neferata was close now. Her army was leaving Shadowvel behind to the south, and the line of the Axeway was visible in the mountains ahead.

‘Kerdathax,’ she called. ‘Fly to the Lord-Celestant. Warn him of what is coming. Warn him that he is about to be ambushed. Tell him we are coming to help, but he must be prepared. Warn him of the trap to come, now that it is too late. Tell him the treacherous dead arise!’

The morghast flew off, and Neferata laughed. She revelled in the sensation of deliberately marching into a trap.

A trap whose risks were delicious. A trap she had shaped. A trap she controlled. A trap that Vask thought he had set and that was about to close on his neck.

War has no certainties except destruction. The believer in a foregone conclusion is a fool who deserves extinction. Let us, then, find pleasure in the uncertainty, the risk, and the tempest of chance. If we can do this, then our pleasures, if nothing else, are assured.

– Neferata, War and Ecstasy

Chapter Twelve

They gathered at a ruined farmhouse several leagues to the west of Mausolea. Neferata herself had chosen the house and directed her spies to use it for this purpose. It was one that Guessa had flown over many times on her journeys west from the city to the Stonepain Mountains and back again. She had given it little notice. It was a minor signpost on her flight, nothing more.

The house had been empty since the coming of Graunos. During the initial conquest of Angaria, his warhordes had stripped this region of all crops and killed the farmers who grew them. The building was falling into ruin. The farm was beneath any notice, less than insignificant. Velaza remembered Guessa’s surprise at Neferata’s questions early in their mission, almost a year ago now. The queen had seemed more interested in the buildings Guessa overflew than in the disposition of Graunos’ troops.

Velaza understood now. Neferata had seen this far ahead. She had planned this moment even then. Velaza wondered how anyone dared to challenge a being with such foresight.

The spies had made their way from Mausolea with meticulous caution. They had made certain that no one had followed. They were safe from the enemy’s eyes here.

Tavensia eyed the interior with distaste when they entered the house. There was a hole in the roof. Broken timbers and stones littered the floor. Moss spread where rain had fallen. The wooden table and chairs in the main room were blackened with mould. Thick layers of dust were draped over the corners of the room. Tavensia shook her head. ‘Should we be doing something? This is hardly fit to receive Lady Mereneth.’

Velaza felt the same impulse. The spymistress would be honouring them with her presence. It seemed wrong not to treat the occasion with some ceremony. All the same, she said, ‘No. Our queen has chosen this location. Therefore, it is as it should be.’

Mereneth arrived soon after nightfall. A shadow flickered over the hole in the ceiling, and then she was there, standing before her spies. Her face was strained. She looked exhausted. Her mission had taken a toll.

‘Is he here yet?’ Mereneth asked.

‘No,’ said Velaza.

‘He had further to travel,’ Mereneth admitted. ‘And he does not fly.’

‘Is it possible he did not succeed?’ Epikente asked.

Mereneth laughed. ‘If Skarveth failed where I triumphed, he shall hear about it from me. He only had to deal with the sane sister.’

Mereneth stepped out of the farmhouse. Velaza followed. They were on the crest of a low hill. This had been one of the most fruitful regions of Angaria. It had been scoured like a chewed bone. Mereneth looked east towards Mausolea and the Sentinel of the Shroud. She stayed where she was for most of the hour it took for Graunos’ beam to complete a revolution, then walked to the other side of the hill. To the west, the land rose like waves in a storm. Ridges sharp as knife blades built up, climbing higher in a staggered pattern. They resembled the saw teeth of a creature’s maw. Over the course of days, with slow, heavy grinding, the low hills rose and the high ones fell, and then the cycle would repeat.

‘He will come from there,’ said Mereneth.

‘How close are the boundaries of Obsidia from here?’ Velaza asked.

‘Not far. Less than a day’s ride.’

‘And we are less than a day from Mausolea.’

‘Yes,’ said Mereneth. ‘That would not be much of a warning. It is still more of one than our queen would like to give.’

‘I understand,’ said Velaza.

Mereneth turned to face her, her gaze serious. ‘I hope you do. Our queen commands, and it must be done. But what I am going to ask of you, I do not ask lightly.’

‘Anything you ask is my glad duty to fulfil.’

Mereneth rested a hand on her shoulder and turned back to the western prospect.

Their vigil was not a long one before the Hell Knight appeared. He was riding swiftly, his carrion horse tireless in death. He was draped in the night, though Velaza could see him clearly. His armour, engraved with the heraldry of Neferata, seemed to glint with a cold, inner light that rendered its darkness even more profound. As he drew near, Velaza wondered how a being with no face, no expressions, could radiate so strong a sense of nobility. There was, in Skarveth’s posture, a deep pride. It came, Velaza sensed, from what he served. Here, she thought as he dismounted, was a warrior who defined his entire existence through the commands of Neferata. That was nothing less than it should be.

Skarveth bowed to the spies. ‘My ladies.’

‘The rest await us inside,’ said Mereneth. ‘You come bearing a gift, I trust?’

‘I do. Also, a weight of guilt. I feel that, compared to yours, my efforts were utterly negligible.’

Mereneth smiled. ‘Your guilt is appreciated, but unnecessary. You have already sacrificed much for your queen.’

‘I don’t think I have. Rather, I have gained everything.’

‘Well said,’ Velaza remarked.

‘I am sure that the time will come for greater sacrifice,’ said Mereneth. ‘That is the nature of our calling. That is what we owe Queen Neferata.’

‘I am glad of it,’ Skarveth said. ‘I will be ready.’

In the farmhouse, they stood around the rotting table. Mereneth and Skarveth produced the two halves of the Sundered Crown.

‘So Hothalas gives leave to pass through Obsidia?’ Guessa asked.

‘Yes,’ Skarveth said. ‘And she will join in the march on Angaria. Once she has proof that the crown is whole.’

‘Everyone will have proof of that,’ said Mereneth.

Epikente cocked her head, looking at the two halves. ‘It has the power to do all that?’

‘It has the power it has been given,’ Mereneth said. ‘Especially from the mad queen. I believe that one part of its strength is innate. The rest comes from the sisters, and the importance they place in it. Thus it becomes important to us.’

Velaza picked up the pieces. The break was jagged. When she placed the halves together, the seam was almost invisible. ‘I don’t suppose holding it together will do,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Mereneth. ‘And no simple forge will do. The crown must be reborn through fire and blood. And most of all by loss.’

‘Ah,’ said Velaza. She saw more clearly what would be asked of her and her sisters.

Epikente and the others nodded solemnly.

‘What fire will be sufficient?’ Tavensia asked.

‘There are a few possibilities that would be powerful enough. Only one, though, that will achieve our queen’s goal.’ Mereneth looked east, through the empty doorway of the farmhouse, towards Mausolea and its terrible light.

‘Let her purpose be served,’ said Velaza.

‘Let this duty be mine,’ Skarveth said. He let out a dry rattle of a laugh. ‘I can pay my debt of guilt.’

‘No,’ said Mereneth. ‘Neferata commanded me to refuse your request.’

‘She knew I would ask?’ Skarveth sounded surprised.

‘She thought you might. She has other tasks for you. And you have no blood.’

The Hell Knight’s skull turned to face Velaza. What did she think she saw in those empty sockets? Sorrow? Regret?

‘We are, like you, glad of our service to the queen,’ she said. ‘Whatever form it takes.’

Mereneth left shortly thereafter. Velaza went outside as Skarveth readied his horse for the journey back to the boundaries of Obsidia, and thence to Neferatia.

‘I know you have not been in the queen’s service long,’ Velaza said. ‘Yet I feel as if you have always been of our number. I find this curious.’

Skarveth ran a hand over the raiment of his horse. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘I do believe that I have always served her, in one way or another, through two states of being. When I lived, I laboured for her in secret. She did not know of my existence, but everything I did had the goal of aiding her against her enemy. I was born into a family of traitors. Ending that treachery was my guiding purpose for as long as I can remember.’

‘Neferata is luring Vask onto the battlefield again. Do you grieve that you are not present for that encounter?’

His fist tightened on the dangling reins. ‘I do, yes. I grieve whenever I am not by our queen’s side.’

‘As do I,’ Velaza said.

This time, she was sure she saw sympathy in the eye sockets. She did not think she was projecting what she wished to perceive onto Skarveth. His next words proved her right.

‘Then I grieve for you too. You have been separated from her for much longer. And now…’

‘I am proud of what I will be able to do,’ she said.

‘I am proud, too, of my mission. If I am not by her side, it is because she needs me to be somewhere else, and that is all the honour I require.’ He paused, thoughtful. ‘I was apart from her until the day I died. This is a short separation, by comparison. And…’ He struggled for words, as if all those he found were too small to convey his full intent. ‘I tell you this,’ he said at last. ‘I died on the field when I finally rode to join our queen. But I had never truly been born until she raised me from the dust. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘I do,’ said Velaza. ‘She gives us purpose.’

‘Without her, I have none.’

‘I did not think of her as you did before I was turned. She was the queen, and that was all. I did not serve her. I wish I had. I cannot say that my life had meaning. My existence does now. So I understand you very well. And I envy you. You have indeed always served her loyally.’

He bowed his thanks. ‘I hope to prove myself worthy of such praise.’

‘I am pleased to have met you, Skarveth Lytessian.’

‘And I you, Lady Velaza. I wish you victory.’

‘It is assured. And it will be delicious.’

Skarveth leapt onto the back of his horse. He nodded to Velaza and rode off. Velaza watched him go until the night swallowed him again. Then she went back inside. The other spies were at the east window, watching the Sentinel of the Shroud turn. She joined them.

‘Do you know what irks me?’ Guessa said.

‘No. What?’

‘That I can’t be with Graunos to see the look on his face when it happens.’

The morghast archai had barely flown off when Rhasan heard the distant sound of drums and the blast of a fanfare that exulted in the promise of the mass grave. Neferata’s army was closing in on the Axeway.

‘She mocks us,’ Venthor growled. ‘She warns us of the very ambush she is springing.’

The thought crossed Rhasan’s mind that Neferata was going through considerable effort for so petty a goal. But the pleasures of the Mortarch were unfathomable. Though her doubts flickered, sparks that refused to die, Rhasan did not question Venthor. ‘Shall we turn and face her?’ she asked.

The Wrathgate skull was scouring the pass with flame again. The battlemages of the Anvils’ Sacrosanct Chamber had joined Rhasan in blasting the walls of the pass. Hundreds of thousands of tons of rubble had fallen. Between every blast, the attacks hammered the base of the gate. It was close to breaking.

‘We stay our course,’ Venthor said after a moment.

The Lord-Celestant was still mounted on Felkreth. He had remained so, a beacon to his troops and a target for the enemy, throughout the siege. The hill of rubble before them had grown to block almost half the pass. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were formed up in close ranks near the eastern edge of the rockfall. It would take them no time at all to round that point and rush the gate. Rhasan saw Venthor glance to her right. He was evaluating the chances of success. The time between the skull’s streams of fire had become unpredictable. The Bloodbound might be running out of sacrificial fodder. The weapon was going hungry.

‘We are about to break through the gate,’ said Venthor. ‘If Neferata is trying to taunt us into battle with her, she will have to wait her turn. We are caught between foes no matter which way we charge. So we will seize our chance to take the gate. Once we force it open, we will alter the battlefield. Defenders and ambushers will both fail at a stroke.’

Venthor’s logic was sound. Rhasan had no reason to disagree with it. Yet in her heart, she did. His approach was too rational for the perversities of Shyish, and one of the perversities’ greatest authors was closing in on them. Instinct told her Venthor was making a mistake. Reason and loyalty argued that he was in the right.

She kept her doubts to herself.

She believed she was correct to do so. Reason dictated that she follow this course of action.

Much later, when she looked back at this moment, she would realise, with pain and anger, that a part of her, a part she refused to listen to, was already cursing her, raging against the magnitude of the error.

