Contents

Cover

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

Epilogue

About the Author

A Black Library Publication

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

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

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

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

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

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Prologue

The Eight Lamentations

‘Speak, shaman – tell us the tale of Marrowcutter,’ Goreshroud growled. The Bloodbound was a tall man, covered in muscle and piecemeal armour scavenged from a hundred fields of slaughter. His eyes were obscured by a great scar in the shape of the rune of Khorne that covered the upper half of his skull, rising to meet his mane of fat-stiffened, crimson-dyed hair. Though he had no eyes, it was said that Goreshroud could see through those carved into the blade of his heavy, broad-bladed battle-axe. As he spoke, he thumped the ground with the bone-haft of the weapon. ‘Speak and tell us of that which I seek.’

His gathered chieftains growled assent, pounding the earth or clapping their hands. ‘Speak,’ they murmured as one. They were a varied lot: hillmen from the Ghurlands and silver-haired savages from the Boiling Mountains of Chamon, obsidian-clad reavers from the Shadowlands and Calderan horse-lords from the Felstone Plains of Aqshy. Goreshroud had stirred the embers of a conquering fire from the ashes of his past victories, binding his defeated opponents to his skull-bedecked banners. Soon, his armies would sweep across the Ghurlands, from the Gholian Heights to the Sea of Monsters. Or so he claimed, at every available opportunity.

Zazul of the Radiant Veil hunkered closer to the fire around which Goreshroud and his chosen headmen were gathered. The fire was one of a dozen that flickered amidst the long shadows of the boneyard. Goreshroud’s warriors had chosen the massive ribcage of some ancient leviathan as their encampment, trusting in the old bones to act as a palisade against the horrors that roamed the vast plain. They were overconfident and inobservant, and it would be their undoing, Zazul thought.

The Gargant’s Graveyard, as it had come to be known, stretched from one amber horizon to the next. It was covered in the sun-bleached remains of thousands of gargants, as well as other beasts, some larger, some smaller. Immense ribcages and titanic skulls the size of duardin citadels dotted the plain, dwarfing the bones of ogors and other nameless monstrosities that hunted the Ghurlands. The bones spread outwards like a grisly maze from a central point that few had seen and even fewer had lived to speak of. It was this point, and what lay within it, that Goreshroud had come to find.

‘On your feet, rag-and-bone man,’ Goreshroud said, gesturing sharply. ‘Up and speak. Speak to me of the glories that await me in the Howling Labyrinth. Speak to us of the hell-blade, Marrowcutter. Up! I command you.’ His chieftains added their voices to his, glaring at Zazul with impatience and eagerness. Some of them wanted to hear the story. Others were looking for any excuse to carve out his heart and offer it up to Khorne.

Zazul sighed and stood, careful not to let the illusions that cloaked him slip. To Goreshroud and his servants, he appeared as nothing more than a fur-clad shaman, bedecked in feathers and mouldering pelts, his filthy skin marked with crude scarification and tattoos. The Blood God was no friend to those who wove the skeins of magic and fate, and his servants dealt harshly with any sorcerer that they could not cow into subservience – especially if that sorcerer was a servant of the Changer of Ways.

‘In the beginning, before the Age of Blood, before the realms cracked and the four brothers made war upon one another, there was fire. From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death,’ Zazul intoned. As he gestured, the fire flared up and things took shape within the writhing flames.

‘The eight were the raw stuff of Chaos, hammered and shaped to a killing edge by the sworn forgemasters of the dread Soulmaw, the chosen weaponsmiths of Khorne. To each forgemaster was given a task – to craft a weapon unlike any other, a weapon fit for a god. Or one as unto a god,’ he said, meeting Goreshroud’s eyeless gaze meaningfully. The deathbringer’s lip curled in a sneer, and he thumped the ground with the haft of his axe.

Fool, Zazul thought, even as he continued his tale. ‘Some, like Wolant Sevenhand, forgemaster of Chamon, crafted weapons of great size and little subtlety. It was said that the great iron-banded mace Sharduk, the Gate-smasher, could shatter walls and crack citadels.’ In the flames, a gigantic warrior clad in blood-stained armour struck a looming gate with a heavy mace, obliterating it. At this, the chieftains whistled and stamped their feet. Goreshroud chuckled and motioned for silence.

Zazul inclined his head and continued. ‘Others, like Qyat of the Folded Soul, forgemaster of Ulgu, crafted things of great subtlety – the spear called Gung, the Huntsman, which would always strike home, no matter how far or how fast its intended prey fled.’ He gestured, and in the flames the image of Gung took shape, a long haft of solid shadow and a broad blade of blackened silver. It squirmed like a thing alive, and Goreshroud’s chieftains murmured in awe. Zazul motioned again and the image was lost to the flames.

‘But one weapon was prized above all others,’ he said, ‘for a hundred and one greater daemons had been sacrificed in its forging by Volundr Skullcracker, the forgemaster of Aqshy. Their screaming essences were folded and beaten on an anvil of living bone, until they flowed together into the sword called the Worldsplitter – Marrowcutter.’

‘Marrowcutter,’ Goreshroud growled, as his chieftains murmured. ‘The Ur-sword, the Kinslayer, the Unmaker.’ He looked around. ‘A weapon worthy of an Eightfold Lord.’

‘Indeed, O most mighty Goreshroud,’ Zazul said meekly. He heard a caw, somewhere far above him and glanced up, through the latticework of cracked bones, towards the night sky. Black shapes circled above and he smiled thinly. Ah, finally, he thought.

‘Eight weapons in all were forged by the daemon-smiths,’ he continued. ‘Two for each of the four brothers, gifts to them from the eldest and mightiest of their number, and to himself as well. But the gods soon turned their thoughts from friendship and camaraderie, and towards domination. The four brothers were ever aligned only in opposition, and when their foes fled or faded, Khorne’s boundless fury was turned upon his kinsmen.’

The Bloodbound laughed at that. Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, only that it flowed. Zazul hid a frown and said, ‘And as the realms shuddered and the Age of Chaos gave way to the Age of Blood, the weapons known as the Eight Lamentations were lost.’

‘Aye, but we have found one, eh, brothers?’ Goreshroud said, slapping his knee. ‘And guarded only by a few thousand greenskins... Easy pickings.’ He motioned to the nets full of orruk skulls that hung from the Khornate icons and lodge-poles thrust into the ground all about the campsite. ‘Good prey, the brutes, but hardly a challenge for Khorne’s own.’

‘Indeed, O most cunning of killers,’ Zazul said, bowing. In truth, the orruks were far more numerous than Goreshroud realised, and growing stronger all the time. The sound of their drums filled the night, echoing up from the depths of the Gargant’s Graveyard. They were gathering in the dark, and would soon flood the plain like a green tide. And there were others – champions of the Ruinous Powers from across the Ghurlands were stalking the boneyard, following the stories of Marrowcutter. ‘Marrowcutter waits at the heart of the Howling Labyrinth for a worthy claimant.’

‘And I shall be that claimant,’ Goreshroud said. ‘Goreshroud, wielder of Marrowcutter.’ He shoved himself to his feet and spread his arms. ‘Aye, has a nice ring to it, eh? What say you, brothers?’

As the Bloodbound cheered their leader, Zazul raised his hand. The flames flared once more, higher and brighter than before, turning from orange to red to purple. The gathered chieftains staggered away from the coruscating fire, blinded, their flesh singed. Goreshroud yelped and fell backwards. From deeper in the camp came a sudden cry, swiftly silenced. Goreshroud turned, eyeless face twisted in a grimace of consternation. ‘What–’ he began.

All at once, the night was alive with the sound of violence. Warriors cried out in alarm as shapes burst from the darkness and lunged between the thick bones around them. The air throbbed with the song of sorcery, and screams became screeches as men were transformed into mewling beasts or reduced to motes of coloured light. From above, a flock of ravens dived down through the vaulted reaches of the great ribcage. Goreshroud’s chieftains looked up in alarm as the birds plummeted towards them.

As the ravens filled the air above the fire, Zazul let his illusion lapse. Ragged furs and filthy flesh evaporated, replaced by robes of all colours and none, and armour made of beaten gold. His featureless helm was crafted from lazuli, carved by the silken chisels of the seer-masons of the Dusty Sea. Zazul spread his arms and lifted his staff.

‘Reveal yourselves! Let the Ninety-Nine Feathers show their talons, in the name of the King-of-all-Ravens and the debt you owe me,’ he chanted.

Ravens twisted and changed in mid-air, shedding feathers and growing arms and legs. Black-robed killers tumbled down among the awe-struck chieftains, and laid about them with curved swords and knives. Clad in black scale mail and robes beneath their feathered cloaks, their faces hidden behind black iron masks wrought in the shape of birds’ heads, the Ninety-Nine Feathers made for an intimidating sight. They fought in silence, wielding blade and magic with consummate skill.

Zazul watched the slaughter with detached amusement. A raven fluttered down and perched on his shoulder. ‘Thrice you have called upon the Ninety-Nine Feathers, and thrice we have aided thee, Radiant One,’ the bird croaked in a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, and one marker yet remains to be paid, my lady,’ Zazul said. ‘Four debts thy cabal owes me, and four services shall ye perform.’

‘And then we are free?’

‘As free as any in this world,’ Zazul said, after a moment. He heard a bird-like scream and saw one of the black-clad sorcerer-champions slump, Goreshroud’s axe buried in his skull. As the deathbringer wrenched his weapon free, Zazul waved the Ninety-Nine Feathers aside, opening a path between himself and Goreshroud.

‘Who are you?’ the deathbringer growled.

‘I am Zazul, mighty Goreshroud,’ Zazul said, one gilded claw resting on the azure pommel stone of the curved sword sheathed at his waist. ‘I am one of nine, ordained by the Architect of Fate. The twisting paths of the future are mine to scry and walk, the webs of fate mine to weave... or cull.’ The sounds of battle rose up from within the palisade of bones. Goreshroud’s warriors were faring badly by the sound of things. With their chieftains dead and their commander preoccupied, they were at the mercy of their enemies. Those who did not fall here would scatter into the Gargant’s Graveyard, there to become prey for orruks or worse things.

Goreshroud raised his axe. ‘Pretty words, worm. Even so, I will mount your veiled skull on my lodge-pole,’ he said. One of the raven-warriors leapt at him, and the deathbringer bisected him with a lazy sweep of his axe. Goreshroud charged through the fire, scattering embers, axe raised. Zazul gestured, and Goreshroud’s axe slammed down against a shimmering prismatic shield. Goreshroud howled and hacked at the shield, seemingly unable to grasp that his weapon could not pierce it.

Zazul looked past the deathbringer and caught sight of a shimmering figure striding through the dark. He chuckled. Of course – she wishes to be in at the kill, he thought, as the newcomer struck an icon with the flat of her sword.

At the quavering peal, Goreshroud turned, scarred features crinkling. ‘You... I know you,’ he said.

‘I daresay you do,’ the newcomer said. She wore armour composed of what appeared to be multicoloured crystal or glass. Intricately wrought and delicate looking as it was, Zazul knew that it was stronger than steel. Upon her head was a high-crested, open-faced helm of the same material. The crest was made from flowing streamers of pale smoke, as was the buckler on her arm. The curved blade of crystal in her other hand was stained crimson.

‘I heard you were driven from the mountains by the lightning-men, Sharizad,’ Goreshroud said. ‘They killed your siblings and cast down your standards.’

‘And they shattered your conclave and drove you from Hookjaw Cove, eyeless one,’ Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, said demurely. She extended her blade. ‘As the Great Black Fox whispers, defeat is but the lesson one must learn to achieve victory.’

‘Those are your wolves out there, then, attacking my followers,’ Goreshroud grunted. ‘Trust a sorceress to attack in so cowardly a fashion.’

‘If by cowardice you mean cunning, well... we are but as the gods made us,’ Sharizad said, with an elegant shrug.

Goreshroud licked his lips and spun his axe. ‘I was raised by the wolf and the stallion, witch,’ he said. He stepped towards the Shimmering Countess, his weapon raised. ‘An eagle circled my mother’s birthing-yurt eight times. My destiny–’

‘Your destiny is to be but a footnote in my own,’ Sharizad said. ‘A fate for which you are well suited.’

Goreshroud gave a roar and charged towards her, his axe sweeping out in a savage arc. The two warriors traded blows as they spun about the campsite in a brutal gavotte. Goreshroud was the stronger of the two, but lacked his opponent’s finesse. He could turn bone to powder with a single blow, but that blow first had to land. Sharizad twisted and whirled, avoiding the broad sweep of her opponent’s axe with calculated ease. Goreshroud grew angrier with every missed strike, and what little discipline he possessed began to fray. Soon, he was frothing at the mouth and howling every curse he knew. His blows grew wilder and more desperate, but still Sharizad stayed out of reach, baiting him with light caresses from her own blade, drawing blood and wounding her foe’s pride.

Finally, the deathbringer could stand it no more. With a howl fit to shake the boneyard, he hurled himself at the Shimmering Countess, axe raised over his head. Zazul watched with no small amount of pleasure as the Shimmering Countess sidestepped the deathbringer’s berserk charge and buried her crystalline sword in his back. Goreshroud fell onto his hands and knees, vomiting blood.

Sharizad set her foot against the back of his neck and wrenched the sword free. Goreshroud sank down and lay still, his axe sliding from his grip. The countess held her sword up to the firelight, watching as her opponent’s blood was absorbed into the irregular facets of the weapon’s blade.

‘Such a fine weapon,’ she murmured. ‘But there is a finer one by far to be had, is there not, my Zazul?’