She would try to tell herself that she was the only one of her comrades to feel this way. That the other leaders of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer had no such doubts. That she had been manipulated by Neferata into this condition.

The truth of all these things would not matter. They would not give her any comfort.

She would remember, with bitterness, that the disaster began with furious hope. Venthor lifted his hammer high and called for the charge.

‘Now!’ he cried. ‘We claim victory now! The gate is ours! Now it falls!’

Felkreth roared loudly enough to shake a hail of fragments from the cliffs. He charged to the right. Rhasan shouted, summoning the Anvils of the Heldenhammer to the banner, scorched yet proud. The Stormhost shouted back, and thunder rose from the floor of the pass.

The Stormcast Eternals charged around the end of the rubble and headed for the gate. They held their shields over their heads, defending as they attacked. The strategy was a single-minded rush of force. There was no long-range strike by the Judicators or aerial strafing by the Prosecutors. It went against Rhasan’s military instincts to leave the enemy on the ramparts alone. Yet they could not risk feeding the skull more deaths. The entire Stormhost became a colossal swing of the hammer aimed at the base of the wall.

The Bloodbound hurled spears and arrows at the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. A hail of death that would have laid waste to the front lines of a mortal army darkened the air of the pass. The Anvils ran straight through the curtain of missiles. They did not merely shrug off the attack. They ignored it. The barrage was meaningless. There was nothing the Khornate troops could do to stop the coming of the hammer.

The trumpet blast of Neferata’s army sounded again. It was louder, and it echoed. It was closer. The Mortarch and her forces were in the Axeway.

Venthor was right. This was the way forwards. A massive blow against the Wrathgate to open it at last and burst free of the ambush. There was no reason for Rhasan to think Venthor was wrong.

No reason unless Neferata was telling the truth.

Rhasan stormed forwards beside the snarling dracoth. She held her banner high, attacking with fury at the enemy and faith in the Lord-Celestant.

But the doubts flickered. The doubts festered.

The Anvils of the Heldenhammer slammed into the Wrathgate. It trembled under the blow.

Then the earth screamed and gave up its dead.

The entrance to the Axeway was just up ahead.

‘The Lord-Celestant rejects your warning,’ Kerdathax said as he took his place once more on the Nagadron’s right flank.

‘Excellent,’ said Neferata. ‘He goes forward, then?’

‘He does.’

Then the final pieces of this portion of the game were in place, and doing what they should. Venthor was making the error she needed.

‘Now comes the time of consequences,’ Neferata said to the morghasts. ‘We shall see a collision of choices. Some have been made just now, and some were made an age ago. The Lord-Celestant refused to listen to you, Kerdathax. Consequences will flow from that. Vask will choose to attack us both. That will have its repercussions. And it is time that I meet the last consequence for my judgement of Shadowvel, and for how I suppressed the Hellezan rebellion.’

‘As you say, my queen,’ Kerdathax said. Dravashkon, the other morghast archai, remained silent.

‘Rejoice, my morghasts!’ Neferata exclaimed. ‘You should revel in the excitement of unpredictability. It is so pure, so concentrated, at a nexus of choice. Whatever happens, it will not be dull.’

The leading edge of her infantry turned into the Axeway. Neferata brought Nagadron flying in low, and the morghasts followed faithfully. At the front, a phalanx of skeleton drummers beat severed femurs against taut human skin.

‘Sound the fanfare!’ Neferata commanded. ‘Announce us! Let Vask hear! Let us tell him that I have come!’ She laughed. ‘Let us tell him that I have fallen into his trap.’

Trumpeters with neither lips nor lungs raised their instruments. Their music was mournful, fantastic and defiant. Death triumphant marched through the Axeway.

‘Where are you, Vask?’ Neferata called. ‘Is this not what you wanted? Is this not your great desire?’

She urged her army faster. Her legions marched into the bottleneck of the pass, closing the distance between them, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer and the wall. Flying higher, Neferata saw the charge of the Stormcast Eternals. The two forces were far enough apart that they would not be able to reach each other easily, though if Vask waited much longer, that would change. She looked to the rear, and her siege towers, those immense lies, were now in the Axeway.

This is the moment. Prove me right, Vask. Show me how predictable you really are in your petty anger.

Vask answered. Along the entire length of the Axeway, the vengeful dead attacked. With them came the living willing to die for their cause. A legion of fools, led by a fool.

Yet Neferata was impressed by the care Vask had put into the ambush. As the eruption began, she took a moment to savour the titanic effort that had been given to the project of destroying her. Centuries of hate had resulted in centuries of work. She was flattered. And she was intrigued. Vask and the dead of Shadowvel had made common cause. Their shared hatred of her made that easy to understand. But to have worked so long and well in secrecy, to hide the region from her sight, that was remarkable. The ambush was even more remarkable. The Axeway was not far from Shadowvel, but it still would have taken generations of meticulously crafted sorcery to have aligned the border of the hidden underworld with the Axeway.

How long have they been hoping to lure me here? It was as perfect a location for a trap as was possible within the region of Shadowvel. She wondered if the dead of the city had planned simply to fester in their anger until chance brought her here. That was a patience that had turned into madness. She thought that Vask had seen an opportunity and used his allies for his own purposes. He had shown himself more than able to mount an active campaign against her.

Vask used them, and Graunos used Vask. The neatness of her foes’ parasitical relationships fused with the improbability of chance appealed to her. She was pleased with this war. She was pleased with her role in bringing it about. Now she had to use it well.

The attackers appeared to materialise out of nothing. Skeletons, vampires and mortals rose from the Axeway floor. Waves of spirits burst from the cliffs. They sealed the entrance to the pass, and a great throng emerged in front of the Neferatian army, cutting it off from the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

It was, truly, a magnificent strike by Vask.

‘Traitors!’ Neferata roared, her voice booming throughout the pass. ‘I bring you oblivion!’ And she brought Nagadron down. She grinned ferociously. She had a purpose here, too. She would show Vask that the true masterpiece of deception was the one that she had woven.

The parapet shook under the impact of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Neferata’s army came into sight, and Vask finally attacked. The assault was well staged, and Vask had great numbers on his side. All of Shadowvel’s history before its fall had risen against Neferata.

‘We are ready,’ Vergren told Kathag. ‘Our forces await you below.’

‘Good.’ Kathag turned away from the panorama of the war and made for the zigzagging staircase carved out of the interior of the north cliff.

‘Lord Graunos’ tool has a good army,’ Vergren said.

‘It might be,’ said Kathag, ‘against Neferata or the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Not against both. Numbers aren’t enough.’ He stopped at the entrance to the tunnel in the cliff and looked back at the skull. It was beginning to feed on the struggle below, but too many of the combatants were already dead and would give it no fuel. It would fire again, but only sporadically. ‘Nothing we have here is enough,’ Kathag said. ‘But we never thought it would be. If Vask had attacked when he should have, we might have defeated the Stormcast Eternals.’ Neferata’s machinations had ended that hope.

Kathag stormed down the stairs, taking them three at a time, his anger building to battle wrath. ‘Vask is a fool,’ he said. ‘His overreach will cost too much.’

‘Then we will turn the tide against the enemy,’ said Vergren.

‘No, we won’t. Not with the forces we have here.’

Vergren growled under his breath. ‘Lord Graunos might be interested to hear you disparage our strength.’

Kathag whirled, catching Vergren by the throat and pinning him against the wall in a single movement. ‘I speak for Lord Graunos,’ he snarled. ‘He knows exactly what can and cannot be done here. And if you question me again, the next skull I take will be yours.’

Kathag stared into Vergren’s eyes until he was sure the message had been received. Then he released the Exalted Deathbringer and continued down the stairs, his thoughts already back on the battle ahead. He would not let the Mortarch have her way. He would get his prize yet. It was time to wield the blade of focused rage.

He emerged from the base of the cliff. The warhost was assembled before the gate, a restless, stirring mass of barely contained violence. Kathag nodded in satisfaction. His warriors were already hungry to taste Stormcast Eternal blood. The longer he restrained them, the greater the violence when they finally hit the battlefield. If he timed the assault correctly, the explosion of hate would be something majestic, a worthy act of worship for the Skull God.

Kathag passed before the front ranks, stopping before the centre of the gate, where he mounted Borgheven, his juggernaut. ‘Ignore the dead!’ he commanded. ‘Turn your blades upon the living! The slaves of Sigmar are our prey this night. If they cheat us of their skulls by vanishing, their deaths are no less pleasing to Khorne. Blood for the Blood God!’

‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ the horde answered.

Above the Wrathgate, the skull icon fed slowly, but it did feed. At last it was ready again, and it unleashed its fire upon the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

As soon as he saw the flame pour down again, Kathag struck the gate with the flat of his axe. ‘Open the gate!’ he called. The blow reverberated over its entire surface. Its effect was unlike the blows of Stormcast Eternals. There was no intent to destroy. This was a command, given through one icon of Khorne to another. The gate rang, a solemn, monstrous bell. The signal was given, and a vertical line appeared in the apparently seamless expanse of brass. With a terrible grinding, the Wrathgate opened outwards, and Kathag led the roaring furies of his warhorde through, into the Axeway beyond.

Vask was the shifting eye of the storm. He ran back and forth through the centre of the massed forces between Neferata and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. He kept moving, his hunched posture making him smaller than most of his warriors. His army here was not as aethereal as that coming from the sides of the pass. These were his loyalists, the mortals who had always been loyal to him and the vampires whose faith he had inherited from Kasten. They would protect him, and they would hide him. He would not stand out in this throng. Even so, he kept moving, never staying too near the centre for long, where he was sure Neferata would seek him first. He would hide the source of command.

Vask’s pulse beat with a new kind of fear. He did not belong on the battlefield. He belonged in the shadows, weaving the schemes that would control the clash of arms. The ambush at Knell was supposed to have been the culmination of his shadow war against Neferata. He should have destroyed her from afar.

He had failed, though, and now he was here. He had no choice. The stakes were final this time, all or nothing. He was frightened, but he was also resolute, and he was glad it had come to this. His victory would be much more meaningful.

And Kasten was frenzied. His screams filled Vask’s head, pushing him into a fury. There was barely room left in his soul for fear. Everything was at stake, and the corpse, desperate, lashed out in every direction. Held by his heroic ancestor’s will, Vask gave material form to Kasten’s attacks. Surrounded by a vortex of spirits, mortals and vampires, he directed the arms of the storm, sending them crashing into the front ranks of the Neferatian army and the rear of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Deep inside the storm, Vask could see little except the violence of movement. Kasten was as certain in his commands as he was furious, though, and Vask trusted in the dead necromancer. He shouted orders and directed the whirl of his forces. His fists were tight, and his frame trembled with the effort of containing the bolts of death energy he had summoned. He had to hold them back, to have them ready when their moment came. If he attacked too soon, he would give his position away.

Neferata would be looking for him. She knew what a lethal threat he represented. She knew she must deal with him or lose an empire. He was proud of the terror he must have brought to her heart. He would see that terror on her face this time when he brought her low.

He turned to face the Wrathgate as it opened. The fire from the skull ended, and he heard the rumble of a new army charging into the fray, and then the collision, like crashing waves in a sea of iron, of Bloodbound and Stormcast Eternals.

The great, booming toll of the opening of the gate was a call he was meant to obey.

A new voice invaded his mind. It was the voice of his patron, of Graunos. He had heard it before, coming from a phantasmic manifestation held within summoning circles. He thought he had kept a safe distance from the daemon prince. Collaboration did not mean subjugation. He had been quite sure of this.

Destroy the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, Graunos demanded. That is why you are here. Your delay has cost enough.

An impulse came with the words. Sharp, iced with anger, it stabbed him behind the eyes. It would relent if he obeyed.

Poised on the edge of submission, he heard a monster’s roar from behind and above. And he heard a woman’s laugh, a laugh that delighted in all the pleasures of blood. Her voice boomed through the entire Axeway. In defiance of the pain, driven by Kasten’s need as well as his own, Vask turned and faced south.

Hundreds of yards away, mounted on her skeletal beast and flanked by two great horrors armed with giant blades, Neferata dived into the host of Hellezan and Shadowvel. She reached down with her black staff. It flashed dark light, and with it she reaped a harvest of shattered souls, the living and the dead scythed apart by her passage. The dread abyssal’s jaws gaped wide, a great devourer of spirits. The morghast archai swung their huge blades, carving two wide furrows through Vask’s great force.

It was as if an immense, taloned hand clawed gouges through his army. And Neferata was laughing. She was laughing.

Do as you are commanded, Graunos thundered in his mind.

But Kasten’s shrieks of rage almost drowned out the daemon prince.

Vask turned and turned. His forces were divided, holding off the Neferatians and pressing the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. He was attacking along the flanks too, but that was not enough. He had to commit fully or his assault would turn into a defensive fight.

Neferata’s siege towers lumbered in his view. His army was not slowing them down, though he saw the spirits of Shadowvel swarming over their heights.

Graunos raged. Neferata laughed. Vask hesitated, torn between fears.

Neferata knew that Vask was in that huge churn of his forces. Spectres and skeletons formed an almost indiscernible mass, mixed with mortals and some vampires. The mass struck out north and south in the pass, boiling with undirected anger. Vask was in there, hidden and protected by those who were his thralls as surely as if he were a vampire himself. She needed him to declare himself, to commit himself to attacking her. She was carving through the outer ranks of the mob, but she needed to know where he was before she could strike deeper. She was wary of being caught as she had been outside Knell. And Vask might yet do as his masters of the Ruinous Powers no doubt wanted, and throw his might fully against the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

She would convince him to do otherwise.

‘Do you hide from me, Vask?’ she taunted with her voice of thunder, rising with Nagadron above the fray again. ‘Do you fear me?’

Neferata looked back at the siege towers. They were more than halfway through the pass now. Soon they would be a threat to the Wrathgate. They were covered with Vask’s wraiths, and mortal forces were attacking them at the base, cutting down the skeletal legions hauling them forwards and damaging the structures. The towers were slowing down and beginning to sway.

The siege towers were at the critical point, and her forces knew what would come then.

‘Do you not hate me enough yet?’ Neferata called to Vask. ‘Then let me give you further reason!’

Vask saw the siege towers tremble. Neferata’s taunts sank claws into his heart. Kasten shrieked, incoherent in his wrath. The mummy seemed to bite down harder on Vask’s shoulder.

KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER! Kasten screamed. The father of the long struggle against Neferata was a maddened, howling dead thing.

KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER!

The single thought consumed Vask’s soul. Yet the voice of Graunos was still present, yanking him back towards the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Vask ran back and forth in the crowd of his warriors, hidden, undecided, torn by hate and anger.

The siege towers swayed more violently, trees about to fall, and his heart leapt in feral joy.

‘Do you not hate me enough yet?’ cried Neferata. ‘Then let me give you further reason!’

The towers blazed with searing violet light. Their top thirds burst apart, splinters of wood and iron flying across the battlefield. Two huge monsters leapt from their concealed perches. Wings spread, and the terrorgheist and zombie dragon flew towards the Wrathgate.

The light of the towers intensified. The spectres clutching their walls wailed in terror. With a blinding flash of violet, the towers exploded simultaneously. Then the blast collapsed in on itself. The wreckage of the towers hurled itself into the centre of the implosion. There was a terrible concussion, a crushing of matter and magic. An abyssal hollow opened up in the air above the floor of the pass. It spun, a thing of darkness streaked with a grey that was somehow even more awful. The whirling void was a hungry maw, and it pulled in everything within its grasp, living and dead.

Neferata had sacrificed her own subjects to the consuming void, but it was Vask’s forces that it swallowed in huge numbers. The living screamed as they were crushed. Skeletons imploded into dust. The maw stretched spirits into mere aethereal lines as it swirled them around its vortex, and still they screamed until they vanished into the dark.

From his vantage point, Vask could not see what was happening on the ground that far away. He was surrounded by the rush and roar of warriors, and wherever he moved in the crowd, there was only more of the same. But the maw in the air was sucking combatants up from the ground, and he could tell that the tenor of the battle was changing completely. He understood that he was not the one who had laid the ambush. The prospect of terminal defeat loomed, defeat that would end his rebellion forever.

All thought of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer vanished. The furious commands of Graunos lost all purchase on him. His anger had one great object, and soon she would be beyond the reach of his justice. This was his last chance. If he died, so be it. The only meaning his existence had was the destruction of Neferata.

‘We have no interest in the gate!’ he called. ‘Destroy the tyrant of Neferatia! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!’

The monstrous fire drove the Anvils of the Heldenhammer back once again, but it would be for the last time. The Wrathgate had buckled under their blows. Fissures spread upwards, glowing wounds in the brass flesh, and the centre was collapsing, huge slabs of metal falling away and crashing to the ground. Comrades fell, and Venthor led the final retreat back to the rubble from the cliff.

Then the dead attacked from behind and the sides, and while the Anvils turned to face them, the ruined Wrathgate opened wide, unleashing the warhorde’s desperate charge.

Venthor led a defence so ferocious it was worthy of a new assault. Even with the massive attack by the dead, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer broke the rush of the Bloodbound and began to turn them back. Rhasan and the battlemages brought more of the cliffside down, this time from the other side, as the Bloodbound charged. The avalanche crushed scores and narrowed the pass further. The Bloodbound had to get past the rockfall to get at the Anvils, and they ran into a withering barrage from the Judicators.

The Khornate warriors did not stop. They spread out and climbed over the rocks, and there the Prosecutors were ready for them. The winged furies of dark, embodied justice fell upon them with the speed of birds of prey and the brutal strength of battering rams. Even this could not quell the flood of the enemy. The Bloodbound washed over the rocks in waves, and on the other side, the Liberators drove them back against the stone. The tide of warriors became a tide of blood.

And still they came.

If the Bloodbound had been the only enemy, Rhasan thought, the outcome of the battle would have been inevitable. The Khornate could feed the skull with their own dead, or they could fight. In the long run, they could not do both. Only now they did not have to make a choice. The ambush Neferata had tried to warn the Anvils about had come, and they were beset on all sides. Phantoms emerged from the cliffs on both sides of the pass for as far as Rhasan could see. If it were not for the arrival of Neferata’s army, that entire spirit host, many thousands strong, would have rushed upon the Stormcast Eternals. Instead, the new foe was divided, its leadership seemingly uncertain, attacking in two directions at once.

The Stormhost formed a defensive circle, the bulwark of the Liberators holding back a force of vampires and mortals that attacked from the south. Fighting on the north front, crushing skulls and ribcages with the steady, merciless swings of her hammer, Rhasan caught glimpses of the struggle at the rear. The night burned with the warring lightning and deathly sorcery, flashing white and sickly green.

The defensive wall of shields, hammer and armour held. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were not about to be overwhelmed.

There was another push from the Bloodbound. Venthor led a counter-charge and pushed them back through the passage between the two huge rockfalls. The lord of Khorne directing the attack appeared briefly on the peak of the southern hill of rubble. He had led the initial push. His juggernaut had trampled Prosecutors, and his weapon seemed to cut through reality itself. The warlord led charges and appeared to be directing others, but was not throwing himself and all his forces into the kind of single, massed charge Rhasan expected from his kind. He was using probing attacks instead. At this moment, he appeared to be surveying the Stormhost, strategising.

There was a huge double explosion that was immediately muffled, as if compressed, and the lord of Khorne looked up from the Stormhost. Rhasan cut the head from another bloodreaver that had descended onto her position by the rocks, and glanced back to see the black-and-grey vortex in the air.

‘What is that?’ shouted Lord-Castellant Arvax.

‘Something our foe does not welcome,’ said Rhasan.

Two monsters flew by overhead, making for the wall. Their ragged wings cast a deeper shadow over the night.

The warlord roared orders as he pulled back to the other side of the boulder ridge, and the Bloodbound’s charge ended. They retreated with their leader. A few moments later, the flashes of the battle to the south diminished too.

Venthor paused with Felkreth at the gap between the rubble hills. Rhasan saw him poised on the verge of ordering a counter-attack when Jehnneka landed next to him.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ the Knight-Venator said, ‘the ambushing army has turned its attention from us. Its forces are committed entirely to attacking Neferata. They have their backs to us.’

‘This is a chance,’ said Rhasan.

‘What do you mean?’ said Venthor. Felkreth was pawing at the ground, gouging it with his claws, eager to charge north. He reflected his master’s desire and impatience.

‘We can reverse the configuration of this battle. We attack the ambushers and catch them between ourselves and Neferata.’

‘And then?’ said Venthor, growing angry.

‘I take no pleasure in suggesting this,’ Rhasan said, ‘but Neferata and we have a common enemy. We destroy the ambushers, link up with her forces and then finish the Bloodbound.’

‘And then?’ Venthor asked again. ‘We find ourselves in exactly the position she wants, that she has been trying to bring about since we arrived in Shyish.’ He pointed south. ‘Can you say that she has not staged the battle she fights? Do you know that she is not sacrificing her forces so that she can convince us of her good will?’

‘No,’ Rhasan admitted.

‘If this is so, she has sacrificed many,’ Jehnneka ventured. ‘She would sacrifice even more to destroy another army as a sham.’

‘That destruction would not be allowed to happen,’ said Venthor. ‘We would barely have turned to the south when the trap would be sprung and both armies would turn against us, now with our backs to the Bloodbound. No, we go forwards. That sorcery in the air has pushed the forces of the Ruinous Powers into retreat. North is where we turn the tables, and the enemy’s retreat has given us that chance.

‘At my command, we attack!’

The implosion tore a hole in the air, and Kathag stared at the vortex with a chill of horrified recognition. It was the grey in the darkness that he feared. It was the grey that confronted him in his axe. It was the grey of the Maw of Uncreation.

She can’t, he thought. She can’t have the power to create that horror here. He had only glimpsed the Maw in Nulahmia. He had understood what it was, and had turned away from its lethal fascination. It was absolute destruction, a finality beyond death. If even a fraction of that power was loose on the field, fighting it would be a futile madness.

Vask was possessed by that kind of madness.

From his position at the top of the rockfall, Kathag watched the necromancer make the crucial mistake. He disobeyed Graunos’ commands and turned to fight Neferata. His obsession was too great. Kathag was impressed that it was strong enough to overwhelm the hooks that Graunos had sunk into Vask’s mind.

From behind and above came bellowing roars. The two huge beasts that had emerged from the towers were attacking the skull.

Kathag was almost out of time. There were events unfolding on the battlefield that he could not control, and whose endings he could not foresee. His prize, though, had not escaped his grasp yet. The arrival of the vortex in the air gave him the chance he needed. The Bloodbound had a very convincing reason to pull back.

‘Retreat!’ he ordered. ‘Withdraw towards the gate! Let Sigmar’s dogs come for us!’

Kathag hauled on the reins of Borgheven. The juggernaut plunged down the slope, cracking boulders beneath its hooves. When they reached the floor of the pass, Kathag turned the beast again so they were parallel to the rockfall, facing the gap. He moved forwards slowly, waiting for what he was sure would happen. He did not have to wait long.

The Stormcast Eternals thundered through the gap. They were so disciplined, it was as if they were a single beast of war in black armour. The Bloodbound ahead of them were in full retreat towards the Wrathgate. The Lord-Celestant on his dracoth pursued. The beast pounded the earth in its fury, and its speed took them further ahead of the main body of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

Venthor’s appearance sprang Kathag’s trap. He had held back a third of the force with which he had ridden out, dividing them in two and sending them to opposite sides of the pass to stay low and motionless next to the fallen cliffs and wait for the signal.

Venthor was that signal.

‘Give me my prize,’ said Kathag. He growled low in his throat.