Zazul inclined his head. ‘So my little birds have said.’ He stroked the raven perched on his shoulder. ‘They also bring word – time grows short. Goreshroud will not be the last. Every warlord in the region worth his salt will be hurrying this way. Not just Bloodbound, but Rotbringers and pleasure-hounds as well. Even the ratkin. Many are here already.’

‘Of that, I am well aware. I traded sword-strokes with the Knight of Silk not a day ago before the poltroon fled, and heard the wheezing bellows of the Black-Iron King at a distance.’ Sharizad sheathed her sword with a flourish. ‘And yet, what of it? Is my destiny not paramount in this moment, in this place? Why should I fear lesser fates?’

‘Things grow uncertain when many destinies converge,’ Zazul said patiently. Sharizad was demanding and ambitious, as well as cunning, and the combination made her tempestuous. ‘The skeins of fate overlap and interweave confusingly here. What was once solid becomes fluid. Your victory is assured, O Destined Queen, but so too are the destinies of those who move in opposition to you. Fools like Goreshroud, or the Black-Iron King,’ he continued. ‘A hundred chieftains, champions and heroes are even now stalking these bone-fields, and each one has as much claim on victory as you.’

‘None have as much claim as me,’ Sharizad said.

‘None, perhaps save the dogs of Sigmar,’ Zazul said. He motioned to the dark sky. ‘You heard the thunder, yes? A storm pursues you, Sharizad. And it will find you before you leave here. That much, at least, the spirits say.’

Sharizad glared at him. ‘I fear no storm, celestial or otherwise. But I take your point.’ She looked down at Goreshroud. ‘We must winnow the grain from the chaff. I will not be denied again, sorcerer.’ She pointed at him with her blade. ‘Marrowcutter will be mine. You have sworn it, my Zazul, and I will hold you to that promise.’

Zazul bowed obsequiously. ‘I have sworn to aid thee, O Many-Splendoured One, and so I shall.’ He caught sight of one of the skull-nets dangling from the Khornate icons planted about the fire. As he straightened, he gestured and the net unravelled. One of the orruk skulls floated into his waiting hand and he proffered it to Sharizad.

‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I believe I have just the tool for the task...’

Chapter One

The Fist of Gork

The Black-Iron King roared hollowly and charged. The deathbringer’s baroque, smoke-spewing armour creaked shrilly as he trampled over bloodreavers and the orruks they battled alike in his haste to reach his foe. The fiery maul he wielded tore flesh and crushed bone as he swept it out in a vicious arc to clear his path.

‘Deliver thyself to me, beastling – I am thy doom, and the doom of all thy kind!’ the Black-Iron King thundered, pulverising an orruk too slow to get out of his way. He had been shouting the same thing for hours, calling for Gordrakk. And, at last, Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork, had decided to oblige him.

After days of skirmishing, the orruks had cornered their foe in a narrow canyon made from the spread skeletal jaws of some long-dead monster. Now, the Five Fists of Gordrakk pummelled the Black-Iron Legion with a relentlessness that set even the most hardened worshippers of the Blood God back on their heels. Ardboys, led by brawling brutes, clashed with armoured reavers amid a forest of sun-bleached fangs. Their confrontation saw thick clouds of dust thrown into the air, blotting out the light of the amber suns far above.

The maw-krusha bounded forwards with a peculiar hopping gait, its scaly jaws wide. It was larger than anything else on the battlefield, save perhaps the Black-Iron King himself. The beast crashed down, flattening an unwary blood warrior beneath its bulk. Gordrakk thumped Chompa on the head with the haft of one of the axes he carried, eliciting a thunderous bellow. Those blood warriors closest to the maw-krusha died instantly, bones shattered and brains burst by the incoherent force of that furious sound. Those who survived, and made it past the maw-krusha’s jaws and talons, leapt onto the creature, scrambling towards its rider.

Gordrakk laughed and stood up in his saddle. He clashed his axes together and tore them apart in a spray of sparks. Kunnin’ hummed in his grip, whispering in one ear, while its twin, Smasha, bellowed in his other. Gordrakk’s head was always filled with noise – just the way he liked it. Silence was boring. The axes had been silent until he had pulled them apart, making two weapons where there had once only been one. Two axes were better than one; this way he had one for each hand, and could crack twice as many skulls.

The boss-of-bosses whipped Kunnin’ out in a shallow arc, cutting the legs out from under a blood warrior, even as he crumpled the chest-plate of another with Smasha. He blocked a blow from an enemy axe and gutted its wielder. He twisted, driving an armoured shoulder into an opponent’s chest, and knocking him backwards off Chompa’s skull. Before the warrior could rise, Chompa crushed him with a massive fist. Gordrakk thumped the beast with his foot.

‘Oi, he was mine, ya greedy git. Get your own!’

Chompa roared in protest and swung its thick arms, slapping Bloodbound from their feet. Axes and heavy blades bounced off the monster’s thick hide even as it smashed their wielders into paste. Gordrakk bellowed laughter and fell back into his saddle as Chompa surged instinctively forwards, carrying them towards the heart of the fray. Gordrakk had ridden many maw-krushas in his life, but only one equalled his sheer, unbridled lust for battle. He urged Chompa to greater speed, kicking its flanks.

The Black-Iron King held court at the centre of the narrow battlefield, surrounded by the broken bodies of brutes and ardboys. The Chaos-nob was tough, no two ways there. Gordrakk leaned forwards in his saddle, eager for the fight to come. At Chompa’s roar, the smoke-wreathed shape of the deathbringer whirled about and extended his maul.

‘Yes. Come to me, beastling. Come, Gordrakk, and meet your prophesied doom,’ the Black-Iron King shouted. ‘The Allslaughter has been drawn and the wings of death shadow you!’

Gordrakk blinked and glanced up, and saw carrion-birds circling overhead. He laughed. The Chaos-nobs always talked rubbish. They talked before they fought and while they fought – talk, talk, talk. Even so, Gordrakk couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride. Everyone had heard of Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork. Even the iron-shod Chaos-things and the duardin in their deep-holds. It was good that they knew him and came looking for a scrap. It meant he always had a fight waiting, wherever he went, even if he didn’t know where that was until he got there.

He urged Chompa forwards and roared, scattering his warriors. This was his fight and his alone; his boys knew better than to get between the Fist of Gork and his foe. For his part, the Black-Iron King seemed to welcome Gordrakk’s charge. He spread his long arms and set his feet. As Chompa drew near, the deathbringer took a two-handed grip on his maul and swung it out. The weapon slammed across Chompa’s scaly jaw, staggering the beast.

Gordrakk growled and vaulted from the saddle as Chompa swayed drunkenly. He slid down the maw-krusha’s snout and dropped to the ground, axes whistling out in opposite directions to drive the Black-Iron King back several steps.

‘At last,’ the deathbringer rumbled. ‘The gods have spoken, brute, and your death shall be my stepping stone to–’

Gordrakk lunged, driving his skull against the ridged helm of his opponent. The deathbringer reeled with a metallic squawk. Gordrakk bulled into him, knocking him back.

‘Talk or fight, not both,’ he snarled as they broke apart.

‘Ho, it speaks!’ the Black-Iron King rasped. ‘Good. You shall be able to beg for mercy.’ He tromped forwards, joints creaking, vents hissing. The fiery maul looped out in a blow that would have removed Gordrakk’s head, had he not swayed beneath it. Kunnin’ whispered to him in Mork’s voice, or maybe Gork’s, calling his attention to his foe’s armour. There – a chink in one of the joins.

Swiftly, Gordrakk whipped both axes up and around, slamming them into the weak spot as one. The Black-Iron King screamed and stiffened. Gordrakk tore Smasha free and drove it down again. Cracks formed, running along the seams of the daemon-armour. Wherever Smasha struck, even the strongest iron buckled. Foul gases and smoke spewed from the deathbringer’s armour as he sank to one knee.

Weakly, desperately, he swung his maul, trying to drive Gordrakk back. ‘Doom... I am your doom... It was written...’ the Black-Iron King gasped in disbelief. Gordrakk laughed and hit him again. He used the edge of one axe to hook the head of his opponent’s maul and tug it from his grip. The Black-Iron King lurched forwards, clawing for the weapon. ‘Doom...’ he wheezed.

‘Shut it,’ Gordrakk growled. He drove the other axe into the back of his foe’s helmet. Hell-forged metal crumpled and split. Ichor spewed and a convulsion ran through the Black-Iron King’s gigantic frame. Then, with a whine of abused metal, he toppled forwards and lay still. Gordrakk set his foot on the dead warrior’s skull and lifted his axes. ‘Gorka-MORKA!’ he roared.

‘GORKA-morka-GORKA-morka!’ his warriors began to chant, stamping their feet and clashing their weapons, until the bones that rose up around them trembled. The remaining Chaos-things were fleeing now, scarpering back into the maze of bones. All the fight had been knocked out of them by the death of their chieftain.

Gordrakk spread his arms, soaking up the adulation of his boys. This was what it meant to be the boss-of-bosses. He was the best, the biggest, the baddest and the most blessed. Gorkamorka spoke to him, in his head, and punched him in the heart, filling him with divine fury. His fury was shared by the rest of the Ironjawz. The Big Waaagh! was coming. They could all feel it in their bones, rising up from the soles of their feet to the tops of their heads – it was like being hit by lightning all the time. Gordrakk threw back his head and roared wordlessly.

It didn’t matter what their enemies did, how hard they fought or how well they hid – the Ironjawz always found them and gave them a beating. He lowered his arms, looked down at the trio of heads that dangled from his belt and gave them an affectionate thump. He knew all their names: Oleander Hume, the Knight of Silk; Poxfinger; Baron Slaughterthorn. It was good to know the names of those you had beaten. That was the word of Gorkamorka, and it was good enough for Gordrakk.

He hefted Smasha and hewed through the Black-Iron King’s gorget with a single blow. The smoking helm rolled free and Gordrakk snatched it up. It would look fine hanging from his back-banner. Fights were already breaking out as the boys fell to looting the dead. The Chaos-things had good armour and sharp weapons, needing only a bit of work to make them properly fighty. Gordrakk ignored the brawling as he looked around. Chompa snuffled at the ground nearby, piggy eyes glaring angrily at an approaching mob of megabosses. He punched the maw-krusha before it could get any ideas, and took hold of one tusk. He met the beast’s glare with his own and, after a few moments, Chompa grumbled and settled down.

Gordrakk turned to watch the other bosses draw near. He had cracked the skulls of each of them, thumping them into line, the same as he had done to Chompa. They didn’t resent it – if you got your head smashed, you followed the one doing the smashing. That was just the way of it. Granted, if you thought you could smash the boss’ head, you were expected to try. Gordrakk clashed his axes together as they got close, just to remind them that he was the killiest and smashiest. Kunnin’ murmured observations in his head: Drokka was still favouring his right knee and Grotrak had gone mostly deaf after taking a blow to the head. Morgrum was getting bored and Roklud wanted to krump Morgrum. And Stabbajak, the one-eyed grunta-boss, was thinking that Gordrakk’s head would look good on the end of his gore-stikka. Gordrakk smiled toothily.

The megabosses weren’t alone. Warchanter Grund was idly smacking the carved femurs he carried together, forever lost to a wild rhythm only he could hear. Clad in a harness made from the tusks of gore-gruntas and other beasts, Grund was a hulking brute, made all the more fearsome by the scars that covered his knotted flesh and the crude tattoos that covered what the scars didn’t.

Gordrakk knew the warchanter’s head was empty of everything save the drumbeat of the twin hearts of Gork and Mork, calling all proper orruks to war.

‘Good scrap, good,’ Grund said. He sank into a crouch beside the body of the Black-Iron King and began to beat out a rhythm on the dead warrior’s back. ‘They know us now – know we is the best,’ Grund continued. ‘Soon, everybody going to know that Ironjawz is the best.’

‘They already know,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘We’re just reminding them.’ He looked at the other megabosses. ‘Loot ’em quick, then get your boys up on their boots. We got to go.’

‘Go? Go where?’ Stabbajak said, scratching up under his eye patch with the tip of his stikka. Gordrakk’s lip curled. ‘We got somewhere to be?’

‘We’re going where I say, Stabbajak. You got a problem with that?’

‘Maybe.’ Stabbajak’s good eye narrowed. Gordrakk met his gaze and held it, until the other megaboss looked away. ‘No,’ Stabbajak muttered.

‘No, you don’t,’ Gordrakk said. He set his axes across his brawny shoulders, the Black-Iron King’s helm dangling from the blade of Smasha. ‘But I’ll tell you anyways, you git. We’re goin’ to the Big Skull, lads. Make a good jaw-fort, that.’ He jerked his chin towards the distant shape of the Big Skull. The megabosses murmured among themselves. Gordrakk ignored them.

The Big Skull was the biggest bone in the Gargant’s Graveyard. It rose like a cracked and yellowing mountain above the plain. The maze that was the boneyard radiated outwards from it in all directions. Some boys whispered that the skull had belonged to one of the monsters Gorkamorka and the Hammer God had beaten to death in order to make the foundations for all the worlds. Gordrakk liked that story, and he liked the Big Skull. But more importantly, he liked the thing that sat atop the skull.

It was never the same shape twice... Sometimes it was a crown, sometimes a tower. Once it had looked like a box. When the wind was right, he could hear it groaning and shifting, like iron rubbing against iron. Occasionally, he could even hear it howling.