The Bloodbound attacked. Mobs of bloodreavers, led by brutal skullcrushers, howled in eagerness and fury. Bloodletter daemons ran along the rubble, leaping from rock to rock. A savage pincer closed on the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Kathag urged his juggernaut into a stampeding run. The Lord-Celestant was his prize.

‘Give me your skull,’ Kathag hissed, his eyes on Venthor.

The Stormcast Eternals reacted to the danger at once. Venthor slowed down and the others ran faster, seeking to clear the gap before the jaws of the trap closed. Fast as they were, they were too slow. They never had the time.

Two battering rams of fury slammed into the flanks of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. The greatest concentration of the force hit Venthor’s position, cutting him off from his Stormhost. The Anvils’ formation attacked the mob that separated them from their leader. A Relictor led the attempt to break through. The solemn skull on the black helm was an expression of grim death as she smashed down Kathag’s Bloodbound. A skullcrusher came at her, shouting his promise to kill. Without a pause in her advance, she slammed her hammer into his face, pulping his head like overripe fruit.

Venthor’s dracoth pounced on the Bloodbound, biting men in half, smearing them across the stone with the slash of its claws. It caught the scent of Borgheven and snarled in challenge. Its master turned at the warning and rose taller in the saddle, hammer in both hands.

The cold, stern visage of the Lord-Celestant’s helm hid the warrior’s face. Kathag’s horns emerged from his helm, and its armour left his mouth exposed. Kathag wanted Venthor to see his expression. He wanted the Lord-Celestant to see his teeth-bared grimace of victory.

The dracoth let out a shrieking howl of hate and leapt. It sailed over the heads of the bloodreavers closing in on it and landed on others, crushing them. Its way clear, it rushed at Borgheven. The juggernaut bellowed in answer and, head lowered, rushed to meet the foe. Kathag stood up in his saddle too, his axe at the ready. His snarl became a grin when Venthor leaned back with his hammer, preparing a massive blow. The fool thought there were rules to this duel.

The two monsters collided. The ground shook with the impact, and the roars of the monsters were so huge they brought more boulders down from the cliffs. Kathag jumped from Borgheven’s back at the last moment, and Venthor swung his weapon through empty air. Kathag came down on the dracoth’s back, behind the Lord-Celestant.

Venthor spun, his speed surprising. He leaned back and swung the hammer in low, just managing to block the death blow Kathag had aimed at the warrior’s spine. The collision of weapons unleashed a flash of blue lightning and a blast of crimson fire. The dracoth screamed in pain, and the explosion hurled Kathag and Venthor from its back.

Kathag kept his feet and came at Venthor with one savage swing after another. Venthor blocked each one, but Kathag kept him on the defensive. Behind the Lord-Celestant, the beasts shook the earth with their struggle. They thrashed in anger and pain, jaws locked on each other’s throats.

The warriors of Kathag’s horde rushed to block the duel off from the other Anvils of the Heldenhammer. They sacrificed themselves to Khorne, for their attacks did little more than turn them into shields of flesh. Kathag didn’t care. They did as he had commanded, and far above, the skull, besieged by monsters, grew strong with souls again.

Venthor leaned into a block with such force that he made Kathag stumble. The power of their weapons warred again, the tempest unleashed by the sigmarite hammer colliding with the vortices of reality torn open by Kathag’s axe. There was another explosion, but both warriors weathered the blast. Kathag’s stumble gave Venthor the opening he needed. He pushed hard enough to topple a wall, throwing Kathag back a full step. Free to swing his hammer, he took the offensive.

But the wound of the first blast had weakened his dracoth, and Borgheven closed his jaws through the beast’s flesh. Blood gushed in a flood over the juggernaut’s face and he twisted, smashing the dracoth to the ground. Venthor’s discipline did not waver at the sound of its distress, but Kathag felt the fury of the Lord-Celestant’s coming blow. He tried to jump out of the way of the hammer, but Venthor was too fast. Kathag’s own speed saved him from being broken in two, but it felt as if a mountain had smashed into his flank. He roared, explosive pain becoming rage. He would not fall here. He could not fall. He had struggled too long and hard to achieve his redemption in wrath.

Kathag spun back at Venthor, and at the same moment, Borgheven leapt forward from the fallen dracoth. The Lord-Celestant sidestepped and brought his hammer smashing into Borgheven’s skull. The monster fell, stunned by the blow, and Venthor whirled again to face Kathag. But the double attack stole the initiative from him. It gave Kathag the fraction of time he needed. Though Venthor came at him again, he had the chance to lunge to the side, out of the way of the hammer. He turned into his blow, bringing the axe in from the side with all his force. The air screamed in writhing pain, and the monstrous blade struck Venthor’s armour at the side of his neck.

Reality erupted, lashing out in screams from the point of contact. Disintegration coiled and spiralled. A cyclone of tormented energy engulfed Kathag and Venthor. The Lord-Celestant’s limbs convulsed. His head jerked to the side in an unnatural angle. His arms twitched as if he might somehow wield his hammer one more time. Kathag gave him no chance. He pulled the axe back and hit again, just as hard. The cyclone shrieked louder, and then vanished.

Venthor’s head tumbled from his body. Kathag snatched it from the air and held it aloft. He held the prize only for a moment before a blast of purifying lightning stole it and Venthor’s body from him, searing the flesh down his arm and torso.

The moment was enough for Kathag. ‘For the Skull Throne!’ he shouted while he lifted the head.

The sky above flashed. A thunder too loud to be heard deafened Kathag, and a firestorm devoured the night.

Vask took the bait. The chaotic mass of warriors acquired sudden, definite purpose in answer to Neferata’s taunts and the destruction wreaked by the vortex. The spell that had taken the towers could not hope to replicate the power of the Maw of Uncreation. Nor did Neferata have the least wish to do so. What she had succeeded in forging here, in collaboration with her most ancient necromancers, was powerful enough, though it was only a pantomimic echo of the Maw. What the maelstrom did was simple annihilation, no worse than that, crushing its material and aethereal prey to nothing. It would dissipate soon, its work done.

Vask was panicked and enraged, and he was about to give himself away.

The army rushed forwards, clashing with her troops. Volleys of arrows flew her way. She was the sole focus of the throng below. Mortals waved swords over their heads as if they could reach high enough to cut her down. Vampires took wing, and her morghasts flew down to meet them.

Neferata smiled. In rising to a fight they could not win, the vampires thinned the crowd. The earth-bound combatants raved at her or fought as her skeletons marched, relentless in their discipline, deeper into the rebel ranks. But there was a cluster of fighters, more visible now, who moved differently. They did not rush forwards. The army had a single-minded direction, but inside it this small group moved back and forth seemingly at random, and stayed densely packed, as if protecting someone.

‘I have you,’ Neferata said. ‘Down, Nagadron. Take us to our prey.’

The Adevore streaked down towards the cluster of rebels. Kerdathax and Dravashkon cleared her path through the air. They cut through the vampires, and the bodies of the weak, treacherous undead fell in tatters to the ground. Neferata braced herself for the attack that would surely come. She channelled sorcerous strength through Aken-seth. A shield of night formed ahead of the staff’s blade. It was narrow but powerful, focused on protecting her from what would come from within the cluster.

‘Be ready,’ she whispered to Nagadron.

The blast came, as it had in Knell. It was not as strong as that attack. This was summoned in desperation and haste. Even so, its power was ferocious. There was a collective strength here, two souls acting as one. The bolt slammed against her shield. Roaring in pain, Nagadron dived through the burning fury. Neferata grimaced. Though her shield blunted the damage, it felt as though she were flying through a storm of spears. Her grimace became a hiss of vengeance, because the storm could not stop her.

She smashed through the bolt. It became ragged shards, hurled at her with all the force of centuries of a family’s hate and pain. They could not even slow her. Neferata tightened her grip on Aken-seth, bolstering the shield. The dread abyssal streaked over the warriors, breaking them apart with his claws. Neferata leaned over Nagadron’s side. She reached down and snatched Vask up.

Nagadron rose skywards, still heading north to the Wrathgate, and Neferata looked at the thing in her grasp. Her foe was a hunched, wizened man, his frame twisted by the grip and bite of the mummified torso clinging to him. She remembered the noble figure Mathas Hellezan had cut as he unknowingly led his followers to their doom, and she laughed.

‘Look at what you’ve come to, Hellezan,’ she said. ‘See what an age of struggle has done. What purpose is there left in your fight?’

‘Your destruction!’ Vask croaked.

She had him by the throat, and he could barely speak. His strangled voice sounded like two people. Neferata glanced at the mummy, and understood where Vask’s power came from.

‘My destruction?’ she asked as Nagadron soared higher. ‘That is all? You do not fight for anything any longer? That is a sorry end for your rebellion. But you will be useful to me, at the last.’

Above the gate, the terrorgheist and the zombie dragon attacked the skull and its supports. The defenders on the ramparts tried to kill what was already dead. The monsters retaliated. The terrorgheist’s screaming roar pulverised bone, and the zombie dragon bathed the battlements with breath that rotted the warriors where they stood.

The skull was damaged. It leaned forwards drunkenly. At the same time, its eyes blazed. It had fed well on the deaths of Khorne’s worshippers, and it was ready to burn the ground again. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were in the thick of fighting with the Bloodbound. Almost half their number were still blocked in the gap between the rockfalls. Too many of them would not be able to retreat if the flames caught them now.

‘I am tired of you,’ Neferata told Vask. ‘But you see, in the end, though you could not see it, you have done my bidding. It is inevitable. I arrange the stage, and you are the players who perform as my desire wills it.’

The monsters grabbed the skull by its eye sockets and yanked the face up. The fires of rage climbed their bodies, destroying bone and rotted flesh.

Neferata hurled Vask at the skull. Screaming, the necromancer plunged into the right eye as the weapon began to fire.

The skull exploded. Its fire burst from cracks around its entire circumference, and then the weapon disintegrated, brass evaporating the furnace of its death. The fireball was blinding, a blast of uncontrolled, inchoate rage. Night burned away before the terrible day. A wave of heat roared down the length of the Axeway. Banners burst into flame at its passage. In the blinding glare, Neferata’s maelstrom receded, coiled into itself and then vanished.

The flames of wrath rose upwards in a mushrooming fountain, consuming the zombie dragon and the terrorgheist, then fell back in a flood over the Wrathgate. The deluge cut short the screams of the warriors on the ramparts. It melted the brass of the gate. The huge structure buckled and twisted. Metal turned molten. Large chunks glowed white-hot, then fell like meteors to the ground. Crumbling and melting, the Wrathgate groaned. The death cry of brass filled the Axeway like a screeching, mournful wind.

As the fire ran in torrents down the gate, it began to dim. There was no consciousness behind this anger. It was an explosion of rage that could not be sustained. The hissing of molten metal became a series of loud, sharp cracks. The two halves of the gate fell against each other, gaps opening up in the centre and at the base of the cliffs.

The last of the fire reached the ground, the rage guttering sullenly. The monumental gate looked as if it had been crushed in the fist of a god.

The last echoes of the blast fell away with the death cry of the Wrathgate. Other cries now made themselves heard. Vask’s death stole the heart from his legions. The rebels knew that they had lost, and that they were lost. Some tried to fight, some tried to flee, some tried for mercy. The spirits of Shadowvel tried to fight on. They knew there would be no mercy. They fought because there was nothing else to do. They had already been decimated by the implosion of the towers and the hungry vortex.

Neferata’s army moved swiftly and relentlessly through the pass. Her forces were a great scythe. This was no longer war. It was execution. Vask’s rebels shrank in on themselves while the Neferatians fell upon them with murderous contempt.

As the gate twisted, the Bloodbound retreated in a stampede, risking fiery annihilation to get through the gate ahead of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer.

‘Quickly, Nagadron,’ said Neferata. She urged the dread abyssal to make speed and land ahead of the front ranks of the Stormcast Eternals. Lord-Relictor Rhasan was at their head, their banner still held high but burned almost beyond recognition.