Something about it plucked at him. He felt like Gork’s – or maybe Mork’s – finger was on his head, forcing him to look at the Big Skull and whatever strange thing sprawled across the top. He could hear the gods whispering in his ears, urging him on. They had called him and his fists to the Gargant’s Graveyard, promising a scrap to remember, a fight to end all fights. So far, it had been fun enough, but the need to scale the Big Skull, to see what was at the top, was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Gordrakk kicked the Black-Iron King’s body, eliciting a hollow creak. ‘Ain’t seen any more Chaos-things. They hiding. Or running. Maybe we could find ’em easier from someplace high, yeah?’ he growled. He glared about challengingly. Only one set of eyes met his. The hunched, hooded shape of the shaman, Jabberjaw, stood off to the side, scratching himself idly. No one liked to get too close to the weirdnob. He smelt funny, and skulls tended to pop when he started twitching.

As always, a bevy of carrion-birds circled him, or hopped on the ground at his feet, cawing and scolding any boy who got within pecking distance. Like with their master, there was something... off about the birds. More than one orruk had tried to make a snack of them, only to go missing. Gordrakk didn’t care if they ate a few stragglers. Chompa’s appetite was far worse. The big maw-krusha had eaten an entire war-sty of gore-gruntas once. Stabbajak had been beside himself.

‘You got something ta say, Jabberjaw?’ Gordrakk asked. He already knew the answer. Jabberjaw was called that for a good reason. He was always saying things, yammering on and on and on.

‘Just thinking,’ Jabberjaw said, eyes unfocussed. ‘Spirits are whisperin’...’

‘Talk, you git,’ Gordrakk grunted, slugging the weirdnob. The shaman stumbled and sank to one knobby knee. His birds squawked and shot into the air, circling overhead, their beady eyes gleaming. The megabosses lurched back, eyes narrowed in nervous anticipation. Most orruks didn’t beat on weirdnobs, even if they deserved a kicking. The shamans tended to explode if they were treated too roughly. But Gordrakk wasn’t most orruks.

Jabberjaw rubbed his face and glared at Gordrakk. Gordrakk placed the flat of Kunnin’ underneath the shaman’s chin and lifted his head. ‘Tell me what you seen, Jabberjaw, or I’ll feed you to Stabbajak’s gore-gruntas one bit at a time,’ he growled. ‘Just like I did to the last four weirdnobs who made me angry.’

‘No more Chaos-things,’ Jabberjaw said.

‘Yeah,’ Gordrakk said slowly. ‘I said that, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t mean ain’t no more fighting to be had,’ Jabberjaw said, slyly. He snatched a bird off his shoulder and stroked its head roughly. ‘Spirits hear things, see things... Hear a rumbling in the sky, O mighty Fist of Gork...’

Gordrakk blinked. ‘A storm,’ he grunted. There were always storms, these days. The skies were always thick with clouds and rain. Lightning burned holes in the ground, and set fire to the grasslands. Thunder growled and set the herds to stampeding. It was a war-storm. Wherever the Chaos boys were, the storms followed, spitting armoured warriors down. ‘Storm means storm-things,’ he said.

‘Spirits say they coming, marching through the bones,’ Jabberjaw said. He released his bird and it flew away, croaking. Chompa reared up and snapped at it, but the bird flapped out of reach of the maw-krusha.

Gordrakk glanced up at the dracoth skull on his back-banner, eyes narrowed. He scraped the blade of Kunnin’ against one of the lightning-bolt glyphs he had hammered onto his armour after the last time he had krumped the storm-things.

‘You think the Hammer God wants another fight?’ he grunted, looking back at Jabberjaw. ‘That’d be good, yeah?’ He looked around. Orruks nodded eagerly, excited by the prospect. There was nothing Ironjawz loved more than a good scrap, and the storm-things scrapped better than most. If nothing else, it would make a nice change from the Chaos-things. ‘Yeah,’ he rumbled.

He looked at Grund. ‘Thump the bones, warchanter,’ Gordrakk growled. Grund chuckled and began to beat on the ground with his makeshift clubs. He let loose a howl that was soon picked up by the megabosses and, finally, Gordrakk himself.

Somewhere, back among the brawl, the other warchanters began to howl and stamp their feet. Gordrakk could feel the drumbeat of war in his head and heart, and his axes were talking to him, telling him where to go and what to hit. The Big Skull could wait.

Gordrakk threw back his head and slammed his axes together. ‘GORKA-morka! Gorka-MORKA! GORKAMORKA!’ he roared, and the Ironjawz roared with him.

From behind his shroud of illusion, Zazul of the Radiant Veil watched Gordrakk bellow in barbaric joy. The temptation to simply incinerate the brute then and there was nigh-irresistible. It had dared to strike him, and he had never been the sort to allow such humiliations go unpunished. But the creature was no fool, despite its single-minded nature. It hungered for battle the way another beast might hunger for meat. But it was no blood-simple lunatic like Goreshroud or the recently deceased Black-Iron King. There was an ember of cunning there; he had to be careful, lest it grow into a flame.

It was much the same with Sharizad. The Shimmering Countess was too clever by half – if she learned of his true purpose, she would not be pleased. She thought of him as a servant, one slave amongst many, and he intended to keep it that way. Until the time was right and he forced her to kneel at last before the Grand Marshal of Chaos himself. He cherished that thought, and her probable reaction. Such a moment would make every trial and degradation he had endured in the course of this venture worthwhile.

It had taken him years of careful study and relentless searching to find the Howling Labyrinth, and even longer to find a champion capable of penetrating its tangle of corridors. How many had he fed to the maze – a hundred? Two hundred?

I have not failed one hundred times, merely found one hundred ways that will not work, he thought. An old saying, in the incense-choked libraries of the Forbidden City, and one often associated with the works of the being known as the Daemoniac Conundrum.

The Daemoniac Conundrum was – or had been, or perhaps would be – a trickster without equal. Even such dread pranksters as the Changeling or the Queen of Foxes could not hope to equal the Conundrum for japes and drollery. The Conundrum was malevolent and troublesome, and it was whispered that even the Architect of Fate was wary of its schemes. The Conundrum had been banished from the Forbidden City, the only creature Zazul knew of to suffer such a fate.

A favoured ploy of the Conundrum was to craft cunning structures – mazes and labyrinths, folded citadels and furled castles – and place at their heart prisoners and items of importance. How the Conundrum acquired these prizes in the first place was unknown. Some thought it had spies in every realm, seeking out such things as might be fit for its purposes. Others said that the Daemoniac Conundrum simply waited until one of its puzzles was solved, and then ensured that what was found within was stolen away at some earlier point along the thread of history.

Zazul was of the opinion that the Conundrum was a test, a tool of the Great Deceiver, a stone on which the minds of the faithful could be sharpened. He glanced up at the distant shape of what the orruks so eloquently called the Big Skull. He had wrested the location for the labyrinth from daemons. They had claimed that the skull was that of Agorath, one of the great star-leviathans that prowled the black seas of infinity. Supposedly, the Daemoniac Conundrum had used Marrowcutter to slay the beast, after a hunt lasting centuries. Now, the vast skull marked the tomb in which the Worldsplitter rested...

Unless, of course, the daemons were lying, Zazul thought. That was always a possibility. Daemons were little more than falsehoods made flesh, and one had to sift carefully through their words to find the merest kernels of truth. More than one of his schemes had gone awry thanks to a daemon’s gleeful whispers. It would be unfortunate if that were the case now.

The orruks had been a surprise. They were everywhere, but he had not expected such... discipline, for lack of a better word. The daemons he had consulted had not warned him of Gordrakk’s interest in the Gargant’s Graveyard. The Ironjawz had flooded the plain of bones, driving every living thing before them.

It hadn’t been easy, ingratiating himself to the horde. Zazul had a thousand faces, but most were human. The orruks were suffused with a strange, belligerent form of magic that wore on his mind and soul. It was akin to clinging to a stone, amid a roaring river. One false move, one slip, and his illusions would be washed away, leaving him stranded at the heart of the warhorde, surrounded by thousands of angry orruks.

Zazul had no doubt that he could fight his way free. Armies of savages were as nothing to the sorcerer who had seared the skies of Yithe and shattered the vast heart-columns of the Living Fortress. For the moment, he had Gordrakk aimed away from the Howling Labyrinth. But there was no telling how long that would last.

Something was drawing the brute to the Big Skull, though whether it was instinct or something more sinister, Zazul didn’t yet know. Nor did he intend to let his curiosity get the better of him. Not this time. The Stormcasts would keep Gordrakk occupied long enough for Sharizad to penetrate the mysteries of the Howling Labyrinth. Once Marrowcutter was in her hands, no force in this realm would be able to stand against the Shimmering Countess.

And then... Well. He sighed in satisfaction and reached up to stroke the raven perched on his shoulder. ‘The dogs of Sigmar are sniffing at our threshold, my dear. Have you ever had the pleasure of their company?’

‘No,’ the raven cawed. ‘They make the world feel... wrong.’

‘Indeed. They burn the air and land, erasing illusion and whimsy where they pass. Fit prey, I should think, for your sort.’ Zazul looked around. None of the orruks gave any sign that they thought it strange that Jabberjaw should speak to birds. ‘They will have scouts – winged killers, riding the storm-winds,’ Zazul murmured to the raven. ‘Find them. I want the dogs of Sigmar blinded and stumbling, dear sister. I want to know where they are at all times.’

‘Not your sister,’ the raven croaked. ‘You are not of our cabal, crooked soul. This will be our final service to you, magus.’

‘No, my dear. This is but the first part of your final service. An enemy for an enemy, as we agreed so long ago in the City of Corkscrew Towers,’ Zazul whispered, stroking the raven gently. ‘One more enemy, and then you and the rest of the Ninety-Nine Feathers are free to flee this realm if that is what you wish.’ He flung the raven into the air and it circled him once before flapping off. The others rose from their perches and joined their sister.

Zazul watched them go. It would be a shame the day he lost the services of the Ninety-Nine Feathers. They were useful tools. Unlike many sorcerers, the raven-cabal were focussed in their studies to an incredible degree. They had been pre-eminent assassins once, hunting the mad shadows of the Sideways City and serving the quarrelsome sorcerer-lords of the aerie-citadels of the Amber Veldt in their internecine feuds. He wondered if there was a way to retain their servitude, short of outright force – then discarded the thought as a problem for another day.

Right now, there were more immediate issues to consider. Neither Gordrakk nor the Stormcasts could be allowed to interfere with Sharizad’s quest. Marrowcutter had to be found, and it would be Zazul’s tool who found it.

Once Marrowcutter and the rest of the Eight Lamentations were in the hands of Archaon’s chosen champions, the true war could begin – the final war that would see the entirety of the Mortal Realms consumed by the Realm of Chaos. That was the singular goal of Zazul and his fellow Gaunt Summoners.

And when that day comes, brute, your head shall be first on the block, Zazul thought, glaring at Gordrakk.

The boss-of-bosses had clambered back into his maw-krusha’s saddle. He hauled on the chains that were wrapped around the beast’s neck, forcing the monster to rear up. The maw-krusha thumped its barrel chest and gave vent to an earth-shaking bellow, echoed by its rider. The Five Fists of Gordrakk were marching to war. And the dogs of Sigmar would never know what hit them.

Chapter Two

Stormwalkers

‘Hold them back, Beast-bane!’ Zephacleas bellowed, as the horde of orruks crashed against the shield wall of the Astral Templars in a frenzied wave. The Lord-Celestant of the Beast-bane tore his runeblade free of an orruk’s gut and booted the creature backwards into its fellows. He was a giant of a man, even among the Stormcasts, and he laughed savagely as he wielded hammer and blade alongside his warriors.

He, and by extension his Warrior Chamber, had earned their war-name in the wilds of Azyrheim, hunting the monstrous beasts that still lurked in the high crags and deep canyons of the mountains of the Celestial Realm. At the head of his chamber, Zephacleas had slain the Black Bull of Nordrath. Together, they had harried the beast-packs of the Antarktos Ridge to extinction, slaughtering the white-furred goat-headed servants of Chaos to the last scrawny beast-warrior.

But Ghur was not Azyr, and its dangers were its own. Everywhere he looked, orruk clashed with Stormcast. The brutes bellowed joyfully as they traded blows with the equally vocal Astral Templars. Shields crunched into green faces and saw-toothed clubs drew sparks from sigmarite plates as the two sides shoved against one another in the wide canyon of bone. Over the clangour of battle rose the steady beat of orruk war-drums from somewhere deep within the Gargant’s Graveyard.

The orruks had attacked suddenly, rushing wildly out of the heaps and crags of piled bone that made up the canyon walls and the vast, vaulted archways of ribcages and broken spinal columns.

‘Steady the shield wall, Nine-strike, we have to keep their attention,’ Zephacleas shouted.

‘I know my duty, Lord-Celestant. See to your own,’ Taros Nine-strike said, grinning slightly. The Lord-Castellant of the Beast-bane was almost as broad as Zephacleas was tall, and his thick amethyst war-plate was covered in the marks of battle. A pack of screeching gryph-hounds paced at his feet. They were heavy-bodied creatures, each with the limbs and torso of a great hunting hound and the head of a bird of prey. They could rip the throat out of an unarmoured man in a matter of moments, and had been known to give even Stormcasts a few uncomfortable minutes, if they were of a mind. Occasionally one of the raptor-headed beasts would dart out from between the Stormcasts in the shield wall to hamstring or disembowel an unlucky orruk.

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said. ‘So I shall.’ He raised his weapons and brought them together. Lightning flared and crackled between hammer and blade as he wrenched them apart, casting strange shadows across the purple armour of his warriors. ‘To me, Beast-bane! Duras, Thetaleas – bare your fangs, my brothers,’ he roared, as he stepped back, out of the fray.

As he called out to his retinues, Zephacleas scanned the battle-line, searching it for weakness. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he found none. His warriors knew the ways of the orruks of old – the greenskins were as dangerous as any Chaos-tainted warhorde, at twice the numbers. But for all their savagery, they were not things of Chaos. Indeed, they had even been allies of men once, in the dim days of ages past, before the splintering of Sigmar’s pantheon and the fall of the Allpoints.

Sigmar willing, they will be allies again, Zephacleas thought. Hopefully before he had to kill too many of them.

‘Brothers,’ he said, as Duras and Thetaleas joined him. ‘It’s time for a sortie. Care to join me?’

‘Always, my lord,’ Duras said. The Liberator-Prime scraped together the two warblades he carried. Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. Duras was a fierce one. He had earned his war-name in the Boralis Mountains, after stalking a Chaos-touched crag-bear for seven days, tracking it to its lair and slaying it. And like Thetaleas, he too had been at the Gnarlwood, and learned its lessons well. As had they all...

He looked at Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime inclined his head.

‘Let us bring them peace, one stroke at a time,’ he rumbled, hefting his thunderaxe meaningfully.

Zephacleas laughed. ‘Yes. Taros!’ he called, turning towards the Lord-Castellant.

Taros nodded and raised his halberd. ‘Arcos, take your warriors forwards five paces, staggered formation,’ the Lord-Castellant called out to a nearby Liberator-Prime. ‘Form a barbican, as we did at Black-Claw Ridge. The rest of you, hold fast.’

‘Aye, Lord-Castellant,’ Arcos said. Liberators advanced behind their shields, warblades held low to thrust into bellies and legs. A crippled foe was as good as a dead one, in close quarters. The Liberators pressed the orruks back, and the shield wall tightened behind them, creating a bubble of sigmarite in the battle-line.

‘Brace yourselves,’ Taros shouted, as a knot of orruks breached the closing wall of sigmarite and forced their way past the Stormcasts. The Lord-Castellant whirled his halberd out in a tight circle, and the orruks were knocked sprawling by the blow. Stunned, the greenskins made easy prey for the warblade-armed Liberators who waited behind the shield wall. Those orruks that escaped the butchery were bowled under by yowling gryph-hounds, and torn apart by savage beaks and talons.

‘Your gate awaits,’ Taros said, glancing at Zephacleas as he wrenched his halberd-blade free of an orruk’s skull. Zephacleas dipped his head in acknowledgement and turned towards the shield wall, Thetaleas and Duras at his heels. Liberators pulled their shields in and stepped aside.

Without stopping, Zephacleas caught the edge of his sigmarite warcloak and swirled it, unleashing the enchantment woven into its folds. Mystic hammers erupted from the edges of the cloak and hurtled into the onrushing ranks of orruks. Green flesh was pulped and torn, and the orruks retreated in disarray. The lull wouldn’t last for long, Zephacleas knew.

Zephacleas and the others advanced as the greenskins retreated. The warriors formed a ragged line and began to trot towards the regrouping creatures.

‘We are ruin,’ Zephacleas said.

‘We are destruction,’ the warriors around him responded, as they moved. Their savagery matched his and, for a moment, he was a mortal again, fighting alongside his clansmen, the heat of battle rising in their veins, their foes falling before them.

‘We are death!’ Zephacleas roared.

‘Death and ruin!’ His warriors bellowed in reply, their voices mingling, becoming a single fierce note of promise. It was a simple sort of cry, and prone to being bent out of shape, when the mood struck him or his auxiliary commanders. He did not hold with words set in stone or prayers forged from iron. For the Beast-bane, the song of battle was always different. Yet it served its purpose as well as any hammer or blade.

In this case, it was an enticement. The orruks responded as he had hoped, bellowing their own war-songs as they lunged forwards to meet Zephacleas and his warriors.

That’s right, keep looking at us, he thought. It was an old hunter’s trick: keep the prey focussed on what was in front of or behind it, rather than what might be coming up alongside. And the easiest way to do that with orruks was to give them someone to fight. Someone out in the open.

That was the lesson of the Gnarlwood. Four Warrior Chambers of Astral Templars had entered that bleak forest and cleansed it of its loathsome inhabitants, despite heavy losses. Zephacleas himself had taken the three monstrous heads of Grand-King Gidhora, the beastlord who had ruled there. It was while fighting the beastlord’s innumerable war-herds that his Warrior Chamber had learned that no shield wall, no matter how strong, could last indefinitely; that no defence was impregnable, and no foe unbreakable. And, perhaps most importantly of all, that the best defence was a good offence.

Zephacleas cracked a green head with his hammer and tore his sword free of the dying orruk’s chest. They took a lot of killing. They were sturdier than most things that walked the Mortal Realms.

A crude blade, made of jagged metal and studded with fangs ripped from the jaw of some beast, crashed down on his shoulder-plate. Zephacleas spun and drove his runeblade up through the brute’s torso. The orruk scrabbled at his helm, chuckling, as Zephacleas twisted his sword, hunting for its heart. Before he could find it, a thunderaxe sank into the orruk’s skull, silencing its barbaric laughter.

‘A stubborn sort of chaff, eh, Lord-Celestant?’ Thetaleas said, as he hauled the orruk back and tore his axe free.

‘That one was mine,’ Zephacleas said as the orruk slumped.

‘My apologies, my lord,’ the Decimator-Prime said. ‘I thought you in distress.’

Zephacleas shook his head. ‘I know you, axe-man. There’s not been a skull made that you could resist splitting with that blade of yours. I’ll forgive it this once, but ply your trade elsewhere – this killing ground is mine.’

Thetaleas laughed. ‘As you command, Beast-bane,’ he said, turning to wade back into the fray. Satisfied, Zephacleas turned, weapons lashing out. Soon, he had fallen into the old familiar cadence. He was an island of sigmarite, surrounded by an ocean of foes. For Zephacleas, there was no pleasure greater than to lose himself to the rhythm of death. He felt it in his soul, and with it a deep and abiding sense of satisfaction. He removed an orruk’s head with a sweep of his blade.

Memories – the smell of cooking fires and the weight of crude bronze armour, the warmth of his tents in winter and the voices of his clan – flooded his mind. Not so strong as they once might have been, but still there, still vibrant. He heard the lilting songs of the rabbit-boys as they brought home their kills, and the roar of old battles with rival clans, the reasons for which were long forgotten.

His folk were dead now, though the descendants of his clan might yet survive somewhere on the great northern taigas of the Ghurlands.

They are dead, as I am dead. But I fight on. And while I remember them, they live, he thought.

That had always been the way of it, even when he had been mortal, and he would not weep or feel sorrow. The living died, the mountains crumbled and the seas dried, as the seasons changed. Once, he had fought simply for food or for the survival of his tribe in a land full of monsters. Now, he fought to sweep the Mortal Realms clean of Chaos in all of its forms and manifestations.

But that was easier said than done. He parried a descending axe and sent its wielder reeling with a blow from his hammer. The Stormcast Eternals were but brief flickers of light against an all-consuming dark. They needed allies if they were to persevere.

By Sigmar’s command, Zephacleas and his chamber had been sent into the wildest regions of the Ghurlands to seek out any sign of the deity known as Gorkamorka, the double-headed god of the orruk race. The bellicose Gorkamorka had once been a member of Sigmar’s pantheon, in the days before the coming of Chaos. But as the pantheon had splintered, so too had Gorkamorka. Where once there had been one, sometimes now there were two, or so the seers of Sigmaron said. Zephacleas wasn’t sure whether he was looking for one god or two, but he intended to fulfil his mission. One way or another, the huntsman would have his quarry.

At the moment, however, Gorkamorka would have to wait – they had prey closer to hand. As Zephacleas had led his chamber through the wilds of the Ghurlands, following the whispered rumours and wild tales of the two-headed god, Sigmar himself had spoken to him. The God-King commanded and Zephacleas obeyed, leaving the Amber Steppes behind and marching hard for Nettlefang Mere, in the southern Ghurlands. There, he and his chamber had met the battered remnants of another Warrior Chamber, and learned of their mission – a mission more imperative than the locating of an unruly godling.

Zephacleas shoved an orruk back. The creature was large, its green flesh covered in scars and iron plates, beaten into shape and bent around its thick, twisted limbs. He opened the bulky creature’s guts with a sweep of his sword, parting crude armour and flesh with ease. It staggered towards him almost immediately, stumbling on loops of intestine. Zephacleas parried its next blow and slammed his hammer down on its broad skull. The orruk dropped and he turned, scanning the battlefield. Thetaleas and the others were keeping the bulk of the orruk forces occupied, as he had hoped. But they couldn’t do so for long. Already, mobs of orruks were surging past the thin line of skirmishers towards the shield wall.

A crackling column of lightning speared upwards as one of Thetaleas’ warriors was pulled down by the orruks and hacked to death. Close by, a Liberator was tackled off his feet by an orruk brute wielding a spiked club. As it hunched over the fallen Astral Templar, it raised the weapon over its head and chortled. Before the blow could fall, Duras was there. His warblade removed the orruk’s hand, sending it and the club it clutched sailing away. Unperturbed, the orruk twisted about and caught the Liberator-Prime about the throat with its remaining hand. Duras spun his swords and drove them down through the orruk’s shoulders and chest, seeking the beast’s heart.

Zephacleas lost sight of the Liberator-Prime as he dispatched an orruk wielding a jagged spear. A moment after he felled the beast, something heavy struck him in the back, knocking him to one knee. He turned. The orruk was massive, far larger than any of the others, and clad in thick, barbed armour. The skull of some massive beast served it as a pauldron, and in one thick hand it hefted an axe larger than a dracoth’s head.

‘Drokka!’ the orruk bellowed, filling the air with noise and spittle.

‘Indeed,’ Zephacleas said, heaving himself to his feet. He looked around and noticed the other orruks pulling back, giving them space. Most were hunting for other opponents, but some appeared to be settling down to watch. They slapped their armour with the flats of their blades, chanting what he guessed must be the big one’s name.

‘Drokka-snik!’ Drokka roared, spreading his arms.

Zephacleas understood the meaning. He studied the beast. Drokka was a mountain of ill-tempered muscle, wrapped in armour that looked as if it had been beaten into shape, rather than forged. Grisly trophies hung from every surface. Scars marked the orruk’s face and he hunched forwards awkwardly. Favouring his right knee, Zephacleas noted. The orruk snorted impatiently and gestured. ‘Come, come fight Drokka,’ he growled. ‘Come fight Drokka, storm-thing! Fight Drokka!’

Zephacleas lunged forwards. His runeblade scraped down across the orruk’s chest, staggering the beast. He narrowly avoided the bite of the axe as it swooped down in reply, and turned, slamming his hammer into the small of the orruk’s back. Drokka roared. His free hand snaked out, quicker than Zephacleas had expected, and caught the Lord-Celestant by the head. Green fingers enveloped his skull, and then he was flying through the air.

Zephacleas crashed down and lay still for a moment, fighting to regain his breath. He had lost his weapons, and there was no time to find them. The ground trembled as Drokka trudged towards him. The chanting of the orruks had reached a crescendo. He rolled aside as Drokka’s axe crashed down, tearing his warcloak. Zephacleas twisted, driving his foot into the side of the orruk’s knee. Something popped, and Drokka howled.

The orruk dropped his axe and sank down, clutching at his leg. Zephacleas thrust himself to his feet and snaked his hands around Drokka’s head. Even as Drokka began to struggle, Zephacleas braced himself and wrenched the creature’s head around. Bones crackled and flesh tore as Drokka heaved himself upright, dragging Zephacleas into the air. Zephacleas braced his feet on the back of the orruk’s shoulders and hauled back, his fingers digging into Drokka’s pulpy flesh. Drokka gurgled and clutched uselessly at the air.

Then, with a wet sound, the orruk’s head came free of his neck. Zephacleas fell to the ground, clutching his gory trophy. Drokka’s body took a tottering step forwards, then another, and a third before sinking to its knees and toppling sideways.

The watching orruks closed in almost immediately. Zephacleas scrambled to his feet. He took a two-handed grip on the dangling remnants of Drokka’s spinal column and swung the head out like an improvised club, flattening an unwary orruk. Before the others could respond, the air hummed with lightning and several of the brutes dropped in their tracks, blackened to a crisp by a crackling shroud of celestial energies. As the remaining orruks retreated, Zephacleas turned towards the source of the lightning. He held up Drokka’s head.

‘I have a new trophy for you, Gravewalker,’ he said.

‘Your generosity is rivalled only by your impetuousness, Zephacleas.’ Seker Gravewalker was a formidable sight. He was clad in the heavy, ornate armour of a Lord-Relictor, which was marked with sigils of death and rebirth. The ragged hide of a fire-wyrm flapped from one shoulder-plate, and the beast’s narrow skull was set into the Gravewalker’s reliquary standard, alongside other ornaments of gilded bone. ‘Pull back, Zephacleas,’ he said. ‘Greel is here. We’ve bloodied them. Let our brothers make the kill.’

‘Greel? Finally,’ Zephacleas said, as he recovered his weapons. ‘I wondered how long it was going to take him to get here.’ He impaled Drokka’s head on his runeblade. The ground trembled beneath the tromp of many feet. At his command, Thetaleas and the others began to fight their way back to the shield wall.