Neferata’s army came up behind the Anvils, then stopped, keeping to the top of the rockfalls and the sides of the pass. Her host advanced no further than within a hundred yards of Sigmar’s warriors.

The last of the Bloodbound passed through the rents in the Wrathgate. Rhasan had not pursued them immediately, waiting for the full Stormhost to leave the gap and form up for a march of vengeance into Angaria.

Neferata dismounted from Nagadron fifty yards ahead of Rhasan, and barely more than that in front of the ruin of the Wrathgate. She stepped away from the Adevore, standing in the path of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, her weapons lowered.

‘Move aside,’ said Rhasan.

‘You have every reason to pursue your present path,’ Neferata said. ‘I will not try to stop you. I do ask you to stop, though.’

‘Why?’ Lord-Veritant Hyreia demanded.

‘Because I offer you the full measure of justice and vengeance.’

‘They are both just on the other side of that gate,’ Hyreia said.

‘I disagree. There are plenty of Khorne’s followers there for you to pursue and destroy, certainly. But you will not find the killer of Lord-Celestant Venthor. He has too much of a lead.’

‘He will turn and fight,’ said Arvax. ‘That is the way of his kind.’

‘Of his kind, yes, but not of Kathag. Like his master, he fights to win a war, not a mere battle. Vask, who ambushed us, was the main actor of this campaign. He was, I believe, meant to attack you alone. We are fortunate that he overreached. Kathag made no such mistake. He accomplished exactly what he set out to do.’

‘For the moment.’

Neferata nodded, granting the result of the implacable pursuit by the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. ‘Vengeance will be yours, in the end. You have pierced the defences of Angaria, and you will extend the thrust of your blade from here into the belly of the empire. But your campaign will be long and costly. There is another, better choice.’

She paused. The impassive faces of their helms hid their emotions, but she had struck a nerve. The leaders of the march slowed, then stopped a few paces from her. The Stormhost halted behind them. Rhasan and the others were ready to listen, then. Good.

She was careful not to smile. In killing Venthor, Kathag had served her purpose well. She hoped she would have the chance to tell him so before killing him.

‘What do you offer?’ Rhasan said.

Hyreia took half a step towards Rhasan, then stopped.

You do not even want to hear what I have to say, Lord-Veritant. You would stop Rhasan from listening to me as well, but you have too much respect for her to undermine her so visibly. This is good for me to know. Venthor’s views will be defended until his return. Very well.

‘I offer what I have from the start,’ said Neferata. ‘In this war, we should be allies. It is foolish to be divided against Graunos. We have seen today that we should be fighting together.’

‘How do you propose to enter Angaria if not through here?’ Rhasan asked.

‘My armies will travel through the underworld of Obsidia and enter Angaria a few hours’ march from Mausolea. I will strike at the heart of the empire. I will attack Graunos directly.’

Neferata did not have to see past the masks of the helms to know she had the full attention of the leaders of the Stormhost.

‘Your way forward from here is uncertain, and may well lead to another trap. At the very least, you are many leagues from Mausolea. March with me, and end the reign of Graunos now.’

‘And then what?’ said Rhasan. ‘What do you ask of us?’

‘Nothing,’ said Neferata. ‘If you wish to lay claim to Shadowvel, then it is yours.’

‘For your purposes, it would be better for us to attack from here and draw Graunos’ attention away from you until you are ready.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Then the reasons why you propose an alliance are unclear.’

‘They satisfy me.’

‘But not us,’ said Arvax.

Neferata bowed, conceding the point. ‘I could give you reasons. I could keep things as simple as saying that I want to see what it is like when the Stormcast Eternals strike from the shadows. Would you believe any of these reasons? Do you believe anything I say?’

‘No,’ said Hyreia.

‘I do not expect you to. You will only see the truth by joining me. And you will see the doom of Graunos too.’

The Anvils of the Heldenhammer made no reply. Finally, Rhasan said, ‘We will, in this single instance, fight with you against our common foe.’

‘Good,’ said Neferata. Good. ‘I ask for nothing more.’ She was pleased with Rhasan. She had thought that the Lord-Relictor embodied interesting possibilities, and she had been right. ‘Make your way to the western arm of the Stonepains.’

‘Where on the western arm? That is a very wide area.’

‘Ride until you see my army. It is not difficult to find. It is much larger than the one I brought here. Ride, and we will march together.’ Now she did smile. ‘You will have your vengeance. And we will make an empire fall.’

Permit your enemies to uncover a clear deception, and so blind them to the deeper one.

– Neferata, Threads of Stratagem

Chapter Thirteen

In the Offertory throne room, Graunos said, ‘A great price to pay for so small a prize. A single skull, which could not be kept or truly offered.’

‘There was meaning in the kill,’ said Kathag. ‘And a loss that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer will feel.’

‘You think that was worth the price we paid?’

‘Vask lost the battle before it began through his delay. The price was going to be paid. I chose to salvage something from that defeat. But yes, the cost is real. We are vulnerable to the south now.’

‘Vulnerable?’ Graunos shouted. ‘They should be attacking us by now! You were not followed. Why is that?’

Kathag looked puzzled. ‘The Stormcast Eternals have not pursued at all? I thought they were simply regrouping.’

‘No,’ said Graunos. ‘I have eyes upon the Wrathgate. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer withdrew from the Axeway with Neferata.’

‘With?’

‘With. They have been making for the western Stonepains.’

‘She has made allies of them, then.’

‘Which was always her intent. We have a united foe against us now.’

‘Why withdraw?’ Kathag wondered. ‘Why not seize the advantage they had gained. They could already be in Angaria by now.’

Graunos shook his head. He had been wrestling with the question since he had learned of the choice the Anvils of the Heldenhammer had made. He knew that nothing Neferata did was what it appeared to be. This action appeared to be nothing, meaningless.

‘She did not bring her full strength to the Axeway,’ said Kathag. ‘But why not have the rest of her army rejoin her? She has a much greater force now, with no way in.’

Graunos jerked up from the throne. ‘We have been fools!’ he roared. ‘The Anvils of the Heldenhammer would not join her forces and do nothing. We have no way into Neferatia, but she can enter Angaria. There is another entrance, and she knows of it.’

Graunos saw how perfectly Neferata had manipulated him. Even the acts of sabotage in Mausolea, seemingly designed to disrupt his movement of troops to the western border, had actually been a goad, driving him to redouble his efforts and leave the centre undefended, to protect a region that would never be attacked and to prepare for a march he would never be able to make.

‘But there are no passes she can cross,’ said Kathag. ‘Nighthall was the only one.’

‘She will not come to us through the mountains. She has engaged in a great charade to draw our forces there where they will be useless. We are undefended in the centre, and so it must be there, somehow, that she will strike. Bring them back! Bring them all back!’

Skarveth had taken one of many paths to Obsidia. There were as many roads to the city as there were roads to loss. Neferata had closed her realm’s primary gate on the border after Hothalas had sealed Obsidia. She opened all the gates now, and her legions entered the darkness that would take them to the sighing city. The tunnels of loss filled with the tremendous army of the dead.

Walking beside Nagadron, Neferata arrived at the gate of Obsidia. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer marched at the front with her. Rhasan had demanded they take the lead, and Neferata had agreed. She was pleased to let them. They should see what was coming first. The more they trusted her, the better.

Neferata’s fanfare sounded, its strains a celebration of the delights of blood. There was no mourning for Neferata. Death was a revel. Anguish was what she brought to others.

Solemn drums answered the blast of trumpets. Hothalas’ march was stately, and spiked with the sharp stabs of pipers. It was a counterpoint to the fanfare, though it was not in opposition. Anguish was ready to march with Blood.

The gates did not open yet. Neferata smiled at Hothalas’ caution.

‘Your ally is not eager to let you in,’ Rhasan said.

‘She awaits the accomplishment of a promise,’ Neferata said. ‘As she should.’

On the top of the gate, the company of spirits parted to make way for their queen. The great wraith appeared, sceptre in hand. She looked down at the host gathered at her wall, and was silent.

‘I salute you, Queen Hothalas,’ Neferata called. ‘I have come, as was agreed.’

‘I can see that you have come,’ said Hothalas, ‘but I was promised that the crown would be made whole. I was promised a victory.’

‘Both shall come to pass. They are as necessary to my ends as they are to your soul. Is my emissary with you?’

‘He is. I gave him my half of the crown, which he no longer has. He says it is with the other half.’

‘So it is.’ Neferata gestured to her right.

Mereneth left her place in the shadows behind her queen to fly upwards, hovering halfway up the height of the wall. ‘I was in Velkyn,’ she said. ‘I took your sister’s portion of the crown.’

‘Then where is it?’ Hothalas asked.

‘It is providing you with your victory,’ said Neferata.

‘It has not been reforged. I would know it.’

‘So will Kranyax.’

Hothalas fell silent.

‘I believe she is sifting through implications,’ Neferata said quietly to Rhasan.

‘What implications?’

‘The queen of Velkyn is mad. Her reaction will not be rational when the sundered is made whole and is not in her possession.’ Neferata turned back to Hothalas. ‘Do you see?’ she called. ‘Do you see the double victory that lies ahead?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Hothalas.

‘I do not ask that you trust me. You do not have to. You will know for yourself when my promises are kept. Look towards Velkyn, Hothalas of Obsidia. Look to Mausolea. You will see, and when you do, you will open the gates gladly, and we will march together.’

The ring of scorched earth surrounding Mausolea was several hundred yards wide. The four spies approached it from the west. They stopped on a plain of singing grass. The blades writhed, and where once they had whistled in sorrow, now they sang in anger. They were the echoes of the spirits that had sunk into the land. At the edge of the ring, the blades screamed, rehearsing the memory of fire. The Sentinel of the Shroud’s beam had passed a short time before. Velaza and her comrades had just under an hour before it came again. Time to make ready. For everything.

The land on which the fire passed had been scorched and melted repeatedly until it was blackened glass. The heat was still blistering. A shower of liquid brass pattered against the ground.

‘No army will cross this without loss,’ said Epikente. ‘Especially a large one.’

‘If the army is large enough, the losses will not matter,’ Velaza said.

‘If victory is attained, then no loss will matter,’ said Guessa.

Velaza exchanged a long look with her friend. She clasped Guessa’s upper arm. ‘We have always been ready.’

‘Yes, we have,’ said Guessa.

The other two nodded.

‘Then let us begin.’

They stood in a circle, their hands linked. Mereneth had trained them thoroughly in the collective spell they were about to cast. There had been no reason to use it before. Now, it seemed obvious that their mission was always going to bring them to this moment, and this very specific need.

‘Our queen always knew that things would come to this pass, didn’t she?’ said Tavensia. ‘This was her plan from the start.’

‘Yes,’ said Velaza. ‘I think so. Would you have preferred to know?’

Tavensia thought for a moment. ‘No,’ she decided. ‘Better not to know my fate, even if it is preordained. Especially if it is preordained.’

‘I have freely chosen to be here,’ said Guessa. ‘This is what I believe. It is simply that our queen always knew that I would make this choice.’

‘And I choose to be proud of what we will accomplish this night,’ said Velaza.

They began to chant. They drew upon eldritch forces. The unity of their voices summoned a greater strength than they could have individually and bound it with unbreakable shackles. The power gathered around them, closed around them, became an invisible shell around them. They created a shield no spear or spell could pierce.

It would have to withstand much more than that.

Velaza’s skin went numb. She knew she held Guessa’s and Epikente’s hands, but she could not feel them. She could hear the wind blowing softly through the singing grass, but she could not feel that any longer either. She was glad she had touched Guessa’s arm earlier. She was glad they had all been holding hands before the numbness descended.

They were ready. Velaza pulled the Sundered Crown out of the leather bag at her hip, and the spies walked the rest of the way to the blasted earth. Velaza discovered her skin was not completely numb. The radiant heat got through, though she felt it merely as a slight warmth. She knew that would change.

She was ready.

They stepped onto the black glass. It cracked beneath them. Smoke rose from the soles of their boots. The land grew hotter and the light of Graunos swept towards them. It was still a thin line in the distance, scorching a region of the ring well to the east.