Even as the Astral Templars reached their lines, the wall of bone that lined the makeshift canyon exploded outwards, revealing rank upon rank of black-armoured Stormcast Eternals. They drove forwards, through the cloud of dust and splintered bone, ploughing straight into the orruks without hesitation.

The Sons of Mallus had come.

‘Judicators, kill the leaders as they reveal themselves,’ Lord-Celestant Gaius Greel said, his deep voice carrying easily over the clamour of battle. ‘Ignore the chaff. Leave it to the rest of us.’ He started forwards, walking slowly through the cloud of dust. It had taken his warriors hours to smash a path through the boneyard, but the effort had been well worth it. The orruks had been caught by surprise, and they were as good as beaten.

The Astral Templars had done their duty well – they had pulled the orruks into the narrow canyon and held their attention while Greel’s warriors flanked them. Now, with the foe caught between hammer and anvil, they could be eliminated.

The orruk ranks split, disgorging a disorganised mass of brutes and black orruks, who charged towards the advancing Stormcasts. The Sons of Mallus had been forge-struck under the zenith of the Dark Moon, and their armour was a polished black, edged in purple and gold, where it wasn’t wet with orruk blood.

Greel swept his hammer out as the first orruk reached him, crushing crude armour and the flesh beneath. He fought with a mechanical precision, no movement wasted. His runeblade thrust out again and again with deceptive speed, slashing at joints. Felling an orruk inevitably required more than one blow. If they survived blade and hammer, he left them to be ground under the sigmarite-shod feet of the warriors marching in his wake.

The Lord-Celestant of the Iron-sides Warrior Chamber fought at the head of his men, as was the proper way of things, surrounded by his Decimator retinues. The axe-wielders moved alongside him in a steady line, their weapons carving a gore-ridden path through the flank of the orruk force. The rest of the Stormcast Eternals marched in close formation behind them, the Liberators shielding their Judicator brethren from the orruks. The Iron-sides moved forwards resolutely. Skybolt bows crackled, picking off the bigger, more boisterous orruks, as hammers and thunderaxes felled any who got too close. ‘Remember Hreth,’ Greel said, removing an orruk’s head with an efficient slash of his runeblade.

Hreth. The Iron-sides had earned their war-name there, on the basalt fields of that fiery kingdom, where they had endured the attentions of a warhorde of bloodreavers, culled from a thousand savage fiefdoms. The Iron-sides had waded into the heart of the enemy to make their stand beneath the blind gazes of the great obelisks of Hreth. After five days of fighting, the foe had at last broken themselves on the shields of Greel’s chamber and melted away.

It would be the same here. No foe could withstand them. No foe could outlast them. Not even one as resilient as the orruks. Not even her, Greel thought. He immediately chided himself. Now was not the time. Such thoughts were a distraction from the task at hand, and he could not afford to be distracted. Distraction was weakness. One moment of inattention was all an enemy needed. He must be as sigmarite – without fault.

He heard the thump of drums, and a howl went up from the greenskin mob. Caught between the Sons of Mallus and the Astral Templars, the orruks had been ground into bloody disarray. Their thirst for battle had been quenched and then some, and now they were starting to flee. While the greenskins could be fierce foes, they were not without some sense; they knew when they had been beaten. Regrettably, the lesson rarely stuck. He lifted his hammer over his head.

‘Halt. Let them flee,’ he said, with some reluctance. His warriors crashed to a stop and waited, shields raised but weapons lowered. He planted his runeblade in the ground and rested his hand on the pommel, watching as the enemy left the battlefield.

Orruks loped past the Iron-sides’ shield wall, growling and snarling at one another in their own barbarous tongue. Greel watched them go, and wondered that creatures such as this had once fought side-by-side with Sigmar’s armies.

Had Sigmar himself not declared it to be so, I would not have believed it, he thought, but then, Sigmar’s armies had their own share of savages. He heard a voice cry out in greeting and turned.

As the orruks retreated, the Beast-bane shield wall had followed. Zephacleas trotted at the forefront, his armour stained with orruk blood and the massive head of one of the brutes’ chieftains dangling from his grip. Zephacleas was bigger than Greel, and loud. His voice carried, even at a whisper. He strode towards the Iron-sides’ Lord-Celestant, hammer dangling loosely from his free hand.

‘Ho, Greel. Now what do you think of my plan?’

‘An adequate stratagem, I must admit,’ Greel said, grudgingly. He had initially been against dividing their forces. Too much could have gone wrong. The Gargant’s Graveyard was vast, and it would have been easy to become lost. ‘We have scattered them, at any rate.’

‘For the moment,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Orruks have short memories. They’ll be back, and in greater numbers. But not until they recover their courage.’

‘Perhaps now we can continue with our true mission,’ Greel said. ‘Are you going to keep that?’ he asked, gesturing to the orruk head Zephacleas held.

‘What, this? This is Drokka,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I’m going to mount him on a pole, so his ghost can enjoy the fighting.’

‘That’s abominable,’ Greel protested.

‘It’s the orruk way,’ Zephacleas said, with a shrug. ‘It costs nothing to show a fallen foe some measure of kindness, and besides, as you said, they’re not our real enemy.’ He looked out over the battlefield. ‘Speaking of which... Any sign of her?’

Greel shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But she is here. If Sharizad has not already reached the Howling Labyrinth, then she is close.’ He turned, staring at the immense skull that marked the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard. Something at its apex caught the light of the setting sun and flashed. He felt his stomach lurch.

It is even as the God-King said... It drinks in the light and traps it, he thought.

Zephacleas followed his gaze. ‘So that’s what that is,’ he said. ‘I was wondering.’ He laughed. ‘A labyrinth within a labyrinth.’

‘It is no laughing matter,’ Greel snapped. He gestured to the bones around them. ‘This monstrous charnel ground is all that remains of those forced to build that abominable structure. Hundreds of gargants and men and orruks, sacrificed to construct a daemon-engine of unknown purpose. A thing that has crouched here for an age, undisturbed.’

‘Until now,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Yes, until now,’ Greel said. ‘That is where she is going. And we must stop her.’

‘And so we shall, my friend,’ Zephacleas said. He looked up. ‘Heratus, get down here,’ he shouted, signalling the amethyst-armoured Prosecutors circling overhead. One dropped to the ground, scattering dust and fragments of bone as he landed. The Prosecutor-Prime folded his crackling wings back and straightened.

‘You bellowed, my lord,’ Heratus said. He spoke with the impertinence that was so characteristic of the Astral Templars, in Greel’s opinion. He bore a round sigmarite shield and a stormcall javelin, which he leaned nonchalantly over his shoulder. His armour was decorated with ribbons of purity, and the fanged jawbone of an Azyrite sky-shark was mounted on his gorget. The Beast-bane had an unseemly predilection for covering themselves in such totems.

‘I did. Are your warriors in the mood for a hunt?’

‘Always, my lord,’ Heratus said. ‘South?’

‘East,’ Zephacleas said. He dropped a friendly fist on the Prosecutor-Prime’s shoulder-plate. ‘Follow the drums, huntsman. Find me my prey.’

‘As you command, Beast-bane.’ Heratus swatted his shield with the flat of his javelin’s blade and stepped back. A moment later, he was soaring skywards. Greel watched him go, then looked at Zephacleas.

‘Your prey, or our prey?’ he asked.

‘The one will show us the location of the other, in this case,’ Taros Nine-strike, the Lord-Castellant of the Beast-bane said, as he joined them. ‘We’ve passed over the detritus of a dozen battles in the past few days, and these orruks are wearing fresh trophies.’ He used the end of his halberd to roll an orruk body over, revealing the sections of brass-and-crimson war-plate dangling from the orruk’s armour.

‘Your Shimmering Countess isn’t the only follower of Chaos looking for the Howling Labyrinth. It seems the orruks have dealt with the others, Sigmar be praised for small favours,’ Taros said. ‘Indeed, I’d wager that wherever she’s lurking, the orruks will be nearby, hunting for her, whether she’s reached the Howling Labyrinth or not. They want a fight, and we know well enough that she’s capable of giving them one, after what happened at the Temple of the Empty Heart.’ He looked pointedly at Greel.

Greel looked away. The battle for the Temple of the Empty Heart had been a disaster for the Stormcast Eternals. Warrior Chambers from several Stormhosts, including the Lions of Sigmar, the Sons of Mallus and the Astral Templars, had been all but obliterated thanks to the cunning of the Triumvirate of Charn. The three sorcerer-champions had ruled the three great duchies of the Charn Mountains for centuries before the servants of Sigmar at last cast down their standards. Greel had been among those claimed in the conflagration, his heart split by the crystalline blade of the creature known as Sharizad.

And now he lived again, his heart beating anew. He had been reforged and returned to this harsh realm for one purpose and one purpose only. The Shimmering Countess had come to the Gargant’s Graveyard looking for a weapon, a thing of horror and power in equal measure. A thing with which to split worlds – a daemon-weapon of inestimable power. A weapon she must not be allowed to claim.

He closed his eyes, remembering how the words of Sigmar had struck him like hammer-blows, even as he was pulled apart and remade, his flesh boiling away from god-forged bones and needles of lightning thrust into his mind. His joints had been shattered and reset on the God-King’s anvil, and his soul scoured clean of weakness. Gaius Greel had been remade, to make good on his failure.

He would destroy Sharizad, even if he must die again to do so.

Chapter Three

Hungry Ghosts

Sharizad the Many-Splendoured One, the Shimmering Countess of Charn, sat cross-legged at the centre of the chamber, arms contorted in the seventh gesture of Hloo. A web of bound spirits, visible to no eye but her own, stretched from her crooked fingers, their murmurs filling her skull.

‘How can such a short time feel so long?’ she said, to no one in particular.

It had been months at best since the fall of the Three Duchies, or so it seemed. Time flowed strangely in the Ghurlands. Beasts had a peculiar perception of time – things grew vague the further from the present they moved. Even her spirits were confused. Their auguries were cryptic when they were not whining and abrasive. Then, such was the nature of the Howling Labyrinth. It was like the stink of a prairie fire on the wind, or the soft padding of a predator’s paws. It was a trap for flesh and soul alike.

Before her, following the curve of the wall, rose twenty-seven different archways. Each one was decorated in a unique fashion, engraved with words or shapes from across the width and breadth of Ghur. What lay beyond the archways was obscured by a thick ochre mist that spewed from gaping, fang-like vents set in the floor. To take the wrong path was to invite death or worse. To take the right path was almost as bad.

The walls that rose around her were made from polished blocks of amber which stretched and twisted the reflections of those who passed by. Sometimes she caught sight of other shapes within them, vague suggestions of things that did not now exist, and perhaps never had. Some of them were souls, she thought. The souls of those who had died in the construction of this place, and were trapped within forevermore.

According to legend, the Daemoniac Conundrum had enslaved thousands to build the Howling Labyrinth atop the skull of Agorath, the cyclopean star-wyrm. Entire tribes of gargants and other primitive beasts had been chained and goaded into titanic labours, first to wrest the amber from the earth, and then to erect the hideous structure. When they died, as they invariably did, their carcasses were dumped to the wasteland below, creating the Gargant’s Graveyard. The bones of those who came seeking the Howling Labyrinth soon joined them.

Like all of the Conundrum’s creations, it was a flame, attracting moths from every realm. Champions, sorcerers, seers and warriors from the gardens of Nurgle, the pleasure-pavilions of the Ur-Slaanesh and everywhere in between came sniffing. To brave the artifice of the Daemoniac Conundrum and survive was to gain a treasure unparalleled in all of creation. Few survived such quests. The Howling Labyrinth had remained inviolate for millennia. Until now. With Zazul’s help, she had found its location. The strength of her warriors and the magics at her disposal had served to breach its exterior.

But once inside, things had become more difficult. The interior of the labyrinth moved constantly, like a thing alive. The corridors twisted and bent upwards or downwards with no warning. Floors and ceilings met like gnashing teeth. Walls expanded or shrank, revealing new corridors or taking them away. The air throbbed with the persistent hum of unseen mechanisms and the moans of trapped souls. Auguries twisted back in on themselves and daemons could not manifest within the corridors without being refracted and torn into gossamer shreds by the strange pull of the walls.

That was due as much to the skull of Agorath as it was to the malign cunning of the labyrinth’s creator. The star-wyrms were things of sorcery as well as flesh, fading in and out of reality as they slithered through the black spaces between the stars. They were of a type with the great drakes, but more primitive – fierce hunters of the void, and a trophy worthy of any hunter. Only a weapon like Marrowcutter could pierce their scales, and only a creature as mad as the Daemoniac Conundrum would dare to try.

Then, with a weapon like Marrowcutter, one’s concept of what was possible expanded greatly. Sharizad tilted her head, listening to the quiet whisper of the blade’s voice in her head. It cut through the murmurs of her spirits and pressed close to the core of her thoughts. There was a horrid clarity to it, a purity of purpose that belied all attempts at misdirection. It knew she was here and it called to her with a passion second only to her own.

With the Worldsplitter in her hands, she would be unstoppable. It was said by the blind pox-monks of the Ruptured Expanse that there were weapons so keen as to be able to cut through the skin of reality, weapons like the Fang of Kadon or the Cat’s Claw. Marrowcutter was among their number. Indeed, it was the greatest of them. No realm would be barred to her with the daemon-sword in her hands, and no foe would be able to stay her wrath.

‘Countess no more. Queen, at least. Empress, perhaps,’ she said, as she opened her eyes.

She unlaced her arms and slapped her palms to the warm amber flagstones beneath her. ‘The spirits are confused. Odak, your cards. Make me a trail through the unwritten moments, my love,’ she murmured, glancing at the warrior standing behind her.

‘As you wish, my countess,’ Odak-of-the-Nine said. Armoured in ruby and glass, his burgundy robes rustling softly, Odak was almost the mirror image of his brothers, save for his chosen war-colours. Then, that wasn’t so strange, given the nature of the Nine-in-One. Odak opened the gilt case hanging from his belt and removed a deck of cards. The cards were crafted from pressed ivory and threaded through with gold and silver. On each was a symbolic image – a fiery skull, a daemon, a beast, among others – and with them, Odak could foretell dooms and futures. Or so he claimed.

‘How will he do it, do you think, brothers? Will he scatter them like pebbles, or perhaps craft a tower from them?’ Sardak murmured. Unlike Odak, he was clad in turquoise and silver. ‘What use pasteboard and ivory when I have my speaking bones, my countess?’ he continued, bowing to Sharizad. ‘Let me cast the bones, and I’ll find our way, true enough.’

‘Bones and cards are for children,’ Kuldak, another of the brothers, said flatly. Armoured in bronze and ochre plate, Kuldak was a master of sand and heat. Of the nine, he was the closest to their late, unlamented father in temperament. ‘Let me cast my sands, Sharizad, and I shall seek us a proper route.’

‘What would you know of it, brother?’ Sardak said.

‘As much as you,’ Kuldak said. The two glared at one another, until a fourth brother stepped between them. Silent Yuhdak, clad in silver and obsidian. Yuhdak the peacemaker. Sharizad laughed softly. Yuhdak never spoke, never fought with the others, but simply watched. He was too observant, too patient. Sharizad had already marked him to die, when the time came.

By their own admission, only one of the nine sons of daemon-sultan Vath’hek would survive. That was their fate and they pursued it assiduously. Tainted in their mother’s womb by the machinations of the Architect of Fate, the nine had once been one. A single iridescent child, split into nine mewling brats. One soul, split between nine bodies and nine minds. Those bodies would never be joined again, but the mind and the power it wielded was impressive. She often wondered at Tzeentch’s purpose for such a sundering.

Sharizad studied the Nine-in-One bemusedly. Besides the other four, there was joyful Bodak, savage Redak and morose Curdak. Two of the Nine had died before they reached the Howling Labyrinth – grim Adak and greedy Taldak. Adak had fallen not long after they had entered the Gargant’s Graveyard, cut down by the perfumed blade of Oleander Hume, the Knight of Silk, before Sharizad had put the coward to flight. And poor Taldak had vanished as soon as they entered the labyrinth. She suspected the hand of Bodak or perhaps cunning Sardak.

Regardless, soon there would be only one: one mind, one soul, one body, culled from nine. A potent champion, and blessed. If they – he – proved himself worthy. As she was worthy. How else to explain her continued survival, after all?

She had ruled the largest of the Three Duchies of Charn. Her siblings had ruled the lesser kingdoms. Together, they had held Charn tight in a grip of magic. It had been an adequate existence. The nobility had played games of death and deceit with one another, and she and her kinsmen had participated when it suited them. Small amusements, to assuage the tedium of eternity. There was joy in the taking, but little in the having.

Then had come the storm, and those who walked on it. Armoured hulks, larger than any mortal and stinking of the high magics of Azyr. They had wielded lightning and smashed aside the armies of the mountain-kingdoms as if they were nothing more than children. She closed her eyes, remembering the excitement of the moment when she had first realised that her kingdom was in danger. It had been... exquisite.

Her mind, grown feeble with boredom, was revived. A thousand plots blossomed within her, even as her brother lost his head and his duchy both. Ancient sorceries, half forgotten, were stirred anew and invoked. The sky had wept tears of boiling gold and the ground had burned with cold fire as she set herself against these new foes.

Her people too had been roused: serfs turned against their masters; her own chamberlain had called forth petty daemons to attack her while she was preoccupied. She had flayed him for his temerity, but not before thanking him.

It had been so interesting. And so short. Too short. The running had been more interesting: despoiling the lands she had once forced her slaves to tend, waging war on those petty mountain-fiefdoms that stood between her and the veldts of the Ghurlands. And her foes running after her, trying to outwit her, to outmanoeuvre her. Even better, sometimes the dead ones came back, to try their luck again.

Of course, it was hard on her warriors. Barely a few score of them remained – her chosen bannermen, the Knights of Malachus, and a few packs of tribesmen who had sworn oaths to her upon the deaths of her siblings. Too, there were the silk-and-steel-clad followers of the Nine-in-One: waste-dwellers who murdered one another too readily for the amusement of their princes. There was the seed of a great army there, but she needed Marrowcutter.

She looked around, letting the brothers bicker. Eventually she would allow one to do as she asked, but it was best to keep them at each other’s throats. Odak claimed that an eyeless crow had spoken to them in the ruins of their father’s nine-tiered palace, and commanded them to put aside their internecine feuding. The crow had sent them on a quest of their own, to find the Destined Queen. To find Sharizad.

Sharizad had no doubt that such a thing had happened, nor did she doubt that the Nine-in-One were but credulous children when it came to vagaries of fate. She suspected that the crow had spoken with Zazul’s voice. The Radiant Veil had chosen to aid her, though she knew not why. Perhaps he had seen or heard something that told him her fate. If so, he had never shared it with her. She did not trust him, for followers of the ninefold path could not be trusted.

But she could use him, as he likely intended to use her. As she could use all of her tools. She looked at those few warriors she had brought into the labyrinth. Several of the green-armoured Knights of Malachus stood sentinel by the entrance to the chamber, and a few hillmen, faces painted with ash and blood, squatted patiently nearby, watching the Nine-in-One squabble. She had left most of her forces outside, to guard the routes to the labyrinth. Zazul swore that he could keep the orruks distracted, but she didn’t intend to leave it to chance. In any event, her warriors would see to it that no one interrupted her.

Sharizad turned her attention back to the brothers and clapped her hands together. ‘Cease your bickering, my loves. I asked Odak, and it is Odak who shall have the honour of finding our path ahead,’ she said, loudly.

Odak laughed and bowed, shoving Kuldak aside as he did so. Kuldak groped for his blade, but Yuhdak caught his wrist and calmed him. Sharizad tilted her head and stretched out her hand.

‘Come, Odak. Cast our fates, and show us the way forwards.’

He took her hand and she led him around. As she released him, he moved past her, shuffling his cards. He spread them with a flourish, and they hung waiting in the air. At his merest gesture, the cards turned, twisted and moved, shifting position. Odak touched one – a queen, astride a dragon of many hues – and dragged it through the air, scattering the others like startled birds. He stepped back, arms spread.

‘What do your cards say, Odak?’ Sharizad murmured.

‘Many things, my queen. They speak of the past and the future, the written and unwritten. In my cards is the story of all things, and the fate of all men.’

‘I am concerned only with the fate of a woman, dear Odak. My own. Have you found a path, or must Sardak cast his bones?’ Sharizad said. Sardak chuckled, but a glare from Odak silenced him. Odak collected his cards with a sweep of his hand and pointed to an archway.

‘There,’ he said.

‘You are certain?’ Sharizad asked. Stepping through the wrong archway could lead to collapsing corridors or worse. The Daemoniac Conundrum had made a cage of hazards for Marrowcutter.

‘Yes, my queen,’ Odak said, bowing low.

‘Not a queen, not yet,’ Sharizad said, as she moved past him towards the archway he had indicated. ‘But I will be.’ She stopped, turning. A thought had occurred to her. ‘Show me,’ she said. ‘A queen-to-be must be preceded by her herald... Will you be my herald, Odak?’

Odak hesitated. Sharizad cocked her head. ‘Are you frightened, dear Odak? Could it be that you are not so certain as you appear to be?’

‘Allow me to go first, my queen,’ Sardak said, stepping past his brother. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘No,’ Odak snapped. ‘I am the pathfinder. I will do it. Make way, Sardak.’ He pushed Sardak aside and stepped forwards, pausing only to bow to Sharizad. ‘I will test the path ahead, O shimmering one. No harm shall befall thee.’

‘I should hope not,’ she said, reaching up to stroke his featureless helm. ‘Go.’

Odak stepped through the smoke. As he did so, he flung out his hands, dispersing it and clearing the way. His cards fluttered about him like excitable birds as he stepped into the corridor beyond, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The corridor was the same as all of the others they had passed through, made from slabs of polished amber. When nothing untoward occurred, Odak turned.

‘You see? As I said, my cards have shown us the way,’ he said.

A hand, composed of amber and as large as a man, sprouted abruptly from the ceiling and enveloped Odak, even as the words left his mouth. His struggles were barely visible through the semi-opaque surface of the amber, and his screams were muffled. The hand was followed by another, and in the gleaming surface of the ceiling Sharizad could see what looked like the reflection of an immense skeleton, much like those that populated the Gargant’s Graveyard. It towered above the corridor, like some massive beast reaching into the water to grasp its prey.

The hands tightened about Odak and his body contorted. Sharizad knew that he was being crushed. Before any of them could react, the hands slid back into the ceiling, taking Odak with them. As they vanished, the walls of the chamber suddenly bowed outwards, as if a great weight had settled atop them. The corridor Odak had stepped into slid about as the archway cracked and came apart in an explosion of smoke and dust. The walls shifted, the slabs moving and making way for others. And with them came the thud of monstrous feet. Skeletal feet, which pounded and stamped as they hurried forwards.

Vast shapes took form in the gleaming walls, floor and ceiling as long-dead beasts howled hungrily. They squeezed and squirmed, fighting to cram themselves into the rapidly expanding chamber from all sides. Everywhere Sharizad looked, giant skeletons pressed eagerly against the surface of the amber, their malformed bones slamming against one another in a frenzy. Hands sprouted from the walls and floor and ceiling, followed by bestial faces that leered and gibbered. When the ghostly gargants emerged, they were clad in amber flesh and muscle, in a hideous parody of life.

‘Defend yourselves,’ Sharizad said, as she drew her crystalline blade. Her warriors reacted with admirable speed. The Knights of Malachus were potent warriors, forged in the fires of Chaos and loyal only to the whims of the Changer of Ways. Her hillmen fared worse. They were savage and fierce, but their blades of bronze and iron made little impression on the monstrous apparitions.

The Nine-in-One fought as individuals, each one employing those methods that most suited him. Bodak fought with a brass-banded club made from the thighbone of a toad-dragon, which tore through the ghostly limbs with ease. Sardak spat withering incantations to shrivel the grasping hands into clouds of amber dust. Yuhdak wove glittering shields of light and sound to protect his more inobservant brothers.

Sharizad spun and danced, avoiding the clutches of the forest of fingers that filled the chamber. Her mind whirled with possibilities – she had centuries of magics at her disposal, but all required time, a moment of clarity and more room than she currently had.

‘Look out,’ Redak snarled suddenly as he swept his curved runeblade out towards her head. The fiercest of the Nine, Redak wore the turquoise and amethyst pelt of a demi-gryph across his shoulders, and bore a shield of polished silver. As she bent forwards, he sliced through a groping limb, separating hand from wrist before it could snatch her up. The hand splashed to the floor and melted away as if it had never been. The amber gargant reeled back, wailing. Sharizad avoided a clutching paw and spat an incantation. Her magics flared brightly, before they were drawn into the polished walls.

One of her knights was pulped by the foot of an amber-hued gargant. The great beast whirled as other knights attacked him. It knocked them sprawling with a blow, and hands reached up from below to ensnare them. In moments, her forces would be nothing more than a memory. Anger pulsed through her. ‘How dare you,’ she hissed, slashing at a hand that drew too close. ‘You are nothing – less than nothing. The memory of a fate cut short. You shall not stop me, not now.’ The smoke that made up the crest of her crystal helm suddenly billowed, growing thicker. The facets of her armour darkened and began to shimmer.

The smoke flared about her like the hood of a cobra and flowed forwards, growing swifter and more solid as it went. As the first coils of smoke reached the amber gargants, they erupted in shapes: men and women, warriors, kings and sorcerers. Goreshroud was among their number, still wearing the wound that had killed him. He stalked alongside the Three Queens of Ferro, trailing their life’s blood in their wake like shimmering cloaks. Bloodbound moved forwards alongside hulking Stormcast Eternals, their groans of agony like the sweetest music to her ears.

Sharizad swept her sword out as more and more souls spilled from the facets of her armour. Their freedom was only momentary. Once she claimed a life, it was enthralled until she decided to release it. Only one soul had ever escaped her, the last she had sought to claim before she had fled the Temple of the Empty Heart.

The use of the chained souls was a powerful magic, one of the greatest at her disposal. But it was not without risk. The souls hated and feared her. She could unleash them, but there was no guarantee that she could control them. They swept ahead in an unstoppable wave, swarming over the gargants. The air throbbed with the roars and groans of the dead as they fought. One by one, the spectral gargants retreated, rising and falling away into the depths of the amber with wails of frustration.

Sharizad extended her hand as the ghostly shape of Goreshroud turned towards her. The scar-faced warlord glared blindly at her, his axe half raised. The other ghosts spread out around him, their voices a quavering susurrus. He was the freshest, and the strongest. That meant he was the most dangerous. He stepped towards her, teeth bared in a snarl.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You are mine. Your fate is mine. And you will come to heel.’

Goreshroud snarled silently and lunged for her, axe raised. His mind and will crashed against hers like a tempest. But he was nothing. His fate was a puny thing, next to the weight of hers. Sharizad whipped her sword out and his form wavered and came apart all at once. She glared at the remaining souls. ‘You are mine. All of you are mine. Now back to your kennels.’