Velaza presented the two halves of the crown to the others. They formed another circle around it, the four of them pressing it together. Then they waited for the fire to arrive.

Velaza was facing east. She watched the beam approach. Impassive and terrible, the Sentinel of the Shroud was turning its face to her. It cut through the night, the rawest of wounds, blood-red fire drawing ever closer. Her discipline gave her the self-control she needed to suppress the instinct to flee. No thinking being, alive or dead, would deliberately subject itself to this monstrous cremator. Not unless the highest of duties called, or the greatest of wills commanded.

The beam was wide now. It hurt her eyes to stare at it. The heat of the land grew more and more intense. The glass was already beginning to run again. Velaza’s boot heels were sinking into the surface. Summoned by the Khornate nature of the beam, a rain of brass began. It beat against Velaza’s head. It trickled down her face and from her shoulders. The spell of protection held, and the metal rolled off her, leaving the trace of a burn on flesh, a hint of a char on clothing. There was no pain. That was yet to come.

The pain was very close.

The pain arrived.

The light of Graunos fell upon Neferata’s spies. A splinter from the heart of Hysh itself and transmuted by the hate of its vengeful son, light more brilliant than any Velaza had ever seen engulfed her. She closed her eyes against it, but there was no darkness to be found, no succour of shadow.

Illumination was destruction.

The glass became a boiling river. Velaza sank into it up to her calves. The air burned. The river of glass burned. Everything burned. Flames ignited on the clothing of the spies. The heat and the light and the pain broke through the shield. Velaza had believed that once agony reached a certain level, it attained a kind of purity, a transcendence of sensation taken beyond the limits. There was no purity here. This was the agony of hate and rage. For the thing that consumed her now, no pain was enough, no torment was equal to its wrath.

As soon as the beam fell on the spies, their protection began to break down, and their destruction was inevitable.

Inside the monstrous light, a second light blazed, created by the first and even more intense. The sundered halves of the crown became a searing diamond, a shining white beyond silver. The sharp point of the light seized Velaza’s attention, momentarily stealing it away from her torment. The two halves of the crown were conducting the heat to each other, reaching to one another, seeking to become a single whole once more.

Seeking, reaching, but not complete. Not yet. Not while the blaze shone brighter and brighter.

Move, Velaza thought. The effort to remain focused on the task was the greatest of her existence. The light of Graunos must not leave them before the task was complete. They could not keep up with its movement. But even the fraction of an eyeblink more might be enough. It would have to be.

She shuffled backwards, in the direction of the beam’s sweep. Her sisters moved with her. She could no longer see them. There was only the light of blood, and the light of the crown. She knew she was moving, and that she was still holding the crown. She could do no more. She was doing as her queen commanded, and that was her strength and her anchor in the sea of pain.

She took only a few steps before she fell. She lost her grip on the crown. She dropped into the boiling, flaming glass, and the spell of protection crumbled away. She was finished. They all were.

And so was their task. In the midst of the conflagration, the crown cooled all at once. The blinding white contracted, absorbed into a dark silhouette of iron.

Black in the screaming red was Velaza’s final sight. Her last thought was of her queen’s laughter at what was coming for Graunos.

Through to the end of her pain, Velaza laughed too.

Graunos circled the Offertory throne room as the rotation of the Sentinel of the Shroud brought Skulldagger Bastion around to face Neferatia again. He paused at each window, stopping longest each time he looked west. Neferata’s attack was coming, he was sure of that. It was coming, and he would meet it with fury. What he did not know was where the assault would come from. He could assume nothing. He had been deceived this far. His one certainty was that one place from which no attack would come was the western Stonepain Mountains.

He was fortunate, and the fact that he had averted disaster through luck enraged him. At least he had realised that the standoff at the mountain range was a decoy while Neferata and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were still making their way back to the main body of her troops. He had acted soon enough to recall his forces. He was gathering them around Mausolea. From here, he would strike with brutal force at Neferata, no matter where she found a way into Angaria. Kathag was out there now, leading the largest of the warhordes back to the city. Several of Graunos’ great hosts had already returned, and another massive wave of his legions was less than an hour out from Mausolea’s gates.

When Graunos looked west, he could see his warriors advancing over the low hills towards the city. They were darkness and fire, an ocean of violence drowning the land. They would bring a terrible illumination to Neferata. She would understand, as she was destroyed, that she no longer ruled the currents of blood in this region of Shyish. Graunos brought the light of wrath to burn away the shadows of her pointless schemes.

As he watched, the revolutions of the Sentinel of the Shroud brought the light of his anger around to the west. It turned the night crimson where it passed. Graunos waited to see his armies, camped around the city and still approaching, cast their shadows in the glow of the beam’s passage.

Before he could look upon the glory of the strength that had conquered one empire and would soon destroy another, he saw a flash inside the beam. It came from the base, on the ring of scorched land, as if a new fire were bursting into violent life inside the first. Graunos stared, baffled. The blister of silver-white shone only for a few instants. Then it winked out, and for the briefest of moments, Graunos thought he saw a black dot, the tiniest blemish in the perfection of his fire.

The beam moved on. Graunos puzzled over what he had seen. Then a premonition of disaster made him look up. He saw nothing at first, only the solid roof of storm clouds, flashes of lightning revealing their turmoil. He kept looking, suddenly certain that despite his efforts he had been deceived again. The charade he had uncovered had been merely one veil concealing yet another. He had been lured to pointlessness. Now he had been manipulated into bringing his army to catastrophe.

He saw movement in the clouds. It was heavy, vast, swift.

Then the sky fell through the storm.

The Sundered Crown became whole again, and it called triumphantly to the sisters. In Obsidia, Hothalas jerked, overcome with the simultaneity of completion and loss. The wraith sighed. The hiss of pain slithered across the city, forcing her subjects to their knees with the sting of a new, overwhelming loss that was not their own yet was greater than any they had felt before. Outside Obsidia, Neferata watched the Anvils of the Heldenhammer stir uneasily, though if they felt the loss, they hid it well.

Neferata smiled at the sound of the queen’s pain. For her, it meant that the final act of the war was about to begin.

In Velkyn, Kranyax also knew that the crown was reforged. The knowledge was instinctual. The banshee could no longer form anything close to coherent thought. She was a creature of passions. The passions veered first towards joy that the crown was whole, and then they became dark, because she did not have it. The crown had been stolen from her.

The need to possess it again swamped every other instinct. Kranyax’s broken consciousness reached out for the reforged crown. She must have it. She reached down to the plain below the Sentinel of the Shroud. Her monstrous, lunatic will seized at the spot where the crown had come to being again. It felt its contours and held fast.

She did not let go of her islands in the sky.

Whole once more, the crown of loss refused her. It would not be defined by one sister’s embodiment of loss. It would not come to her.

Her desire held it. In her need, she could not release it. The crown’s reality made it a thing she could not possess. The raging, maddened will pulled, and it was pulling on all of Shyish.

With no hint of reason, and no understanding, Kranyax’s howling need brought her realm low. Velkyn plunged through the clouds. If its queen had been able to release anything at all, the disaster would not have been total. But all that she held was hers forever. For Kranyax, the anger of loss was as possessive as it was eternal. And so, trapped in the jealous web of the queen’s will, the rock platforms plummeted to the ground.

The Throne Rock slammed into Mausolea just to the west of the Sentinel of the Shroud. Its edge glanced against the mountain, shaking it from roots to peak, cracking the walls of Skulldagger Bastion. The greater part of the city disappeared beneath the impact. The platform destroyed itself in the fall, and the Keep of the Howl came down, one league from the Sentinel, over the spot where the crown had been made whole again.

The volcanic cone shattered. The platform was demolished, and the sphere of the keep exploded into fragments, the spikes of its towers arcing over the ruins of the city. Millions of tons of rock sealed the crown away from the banshee forever. In the midst of the cataclysm, in the exploding wreck of her castle and its island, Kranyax screamed. She was so close to the crown, yet blocked from it, and she had lost her realm. Her shriek went on and on and on, louder and more frenzied than any before.

Mausolea fell, flattened by the fragments of the sky. The night came down, black shadows spreading over neighbourhoods and encampments. The people of the city looked up in terror and disbelief. They saw their end come, and some had time to scream for absent mercy before they were smashed to dust. Spirits rose from the crushed remains of two realms, howling in distress.

The land for miles beyond Mausolea rocked and quaked as Velkyn plunged and died. Dust rose from new craters and choked the air. Fireballs lit the obscurity. Lava poured from the wounded ground and from the shattered platforms. It ran over the devastation in flash floods, burning and consuming anything that still stood after the impacts.

The sky fell over the armies of Graunos too. In the camps, inside the city and approaching through lands beyond, nowhere was safe from annihilation. Kathag saw the great fall begin, the clouds belching fire as Velkyn roared through. He refused to run. There was no point. He would be destroyed by the rain of a city or he would survive. There was no shelter. The shouts and fury of the horde he led were inaudible. The pounding thunder of the rock strikes was so huge it drowned out every other sound. Some of the Bloodbound ran. Many raised their weapons in defiance against the sky that had come to kill them. And then they vanished, destroyed by the thousands, by the tens of thousands. Legions were snuffed out in an instant.

As he waited for the next few seconds to decide his fate, Kathag thought, She has done this too. The ground in Nulahmia and the sky over Mausolea obeyed her commands.

For the first time, he knew despair.

Then he was engulfed in darkness and dust.

The fires were fading and the dust had begun to settle over a broken landscape when the border between Obsidia and Angaria opened and the legions of Neferata’s creation poured into the wounded empire.

To claim that destruction leads to creation is to perpetuate a half-truth. Destruction, properly understood, properly used, is the purest form of creation. It precedes and follows all other forms. Creation, in its narrow sense, is nothing but the suspended moment between the grandeur of destruction.

– Neferata, The Forges of Death

Chapter Fourteen

The armies of Neferatia and Obsidia and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer raced from the hidden gates to the ruined landscape. Skarveth rode again with his Black Knights. Sword drawn, he exulted in the charge. Everywhere he looked, he saw the shaping hand of his queen. He and Mereneth had recovered the crown. Velaza, Guessa, Epikente and Tavensia had reforged it. The cataclysm had been brought about by the actions of many hands. But only one counted. Only one had directed all the others. They had been the agents of her will, enacting her design, and nothing more. What he bore witness to was the creation of the Mortarch of Blood, and he gave her thanks that he was here, in this moment, to see what she had done and to strike at her enemies yet again.

The Sentinel of the Shroud rose from a vista of destruction. Slabs of rock, like fragments of massive tombs, covered the land, leaning against each other, crushing the foundations of walls and buildings beneath them and standing erect like monuments to the uncounted dead. The light of Graunos still blazed from Skulldagger Bastion, the mountain’s slow turn bringing it inexorably around again. Skarveth urged his riders faster, to be the first to cross the ring of fire and fall upon the enemy. The warhordes of the Bloodbound had been smashed apart, but such was their number that many thousands of Khorne’s worshippers still survived, and they were swarming over the ruins towards the Mortarch’s forces, their appetite for blood undiminished.

He looked up. Neferata was in the air on Nagadron, in the lead of all, visible to every subject and foe, the author of this battle directing the final act. Her forces below were too vast, and the ground too broken, for them to advance in a narrow column. Instead, they came at the Sentinel of the Shroud on a front miles wide, a great tide of the dead washing over Mausolea.

As Skarveth’s cavalry raced past the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, Rhasan called out to him.

‘Is this what you have pledged yourself to? Neferata destroys the subjects she would rule.’

Skarveth laughed. ‘She has not! She has bestowed a great gift upon them. They have the chance of being, like me, reborn into her service.’

He rode on, through the heaps of boulders and across the dark glass. He and his companions made for a large group of Bloodbound survivors who were coming to meet them. Skarveth brought his sword slashing down as the two forces met. He sliced a bloodtaker’s head in half and trampled the corpse. He kept up the speed of the charge, cutting bloody passage through the enemy. The Bloodbound staggered, disorganised, rudderless.