The ghosts returned to the smoke they had emerged from and flowed back into her crest and armour. The six remaining brothers of the Nine-in-One gazed at her with awe as she sheathed her sword. She looked about her. The chamber had become a corridor, and the archways were gone, leaving only two possible directions. Somehow she knew which way to go. She felt the pull of something, like a snatch of a half-heard song. She turned towards it.

‘Shall we proceed?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder at her followers.

Zazul sensed his champion’s frustration and barely restrained a laugh. So sure of yourself, my lady, so certain, he thought. The Howling Labyrinth was designed to confound even the most cunning of minds, of which the Shimmering Countess was certainly one. He had no doubt that she would navigate the maze in due time, but for now her anger was amusing.

It was in the nature of the Changer of Ways to find as much joy in the unravelling of schemes as in the weaving. Plots were meant to rise and come undone, else what was their purpose? Zazul himself had schemed to undo his own stratagems, in times past. To play both sides of the board with equal skill was the mark of a true gamesman.

But this was not that sort of game. He had to retain control of Gordrakk until the beast had served his purpose. And when the Fist of Gork had accomplished what Zazul wished him to, it would be time to cut the thread of his fate short. For that, he would need the right tools.

He scanned the noisy expanse of the scrap-camp, reading the mood of the gathered orruks as easily as he might read a missive. They rarely stayed in one place long enough to do more than render an area uninhabitable for anyone else. The stink of the gore-grunta war-sty and the ever-growing refuse piles that the overly aggressive swine were fed from hung heavy on the air.

Mingled with it was the stink of burning meat, as the orruks devoured an assortment of the unlucky beasts that inhabited the boneyard. Everything from sabretusks to stonehorns prowled the skeletal heaps and cul-de-sacs, preying on one another and anything stupid enough to cross their path. Gordrakk had lost a dozen warriors within hours of entering the Gargant’s Graveyard, all to hungry beasts. Since then, the animals had wisely learned to keep their distance. The orruks weren’t particular about what they ate.

Cloaked in the mask of Jabberjaw, Zazul made his way through the camp, listening to the muttered conversations. He had run the beasts ragged for days on end, sending them chasing illusions and shadows, allowing the Stormcasts to advance farther into the boneyard. Gordrakk was growing sullen and his warriors were frustrated. Now, thanks to the Ninety-Nine Feathers, he knew that the Stormcasts were close enough to allow the orruks to finally find them. Indeed, one of the megabosses, Drokka, had already fought them.

Drokka had demanded the right to attack the Stormcasts the moment they had been spotted. Given that he had won the scuffle that had followed, as the other megabosses showed their disapproval, Gordrakk had obliged him. Drokka would fail, of course. Gordrakk had known that, Zazul suspected. The Fist of Gork had sent his own scouts out, watching the battle, studying the enemy. He was no mindless brute, whatever his inclinations. And that made him dangerous.

With the tiniest gesture, Zazul sparked brawls or strengthened growing resentments among the gathered Ironjawz as he weaved through the camp. It wasn’t hard, and amusing as it was, it served an important purpose. The orruks must pose no threat to Sharizad, once she had succeeded. They would destroy the Stormcasts for him, and then he would twist the force of their fury in on itself. Gordrakk’s destiny – whatever it was – would be cut short, and the orruks that remained would be easy pickings for the Shimmering Countess.

Zazul made his way to the centre of the camp, leaving a trail of violence and confusion in his wake. Given the nature of an orruk camp, no one noticed. He saw several of the megabosses gathered together around a fire-pit. It was a rare enough sight that it gave him pause. Orruk bosses had an aversion to being within arm’s reach of one another. Then, Gordrakk intimidated them all so much that he suspected they sought comfort in each other’s company. Orruks were social creatures, by and large, despite their brutal inclinations.

He sidled close, listening to them. Stabbajak was the most vocal, but that was no surprise. The one-eyed orruk was the most troublesome of Gordrakk’s lieutenants. And potentially the most useful. He had been the most incensed by Drokka’s demand, and Gordrakk’s granting of it.

‘Thinks he’s so big,’ Stabbajak muttered, chewing on a bone. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘The Big Punch,’ Roklud said, picking at his teeth with a splinter of boar-tusk.

‘I know that,’ Stabbajak said, as he walloped the other orruk with his bone. Roklud snarled, but refrained from lunging at the one-eyed grunta-boss. Stabbajak was as nasty as the beast he rode, and twice as tough. He was second only to Gordrakk, and had been the last of them beaten into servitude by the Fist of Gork.

‘Then why’d you ask?’ Roklud muttered, rubbing his head.

‘Cause he’s thinking, ain’t you, Stabbajak?’ Zazul murmured, cringing slightly as the brutish words left his mouth. The orruk tongue was almost as painful to speak as it was to hear.

‘Shut up, Jabberjaw,’ Roklud growled, tossing a chunk of burned meat at Zazul. Stabbajak walloped him again.

‘You shut up, Roklud.’ Stabbajak pointed his bone at Zazul. ‘You talk, Jabberjaw.’ His one eye glittered with cunning. ‘But you’d better make it good.’

Zazul smiled. ‘Nothing to say, Stabbajak. Only making an observation.’ Stabbajak was a weapon loose in its sheath. He had the cunning and the ambition to make himself boss-of-bosses, but not the ability. Gordrakk left him alive and ignored his veiled taunts, hoping he would try. Unlike Roklud and the others, Stabbajak didn’t know when he was beaten. That made him perfect for Zazul’s purposes.

It was a hard needle to thread, keeping Stabbajak and the others grumbling but not allowing them to follow their natural instincts. Orruks did not dissemble or plot. They were honest beasts, whatever else. He needed the megabosses unhappy, but not so unhappy that they might simply seek to take that unhappiness out on Gordrakk. Only once the Stormcasts had been defeated would he step back and let nature take its course. Whatever else happened, this horde would no longer be a threat to Sharizad or his plans for her.

As Stabbajak settled back to continue grumpily gnawing on his bone, Zazul turned his attention to the object of Stabbajak’s ire. He glanced towards the throne. Gordrakk was staring up at the Howling Labyrinth again. Zazul grimaced. In a perfect world, the orruk would have already hurled himself into battle with the Stormcasts. But something kept drawing his attention away from them. Some force was fighting him, bending Gordrakk away from his chosen course.

Zazul felt his illusions flicker and bit back a snarl. The force, whatever it was, was growing stronger, and it was becoming harder to stay hidden behind Jabberjaw’s brutish face. Soon he would no longer need this veil, and could free himself from the stink and crudity of this barbaric place. He wondered where he would be sent next. Archaon was drawing his champions to him from across the length and breadth of the Mortal Realms, and the Gaunt Summoners would show them their paths.

Perhaps he would overthrow a kingdom next, or poison a long-forgotten realmgate in preparation for battles to come. Sigmar’s storm was spreading swiftly over the Mortal Realms. Many regions of Aqshy roiled with the flames of war, as did the kingdoms of Ghyran. The dead stirred in the deep places of Shyish, and old foes readied themselves for battle. He had seen it all, and more besides in his dreams and meditations. The mortal gods stirred once more from their hiding places, daring the wrath of the Ruinous Powers.

Something growled, deep in his mind. He glanced up and then quickly back down. The shapes crouched low over the scrap-camp, leaning on their knuckles, eyes like balls of fire. They were indistinct things, more suggestions of shapes than shapes themselves, but powerful for all of that. He could feel the weight of their gaze whenever it passed over him, and he shuddered deep in his core. They were part of Gordrakk, and were attached to him in ways that Zazul did not fully understand. The orruks could not see them, he thought, but they could feel them. Sometimes, they would become agitated, and begin to brawl with insubstantial ferocity. Other times they vanished for days at a time, only to return when he least expected it.

Whatever they were, they were unduly interested in the Howling Labyrinth. Often, he would catch sight of one or the other, leaning down as if to whisper with comedic delicacy into Gordrakk’s ear. And when they whispered, Gordrakk listened. That was dangerous.

Surreptitiously, he gestured. Gordrakk shifted on his throne, and his eyes turned towards Zazul.

‘Where are your birds, shaman?’ Gordrakk rumbled.

‘Gone hunting,’ Zazul said, and smiled.

Heratus swooped through the muggy air, followed closely by his huntsmen. They flew with grace and precision, despite the weight of their armour and the weapons they carried. The five of them had hunted together since the founding of their Warrior Chamber. As a group, they had harried the Black Bull of Nordrath to exhaustion, drawing blood from its armoured flanks with their javelins.

That had been a good day. Mantius Far-killer had pierced the abomination’s brain with his arrows, once Heratus and his warriors had run it to ground. Heratus frowned as he thought of the Knight-Venator of their Warrior Chamber. The Far-killer had fallen on the battlefield, as a Stormcast ought. Heratus knew it was only a matter of time until he joined the Far-killer in the fires of Reforging. That was the fate of all warriors pledged to Sigmar. The fate of all of the Beast-bane, to fall and burn and rise to fall again.

May that day be long in coming, he thought. He did not wish to burn and be reforged, but neither did he fear it. Why fear what could not be prevented? Better to embrace it and make the moments between count. He banked sharply, his keen gaze sweeping over the vast boneyard below. It stretched for miles, seemingly farther than a mortal man could travel in a lifetime. The air trembled with the pounding of orruk drums.

Below him, herds of great beasts – thundertusks, stonehorns and other creatures – fled before the incessant beat. The sound of their fear reached him, even at a distance. It was ever the way with orruks. They drove lesser beasts before them like a forest fire. The greenskins were not truly an army; rather they were a force of nature. Walls and towers could not stop them, any more than armies in the field could resist them. A thousand kingdoms had learned the folly of that over a thousand lifetimes.

One of his warriors, Agatus, motioned with his javelin and Heratus followed the gesture. Down below, orruks filled the narrow canyons of the boneyard, squatting around stinking fires. They were all around the Warrior Chambers, and if the Stormcasts didn’t change their route they would march right into the largest concentration of the creatures.

While that might suit Zephacleas, the others would not be so eager to run afoul of the full strength of the orruks. There were more of them than Heratus had expected – too many. There were hundreds of smaller concentrations scattered across the boneyard. Isolated scrap-forts and war-camps occupied narrow defiles and canyons. It was as if something were drawing orruks from every corner of the Ghurlands. Instinctively, he glanced towards the immense bestial skull that occupied the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard, and the shimmering... thing that surmounted it like some unnatural crown.

The Howling Labyrinth, he thought, and felt his spirit quiver.

The Mortal Realms were studded with places of foulness. In the centuries since the closing of the gates of Azyr, the hordes of Chaos had run wild across the Mortal Realms. And in their wake, they had left deep wounds in the very fabric of reality – monstrous citadels and foul temples raised to unnatural eidolons, ruined cities where no city had ever existed before. The Howling Labyrinth was one of those structures.

The bird fell out of the sky in a swirl of feathers, shocking him out of his reverie. It struck Agatus with bone-cracking force. As Heratus swooped to his aid, the Prosecutor tumbled through the air, caught in the talons of something that twisted and changed even as he sought to come to grips with it. More birds – ravens, Heratus thought – dived down, screeching. There were dozens of them, and their forms swelled and stretched in abominable ways as they fell towards his huntsmen like an oily rain.

A Prosecutor hurled his javelin, piercing a raven through and killing it in mid-transformation. Something that was not quite a bird, not quite a man, fell twitching to the ground far below. Others fell on the Prosecutor even as another javelin crackled into being in his waiting hand. Heratus swooped on towards Agatus. He saw that his subordinate’s attacker had become a black-armoured warrior, clad in a cloak of glossy feathers.

As they tumbled through the air, the warrior drew a thin, curved blade and slid it through a gap in the plates of Agatus’ armour. The Prosecutor jerked and blood spurted from the mouthpiece of his helm. Heratus drove the blade of his javelin through the back of the killer’s neck as Agatus’ body dissolved into a searing bolt of lightning.

Heratus arced upwards, jerking his javelin free of his kill as he did so. More flashes of lightning greeted his eyes, and he cursed his earlier inattention. He had led his huntsmen into an ambush, and now they were paying the price for his lack of awareness. But they were not alone in paying that terrible toll. Strange black-clad warriors plummeted towards the boneyard below, their bodies burned and pierced by javelins, or their skulls crushed by desperate blows. But for every one that fell, two more swooped down to join the fray.

As the last of his warriors fell, his body coming apart in streamers of crackling light, Heratus ducked his head and strove forwards, wings slicing through the air. He had to break free of his attackers. Lord-Celestant Zephacleas had to be warned.

Things that were neither birds nor men lunged through the air towards him. Strange energies rippled around them, and the air stank of foul magics. Heratus whipped his javelin out, slashing the tip of the blade across a metallic, beaked mask. Feathered cloaks swirled, obscuring his vision. He felt a great weight slam into his back and his wings struggled to hold him aloft. Everywhere he looked, clawed gauntlets and iridescent blades dug for him. Talons pierced his helmet, tugging his head back. He roared in fury and swung his shield-arm out. He felt bone splinter at the point of impact.

His attackers scattered, flapping away with raucous cries. Only a single figure hovered before him, arms spread – a woman, clad in ornate, obsidian-hued armour and robes. Great wings, as black as the void between stars and a match for his own, flapped slowly from her back and her narrow helmet was shaped like the head of a raven.

Heratus hurtled towards her. He could feel the air becoming heavy with growing pressure, and knew, with a sinking certainty, that the sorceress was preparing to unleash a spell. She had begun a series of complicated gestures, and as she completed them, Heratus hurled his javelin. As it left his hand, the air suddenly became hot and close, and he couldn’t help but scream as oily flames enveloped him.