Skarveth urged his mount faster as he killed, trying to keep abreast of Nagadron. When he glanced up again, he saw something descending the slope of the Sentinel. It burned with a crimson light, and a roar came to meet it from the scattered army below.

An even greater howl came from the flame on the mountain. A voice as deep as war called for vengeance.

Graunos raged down from the heights of Skulldagger Bastion. Wings spread wide, he hurtled through the air, a meteor of wrath. The air burned at his passage. Neferata had destroyed what he had created. She had laid waste to his armies. But in doing so, she had erred. She had stoked his fury to such a pitch that it would consume her utterly. She had lit the fires of her own pyre.

He would destroy her here, and then he would roll through Neferatia to destroy her works. He would raze her empire. He would repay the destruction of Mausolea a thousandfold.

‘To me!’ he bellowed. ‘The Skull Throne demands its tribute! Leave no foe standing!’

His command shook the land. The Sentinel of the Shroud groaned in echo, and the clouds boiled as if, at his will, the sky might fall again. The Bloodbound obeyed. Purpose took hold of them, and the survivors of the devastation rushed to him. Some were already fighting Neferata’s troops, but the others gathered at the base of the Sentinel, and they were a host that he would use well. They were strong in muscle and bone and hate. A single one of Graunos’ champions would smash a hundred skeletons without a thought. This warhorde was a fist that would punch through the wall of the dead advancing on Mausolea.

And the Sentinel was turning, bringing with it the light of annihilation. Much of Neferata’s army was still crossing the ring of glass. If he held it back a bit longer, his revenge would be well begun.

Graunos flew over the broken city, and his warhorde followed. He clutched Lightfall, the axe that had become his upon his ascendance. It was a weapon forged for a hate born on Hysh. The light that flashed from it was the illumination of lightning and crematoria. His silver eyes seared tracks of fire before him. He was light and he was truth, and what they were was violence.

Graunos turned south as he reached the front lines of the enemy. They were climbing over the monolithic remains of Velkyn that had fallen in the region of the ring of glass. The debris slowed down the advance, and Graunos descended upon the open areas to savage the larger concentrations of the enemy. Neferata was in the distance, a tiny figure leading the attack on the survivors who were making a first stand, just at the edge of the ring of glass. Graunos made for her, destroying her legions as he did. He flew parallel to the advance. His axe severed the aethereal beings of the spirits. Its light burned them and shredded the lie of their undeath, sending them to final oblivion.

Graunos angled his flight and cut deeper into the army of the dead. Its advance faltered, gaining time for the fist of his counter-attack to draw closer. Even closer was his most terrible light. The beam bore down on Neferata’s legions, bringing the judgement of its creator’s hate, incinerating vampires and skeletons by the hundreds, by the thousands.

Graunos lifted into the air as the beam closed in. To the south and west of his position, he saw a large contingent of the Bloodbound crashing against the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, fighting to hold them, too, in the path of destruction. Kathag was at the head of the attack.

You did not crush enough of us, Mortarch, Graunos thought. Not nearly enough.

The fire was upon them, as she had expected. Neferata had been curious to see if her forces could cross the ring before it came. Their failure did not disappoint her. She was prepared. There was even a reason to be glad of the failure. It created another opportunity.

It also created a great risk, one that fell on her.

The known risk was not to be despised. There was great pleasure to be found in it, too. And so she grinned as she turned Nagadron back, over the ring of glass and into the path of the beam.

She had begun preparing for this moment at the beginning of the campaign, meditating over the descriptions her spies had provided of the light of Graunos and its effects. She had spent months in the Claw of Memory, considering the proper creation of the protection spell she would need. She had passed on enough of what she learned to Mereneth to prepare Velaza and her sisters for their ultimate task. There were limits to the power they could summon, but it had been enough.

What Neferata needed, though, was a spell greater in power and scope. It was not enough to keep four vampires intact long enough for them to complete their service to her. She had to save an army.

She had begun muttering the incantation as soon as she had crossed through Obsidia’s gates into Angaria. She had led the first portion of the attack with her attention divided. Now her focus became total, and she shouted the final syllables of the summoning at the onrushing light. As the land and southern reaches of her army began to burn with the radiant heat, she finished the spell. She spread her arms wide and lifted her head back, looking up to the sky, then turned to embrace all her army to the north as well. With her gesture, she conjured a vast dome of protection.

Blood fought blood, darkness fought light, death fought wrath. The shield sprang into being in front of the beam. It was the red of blood, the black of night and the white of bone. Blood coursed through dark membranes stretched between a network of bones, a colossal hemispherical wing curving to protect the legions from the light of Graunos.

The beam hit, and the shield held. Neferata strained, sending her will across the membrane, commanding its strength, creating its strength. She felt the blast of the beam as an immense pressure, a mountain pressing down against the shield. The blood in her veins grew hot. The membranes fluttered, night threatening to tear and let a terrible day through. The weight pushed at her, and she took it upon her shoulders. Nagadron roared as the power applied to his mistress forced him down.

Neferata poured all her power and focus into sustaining the shield. The events on the ground below were remote from her. She could have no influence on them. They were enormously far away, yet they registered at the edge of her awareness. The armies were pushing forwards, slowed down as the Bloodbound rallied and counter-attacked. She saw the Anvils of the Heldenhammer look up at the protection she gave them. And she saw Graunos. He was still some distance away. He had savaged the front ranks of her forces to the north and was heading towards her now. He would not reach her, she thought, before the beam had passed. She hoped. Until she dropped the shield, she could not parry any attack.

There was movement on her right, and close. One of the Bloodbound of the horde engaging the Anvils of the Heldenhammer had left the conflict. He was vaulting over rubble and climbing higher on the fragments of fallen Velkyn, heading her way. There was power in his movements. This was a leader, a warlord, or perhaps one who sought to become one by destroying the great foe.

He wielded a huge runic axe. It shone like a fire of brass. He had a single, long, vicious horn on the left side of his head. She had seen similar weapons and horns before. The warrior was an Exalted Deathbringer.

He ran along the top of a massive fragment almost level with her. He would leap, she realised, and he would reach her. There was nothing she could do, and he knew it. He was close enough that she could see his jaws widen in anticipation of the kill.

She understood the danger, yet it barely registered. The tiny part of her awareness that was taking in the threat was watching as if from a great distance, detached, cold, mildly interested. The rest of her protected entire armies from annihilation.

There was another shape pursuing the Khornate warrior. It closed in, and Neferata saw that it was Skarveth. As the Deathbringer reached the rock’s edge, Skarveth threw his sword. It struck the Deathbringer hard enough to knock him off balance. He turned on Skarveth and pounded towards the weaponless Hell Knight, axe raised to destroy.

Skarveth ducked and tried to sidestep. He caught a massive blow to the side. It sliced away armour and smashed bone. Skarveth’s plate and his cloak caught fire. He kept moving, went past the Deathbringer and recovered his sword just in time to block a second hit. The blow was so powerful, the rock cracked open beneath his feet.

The Hell Knight and the Deathbringer duelled. Skarveth was dextrous with the sword, but the Deathbringer had the advantage of speed and power. Neferata did not think Skarveth could win. She could not help him.

To her astonishment, she wished she could.

Her concentration almost broke, and her grip on the shield slipped. She regained her control and pushed the duel further to the boundaries of awareness. In a few more seconds, she could act if she wished. In a few more seconds, the beam would pass and she could drop the shield.

The seconds were eternities.

She had never hesitated to sacrifice her subjects when the need arose. There was such a need now, and Skarveth was sacrificing himself for a second time. And she did not want him to.

The warriors clashed in the corner of her vision, a blur of violence and flame. She could not look, because she could not afford to be distracted. She did not look, because she did not want to see Skarveth fall.

The pressure ended just as she heard a bellow of triumph from the Deathbringer. The beam was past. Neferata dropped the shield. The night and blood and bone vanished, and she turned to fight the Deathbringer.

She did not need to. He stood over the prone Skarveth, both hands lifting the axe, his body motionless. Skarveth had stabbed upwards, shoving his blade through the Deathbringer’s throat and spine.

Neferata astounded herself a second time by discovering that she was relieved.

Then she dismissed the thoughts again. Graunos was close.

‘Fly,’ Neferata told Nagadron. ‘Flee the daemon prince. Give me time, Nagadron. Give me time to finish my work.’

The dread abyssal shot away from Graunos, and Neferata began a new incantation. As they raced the daemon prince, she saw another duel further below, and the symmetry of the war pleased her.

Kathag and Rhasan fell back from each other, battered and bleeding from another flurry of blows. Rhasan’s armour was gouged open on the chest and arms. Wherever Kathag’s axe had struck, it had torn the sigmarite and drawn blood. She had done him damage too, her hammer cracking open his armour and shattering his helm. Blood coated Kathag’s face like a red rag.

Around them, the maelstrom of war raged. Stormhost and warhorde had collided in fury. The battlefield was a mass of huge borders and narrow canyons between towering ruins. It was impossible for any force to move through it in a massed charge. The war had become a swarm of skirmishes. Once the armies met, there was nowhere to advance except beyond the ring of glass. There was no objective to take or hold. The only goal was annihilation.

Rhasan and Kathag circled each other. They were in a small bowl created by heaps of rubble on both sides. Kathag’s juggernaut lay on the hill, its head split open and smouldering from a lightning strike.

‘And now you are her plaything too,’ Kathag taunted with a growl.

Rhasan did not answer, watching for an opening.

Kathag laughed bitterly. ‘You don’t think you are? I didn’t think I was, either. I was wrong. Have you considered that it might have been part of her design that I killed your chieftain?’

Rhasan was startled. The suspicion was so much like Venthor’s, it was almost as if he were speaking through the hulking warrior. Still, she kept her silence. Kathag was trying to tempt her into a mistake. Wrath was his strength, and she would not fight the battle on his terms. And Neferata had tried repeatedly to warn Venthor. The choices he had made were his own. She would not dishonour his memory by thinking otherwise.

But the warlord’s bitterness troubled her. There was a melancholy there, a fault line running through his anger.

Kathag swung his axe back and forth and moved closer, ready to launch into her again. ‘Are you telling yourself the same lies I have been?’ he said. ‘I am done with them. I have believed them for too long. I thought I had escaped her once. I thought my lord and I would bring her to ruin because we knew what she was, and would not fall to her traps.’ He spat. ‘We are all her puppets, Relictor. We are her puppets even now.’

‘To what end?’ Rhasan asked in spite of herself.

The bitter laugh came again. ‘Only she knows. And today, the ends are ours.’

Kathag charged with brutal speed, his axe tearing whirls in reality. Braced for the attack, Rhasan stepped into it and blocked the strike. His blow was immense, and the power knocked her aside, as she had expected. She let it, absorbing the worst of the strike with speed as she came around his flank and hit back. Her relic hammer, charged with death and lightning, struck Kathag at the base of the neck. The shockwave of the strike cracked the boulders around them. Kathag’s armour flew apart, and he staggered, flesh charring with burns.

With a howl of rage, Kathag whipped back at her, inhumanly fast, his axe feeding on his anger. The rent it tore in the air was wide and squirming with disintegrating reality. The unleashed storm disorientated Rhasan, and she was too slow to evade the blow. She blocked it, the shock of the impact jarring her spine. The storm grew, and more wounds opened. She did not realise Kathag had pulled his axe back until she saw the overhead strike coming in. She blocked again. Lightning exploded from her hammer, striking into the disintegration vortices. The world shook with the eruption of sorcerous power. Kathag pressed down with all his fury, seeking to shatter her weapon and her with it. She pushed back. Lightning fought with sheer destruction.

She would not fall. She would avenge Venthor.

Kathag pressed harder yet, driven by the anger of despair.

The world was cracking around Rhasan. Swirling abysses joined together. Soon they would form a chasm large enough to swallow her.

Spectral light caged in bones flew overhead. It was Neferata’s monster, taking her east towards the Sentinel of the Shroud. Neferata’s voice cut through the tempest of the war. The syllables she pronounced were strange and terrible in Rhasan’s ears. They sounded like a command, and a final summoning. As she passed above the duel, and without pausing in her incantation, the Mortarch of Blood struck downwards with her staff. Crimson witch-light flashed from it and engulfed Kathag’s head.

The pressure on Rhasan vanished and Kathag stumbled away, clawing at the blood-fire. He kept hold of his axe and pulled his own flesh from his head, dousing the flames of the spell.

Rhasan waited until his vision was clear so he could see her death blow coming for his forehead. She called Sigmar’s lightning upon him at the same moment that she crushed his skull. Body smoking and charred, head a splintered concavity, Kathag dropped like a felled tree.

He was already dead, but Rhasan thought she heard his voice whisper once more in the dissipating energies of his weapon’s vortices. ‘Fools,’ he sighed. ‘All fools.’

Nagadron flew higher, Graunos closing in. He would be upon Neferata in a few moments. Let him, because she was done.

Neferata turned Nagadron around to meet the daemon prince, and to look down upon the devastated vista of Mausolea. She spoke the final syllables, completing her work. Below, the armies of the dead and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer fought against the legions of Angaria. Neferata’s forces had the advantage. Their victory was likely.

That was not good enough. She had not come simply to defeat Graunos’ ambitions, but to exterminate those who would challenge her rule.

She finished speaking, and the dead city answered with a scream of worship.

The citizens of Mausolea killed by the fall of Velkyn obeyed her. The dead in the cemeteries obeyed her. All the souls of all the ages buried within the compass of the burning gaze of Skulldagger Bastion obeyed her. An ocean tide of spirits rose through stone, shrieking in pain and praying to her mercy. All the ground of Mausolea crumbled, and the heaps of rubble moved again as corpses by the hundreds of thousands crawled out from their resting places. No weight of stone could stop them from answering Neferata’s call.

Graunos paused in his pursuit. He hovered just below Neferata, looking down. A legion dwarfing his at its mightiest climbed up from the depths. It was a deluge that covered the land and drowned his warhorde beneath its uncontainable magnitude.

‘You conquered only the surface of this land,’ Neferata said. ‘The foundations have always belonged to me. This is the dominion of bone, and it is mine.’

Graunos looked up at her, his silver eyes blazing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You are wrong. If the land is not mine, then it shall not exist at all.’

He flew higher, past Neferata. Skulldagger Bastion was coming back into sight again, and Graunos turned his eyes upon it. He roared, his wrath splintering the night. Tremors shook the Sentinel of the Shroud. The fortress shuddered, and fissures spread out from its eyes. The corrupted light of Hysh radiated through them, cutting into the hood of the mountain. The fissures became wider. The visage of the fortress seemed to change from unconquerable stone to a gossamer web.

Neferata leapt from Nagadron and shot through the air at the daemon prince.

Skulldagger Bastion exploded, and the sun of annihilation appeared on the peak of the mountain. The last day, the consuming day, came to Angaria. The fireball spread wider and wider, melting the Sentinel, sending a rushing river of glass down its heaving slopes. The sun of Graunos grew towards the ground. In moments it had already consumed half the mountain.

Neferata flew with Aken-seth extended before her. The staff glowed with darkness in answer to the voracious light. Graunos snarled. He took the blast of witch-light full in the chest and swung his axe at the staff.

The killing light reached them. A fire spread over Neferata’s limbs. Raging agony took her, and the darkness of the night vanished. Graunos was silhouetted before her, and he was burning too. His blow knocked the staff away. Neferata veered off, grimacing with the effort to keep control through the fire and pain. She could barely see. Her sense of direction had disintegrated. All of existence was the ruinous sun and the dark shape of its creator in the centre.

Neferata called the risen dead to her as she circled Graunos, seeking an opening. The blaze of the sun darkened briefly as thousands of spectres rushed to answer her. Almost at once, they burned away into aethereal ash. The sun incinerated spirit and matter alike. The wraiths could not reach Graunos. In a few moments, they would all be gone, just as all the armies below would vanish too.

The wounds of the flames fractured her awareness. Neferata blinked, lost a moment of time, and suddenly Graunos was upon her. She could not avoid his axe. The blow smashed her down. The agony of splintering bones shot through the all-consuming pain of the fire. She dropped, and screamed in the fury of will. Her staff burned with its own fire as she channelled spells through it and arrested her fall. She flew back up at Graunos.

Neferata burned throughout her being. Her flesh, her blood, her heart, her essence, they were all in flame. She did not have much longer. She sent an arcane bolt of blood and night from the blade of the Staff of Pain. The daemon shrugged off the blow as if she had done no more than tap his shoulder. He beat his wings, soaring through the firestorm of his sun, and was upon her again, swinging his huge axe with the speed of lightning and with the steady, heavy rhythm of doom.

Neferata blocked with Aken-seth. She blocked again and again. There was no retreating from Graunos now. He was pressing her too hard, too fast. He was a cyclone of wrath, and she could not strike back. She weakened with every parry. She feigned a greater weakness, but the daemon prince snarled at her deception and struck harder yet, turning her lie into a truth.

The fire burned into her vision, and she could barely see Graunos. It burned through to her core, and she could barely hold on to her being. Graunos saw her end loom, and he attacked with renewed frenzy. The axe fuelled the sun to even greater brilliance with every swing. Graunos battered Neferata. He broke her down. Her parries grew weaker, and seeing how close she was to the end, Graunos gave vent to the fullness of his wrath, determined to finish her off.

As Graunos’ attacks became more frenzied, he cared nothing for defence. Neferata struck him with Aken-seth, and her blow meant less than nothing. The daemon rained blows on her with terminal fury. He saw her end. It was within his grasp.

There was no lie here, no pretence. She was at her end.

Truth is the destroyer.

Graunos did not even blink when Neferata slashed at his eyes with Akmet-har.

The Dagger of Jet barely touched Graunos, but it severed vision from his eyes. Darkness returned to him. Darkness, which had been his curse in Hysh, condemning the human he had once been to persecution and exile in the Realm of Light. Darkness, which he had defeated with wrath, took him once more.

The daemon prince howled his denial. He commanded that light return.

And the light obeyed.

The sun ceased its expansion. The monstrous fire contracted, rushing inside the being that had summoned it. Neferata pulled away from an imploding hurricane of flame, summoning protection with the last of her strength. She let herself fall, dropping from the screaming Graunos. He was held in the air by the forces he had unleashed, and which now rushed back to him with vengeance. The day vanished, and Neferata was in the night once more.

She brought her fall to a stop and watched, smiling, as the great fire vanished into the daemon prince. He had created the fire, but the light that Khorne had given his eyes was gone forever. He was plunged back into the darkness that had been his torment in Hysh. In his horror and anguish, his anger had no direction, no vision. It consumed him, and so too did the flames. His need and his terror could never be answered. They swallowed all of the sun.

They swallowed him.

Then it was done. Graunos vanished into oblivion. All that remained was a light rain of ash drifting gently down over the melted ruin of the mountainside.

Do not seek finality or endings. They are dangerous illusions. Look instead for the threads that emerge from every victory and defeat. They lead to the future. Seize the threads, and shape the future.

– Neferata, Ontology of Time

Epilogue

Neferata found Skarveth where she had last seen him. He was kneeling over the body of the Deathbringer. He had struck his sword into the ground, and he rested his arms on the hilt. Fragments of bone littered the earth. He raised his head when Neferata dismounted from Nagadron, but he could not rise.

‘My queen,’ he said.

Neferata was glad to see he had not been destroyed by the blows he had taken from the Deathbringer. She was relieved to see the Hell Knight. The experience puzzled her. She would meditate upon it later. For now, she would give aid to her servant.

‘Rise, Skarveth Lytessian,’ Neferata said. She whispered a necromantic spell, and at the touch of Aken-seth, the Hell Knight’s bones knitted themselves whole once more. ‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I think it right that the descendants of Mathas Hellezan should meet in victory.’

The dome of the sky was greying with dawn when they approached Rhasan. The Lord-Relictor was standing on a leaning slab of rock, easily visible for the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. The Stormhost was reforming its ranks after the battle, making ready to march south.

Rhasan turned to face Neferata. ‘You are satisfied, I imagine. The rest of Angaria lies open to your reconquest.’

‘Which I see I shall do without your company. This saddens me.’

The skull-faced helm cocked to one side. ‘I doubt that. I do not think you are capable of sadness.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘Are you not satisfied with this victory?’ Skarveth asked Rhasan.

‘Graunos is defeated. This was why we came to this region of Shyish.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that is just the beginning, as far as Sigmar is concerned,’ Neferata said. ‘Our paths will cross again, Lord-Relictor.’ I am not done with you. And you do not truly wish to be done with me. You have seen me keep my word. I have you now.

‘The next time we meet,’ said Rhasan, ‘it is very likely to be on opposite sides of the battlefield.’

‘That may well be,’ Neferata conceded. ‘Permit me to hope that will not be the case.’

‘I’m sure you’re being ironic in asking my permission,’ Rhasan said, and she turned back to the Stormhost.

Neferata looked back and forth between Skarveth and Rhasan. The skeleton and the Stormcast Eternal whose armour bore the iconography of bones. Both warriors, from the same family. Their destinies had put realms between them, yet here they were. The intersection of their fates was too unlikely to be a coincidence.

Some other power was at work here, Neferata thought. She saw its hand in the presence of the Hell Knight and the Lord-Relictor.

Who are you? Why do you conjure this mystery? Is this your declaration of challenge? Very well, then. I accept. Come to me.

Let us begin the next dance.

About the Author

David Annandale is the author of the novella The Faith and the Flesh, which features in the Warhammer Horror portmanteau The Wicked and the Damned. His work for the Horus Heresy range includes the novels Ruinstorm and The Damnation of Pythos, and the Primarchs novels Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar and Vulkan: Lord of Drakes. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine, the Yarrick series, and several stories involving the Grey Knights, as well as titles for The Beast Arises and the Space Marine Battles series. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he has written Neferata: Mortarch of Blood and Neferata: The Dominion of Bones. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

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

‘Oh, ware the day the fishing folk come,

To no barrier will they concede,

Their lures will entice both the strong and the frail,

And lo will the good fishes bleed…’

‘What is that ditty she sings?’

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

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

‘It gives me the creeps.’

‘Any honest song should.’

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

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

Sparing only the young…’

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

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

The ocean accepted its return with a faint splash.

‘And when they grow old and grandchildren forget,

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

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

‘Why do you throw back the small ones?’

‘They are young,’ she replied.

‘But why?’

She shrugged. ‘You just do.’

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

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

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

‘Can you hold this thing steady?’

‘Ha!’ Tharril barked, rowing.

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

‘What are you doing?’ Thalia asked.

‘Taking a position, girl.’

‘Why?’

‘Because!’

‘I thought Kharadron lived in the sky.’

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

‘You are looking for treasure?’

‘It won’t look for itself.’

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

‘Good. It’ll still be there then.’

‘No one takes from the sea.’

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

‘That’s what the sea gives.’

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

She frowned.

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

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

Jonsson winked as the girl scraped it off his palm.

‘What’s that?’ she said.

Jonsson followed her gaze down.

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

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

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

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

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

He lowered his skyhook warily.

Almost nothing lived at these depths.

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

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

There was nothing here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And lo will the good fishes bleed.’

Behind him again.

‘Who’s there?’

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

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

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

Jonsson got a horribly good look.

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

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

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

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

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

Jonsson let out a relieved breath.

That had been an allopex.

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

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

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

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

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

There was blood in the water.

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A Black Library Publication

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

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Kevin Chin.

Neferata: The Dominion of Bones © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Neferata: The Dominion of Bones, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78999-720-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

For Margaux, in our year of the rivers.