Then, he was falling, and burning. And soon, in a flash of lightning, he was rising.

But still burning.

Chapter Four

Bones and Beasts

Gordrakk closed his eyes as the gods squabbled in his head.

Gork was winning, or maybe Mork. It changed moment to moment, as did their location. He could almost see them, in his mind’s eye. He could certainly hear them. He had always been able to hear them. That was how he knew he was who he was. He was the Fist of Gork, the dead-hard boss-of-bosses. He was the first-born son of brutality and cunning, and stronger than either. That was what the gods whispered to him, and he saw no reason to doubt them.

He sat on a makeshift throne made from the shattered ribcage of a gargant and the gaping jaws of some deep-sea leviathan, covered in the still-dripping hide of a gore-grunta. What was left of the beast was swiftly sliding down Chompa’s gullet. The maw-krusha gave a rumbling purr as it ate, satisfied for the moment. But only for the moment. Chompa’s satisfaction rarely lasted longer than the moment between the last bite of one meal and the first bite of the next. Gordrakk knew how the great beast felt.

The orruks had made a temporary scrap-camp in the remains of the one once populated by the Black-Iron King’s warhorde. The Chaos-things made good camps, building palisades and stretching vast canvases between jutting bones to block out the harsh light of the suns above. Now, those tents were being used by his boys. Everywhere he looked, he saw Ironjawz prying armour off the bodies of Chaos worshippers or beating new weapons into shape with their fists. Black orruks watched their larger cousins enviously. They weren’t strong enough to do the same, though they sometimes tried.

‘Nobody’s as strong as us,’ Gordrakk murmured. He glanced up at the top of the throne, where what was left of the Black-Iron King had been crucified and left to dangle and clatter in the hot breezes that ran through the bone-canyons. ‘Ironjawz is the strongest there is,’ he continued. ‘When Gorkamorka beat us into shape, he made us out of the hardest iron.’ He was speaking to himself more than he was his followers.

He studied the high canyon walls, composed of bone piled atop bone. There were boneyards like this throughout Gorkamorka’s realm. Some were larger, some were smaller, but all were signs of Gorkamorka’s passage. The gods travelled and fought from one end of the realm to the other, and the orruks followed in their footsteps. To fight where the gods had fought was a great thing. The echoes of those long-ago struggles still waited in places, like ancient wisdom. There were caves in the Ghurish Heights where an orruk could hear the curses of his gods as they punched and kicked one another, and deep holes gouged in the earth where Gorkamorka had dragged dark-dwelling monsters into the light of the suns.

There were monsters aplenty in the Gargant’s Graveyard. Even a few hill-troggoths lurking in the higher piles. The centuries had piled dust and loose soil in amongst the older conglomerations of bone, making natural eddies, tunnels and caves. Water collected in upturned skulls and ran along the cracks in mammoth femurs. Sometimes it dripped down through the bones and collected deep in the piles, and strange things swam in those unseen pools.

There was always good hunting in boneyards. Always tribes of men or monsters, trying to build something out of the dead. Something the orruks could knock over. But Gordrakk wasn’t interested in men or monsters. No, he was only interested in one fight right now.

The storm-things were close. He could smell them on the air. The Hammer God made good, tough warriors. That he sent them to fight orruks showed that he still respected Gorkamorka. It had taken days to find them – days of chasing sounds and shadows. He had killed more than one of his scouts out of sheer frustration, and now most were hiding out in the boneyard, waiting until it was safe to return. The braver ones had brought him word that the storm-things were close.

Gordrakk was not, by nature, patient. Only the whispers of Kunnin’ kept him from leading all of his fists straight towards the foe, the moment he had learned their location. But the axe said something was up. There was something in the air – not the storm but something else. There was an opponent out there somewhere, begging for a fight. And Gordrakk intended to give them one. That was why the gods had made him.

His skull echoed with the pleasing sounds of the deific scuffle, as Gork and Mork traded blows and insults. His bones reverberated with the force of their punches and bellows, and his flesh prickled in a pleasing way. Ironjawz worshipped the gods equally, with no favouritism. Gork and Mork were one as often as they were two, and neither was pre-eminent. Not for long, at least. It was a constant fight for dominance, just the way orruks liked it.

He cracked an eye, and glanced down at the axes crossed over his lap. One spoke with the voice of cunning, the other with the voice of brutality. They talked constantly, urging him first one way and then the other. Provoking him and warning him. It was the axes that had told him about the thing at the top of the Big Skull, and it was the axes that wanted him to see what was up there, and take it or break it, whichever seemed profitable at the time. There was something up there that they wanted – to have or maybe just to fight. The axes were always looking for a fight, which suited him just fine.

Drums thumped and a howl went up, half mocking, half warning. He opened his eyes fully and leaned forwards. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Drokka beat ’em?’

‘Birdies say Drokka is – ksst,’ Jabberjaw said, dragging his thumb across his wattle-laced throat. ‘Storm-things walloped him but good.’ The shaman crouched near Gordrakk’s throne, surrounded by his carrion-birds. He had been muttering to them since they’d returned.

‘Hnh.’ Gordrakk sat back and chuckled. Drokka had insisted on making the first attack, and Gordrakk, in a display of magnanimity meant to appease Drokka and annoy his other chieftains, had allowed it. Drokka had been as thick as two rocks tied together, and about as useful, but he had managed to thump the other megabosses. ‘Good. Never liked old Drokka anyway. Where they at now?’

‘Coming up slow, marching through the boneyard,’ Jabberjaw said, stroking his raven’s head. ‘No scouts now, though. Marching blind,’ the weirdnob chortled.

Gordrakk grunted.

‘You kill ’em?’

Jabberjaw just grinned. Gordrakk was tempted to feed the shaman to Chompa on general principles. Nobody grinned at him, not even a weirdnob with a head full of god-juice. But Kunnin’ cautioned him quietly, and he restrained his ever-present volcanic urge to do violence. Smasha, however, urged action of some sort. He might not be able to bash Jabberjaw, but he could bash somebody.

‘Right,’ he said. He shoved himself upright and slammed his axes together. ‘Drokka had his chance. They krumped him. Now we know we got a fight. So we go fight.’ He looked around at his megabosses, judging their readiness. That too was his purpose. Gork had punched him to life to find the biggest and best fights, but Mork had breathed his cunning into Gordrakk so that he could test his people, to find the biggest, baddest bosses for the fight-of-all-fights. The ones who would krump the gods themselves and throw down every wall and topple every tower.

‘Fight’s good. But not proper, lettin’ Drokka go first,’ Stabbajak grunted. ‘Gore-gruntas go first. Always!’ He thumped his chest with a fist. His warriors murmured in agreement. He was right, Gordrakk knew. Gore-gruntas were always first, always at the front of a good fight. While their riders were after a fight, the pigs were after food. The big boars ate everything, even other boars. Even orruks. The only thing they couldn’t digest was iron.

‘Gore-gruntas go when I say they go, one-eye,’ Gordrakk said. ‘Unless you got a problem?’ He fixed Stabbajak with a glare. Then he looked around, letting his gaze rest on the others, each in their turn. ‘Anybody got a problem?’ None of the others looked at him.

Gordrakk waited. Then, finally, he grunted in disappointment. They never wanted to fight any more – not openly, anyway. He didn’t think any of this lot would last much longer. He hawked and spat, then smacked Stabbajak with the flat of Smasha’s blade.

‘Take your gruntfist and punch ’em inna face,’ Gordrakk growled, looking down at the one-eyed orruk. ‘Gore-gruntas go first, right?’ It would take him time to get the rest of his mobs moving in the right direction. Stabbajak and his gore-gruntas would reach the enemy first, and keep them pinned in place. Gordrakk had learned the value of keeping his opponents from running off. Also, Stabbajak might do Gordrakk a favour and follow Drokka’s example in getting himself killed. That’d save Gordrakk some effort later on.

Stabbajak grinned toothily. ‘Right.’ The one-eyed orruk turned and began to bellow orders to his subordinates. Stabbajak’s clan of grunta-riders were heavily armoured and bellicose, as befitting their kind. It was no easy thing to keep a gore-grunta in line. The big, carnivore-fanged pigs would bite off an orruk’s arm as soon as look at them, and it was a constant battle for dominance.

Not much difference between a gore-grunta and this lot, really, Gordrakk thought, glancing at his other lieutenants. The megabosses were agitated, wanting a scrap, but not wanting to challenge Gordrakk’s decision. They weren’t afraid of him – not really. They were just afraid that he’d knock them out before they got a chance to enjoy the fight to come. No orruk wanted to miss a scrap, especially if they were Ironjawz.

Squeals rose from the war-sty where Stabbajak’s warriors had corralled most of the gore-gruntas. The monstrous swine grunted and clattered within the ring of interlaced bones, metal plates and jutting gore-stikkas, their bodies weighed down by the iron that had been hammered onto them by the fists of their riders. It took a lot to wrestle one of the pigs down long enough to get the iron on, and sometimes neither the gore-grunta nor its owner survived the experience.

Stabbajak clambered to the top of the sty and held out his hands. Then, with a howl of challenge, he dived into the pen of angry and ever-hungry war-beasts. His warriors followed him, hurling themselves over the top of the sty or else ripping pieces of it away so that they could meet those gore-gruntas that tried to escape head-to-head. Orruks wrestled snarling gore-gruntas to the ground long enough to climb onto their backs, or were trampled beneath the hooves of the beasts. Stabbajak clung to one of the largest, and the beast bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge him.

Finally, the melee knocked the walls of the sty flat and gore-gruntas and their riders spilled out into the camp proper. Stabbajak led the way, swatting his mount’s rump with the flat of his serrated spear. They thundered through the camp, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Mobs of brutes and black orruks scrambled to get out of their way.

Gordrakk hauled himself into Chompa’s saddle as the gore-gruntas charged into the canyon beyond the camp in a squealing, stinking flood. ‘Everyone up!’ he bellowed. ‘On your feet. The Hammer God is here. He wants a fight and I aim to give him one.’ He half stood in his saddle and clashed his axes together, then he extended Smasha towards the hulking form of his warchanter, Grund. ‘Grund! Let the gods know where we’re going. Sing us a song of war, and make it good and loud.’

Grund chortled in pleasure and began to slam his bones together, and against anything his arms could reach. ‘Gorka-Gorka-GORKA,’ he rumbled, ‘Morka-Morka-MORKA! GORKAMORKA!’ He began to dance, as he sang and slammed his bones together. Dust whirled about him, forming leering, brutal countenances, and sparks of crackling green light danced across the faces of those warriors closest to him.

Gordrakk’s warriors roared out in accompaniment to the warchanter’s song, slamming their weapons together and stamping their feet. The noise rose up and spread outwards, filling the air. The light filled every eye and crackled along the edge of every weapon. Gordrakk felt his muscles swell with strength and he joined his voice to that of his followers.

It was time to go to war.

Sardak-of-the-Nine cast his bones across the floor of the Howling Labyrinth and cursed. The bones had their story, and they stuck to it. The future was still unclear, despite the deaths of his brothers. Six of the Nine remained, and five more than he was comfortable with.

I really should have killed a few, before that eyeless crow showed up and croaked out its prophecy, he thought, looking up at the corridor of amber slabs.

The War of Tiers had raged for fifteen years before the crow had appeared and ruined their fun. The nine-tiered citadel-palace of their father, the Daemon-Sultan Vath’hek, had provided a challenging battleground. It rose up over the Red Wastes like a termite mound, each tier a fortress-city in its own right. A man could be born, live his life and die without ever seeing the sun or leaving his tier of birth. Sardak still thought of it fondly, when he thought of it at all.

When their mother had at last devoured their father on the forty-fifth day of his apotheosis, and ascended into the realms beyond, Sardak and his brothers had begun their war. It was a small thing at first, barely more than a duel. But it grew, blossoming into a glorious stalemate, an unending game of plot and counter-plot as each of them sought to undo the schemes of the others. Only Yuhdak had not participated. Instead, their silent brother had drifted between the tiers, watching and taking part where it pleased him. More than once, Yuhdak had saved one of them from the schemes of another. He showed no favouritism, his only concern seemingly their good health.

Kind Yuhdak, silent Yuhdak. Sardak suspected that Yuhdak derived some pleasure from seeing the conflict from all sides. Perhaps he simply didn’t care. Or, more disturbingly, perhaps he did. Sardak shook his head. His other brothers were easier to understand. They were fools and monsters, none more so than Kuldak.

He glared at Kuldak. He was certain that his bronze-armoured brother had done for Taldak, not long after they had entered the Howling Labyrinth. The greedy one had wandered down a side corridor and never returned. Or so Kuldak claimed.

And Bodak supported those claims, as always, Sardak thought. His glare slid towards the heavy-set shape of his other brother. Boisterous Bodak, with his brass-banded club and his infectious laugh. He had ever thrown his considerable weight behind Kuldak, for reasons that Sardak found unfathomable. Then, they all made strange alliances: Sardak himself had always fought alongside Redak against the others, though the latter was by far the most unpleasant of his siblings.

Strange alliances indeed, he thought – and none stranger perhaps than their alliance with the Destined Queen. She was a cunning thing, of all shapes and none. Their auguries ever went astray when they bent them to fathoming her fate, or theirs while they stood with her. She had ruled a kingdom, much like theirs, but had dashed it to pieces at a whim. The blood of her siblings was on her hands, the spirits said, and she followed her course with a precision a blade would have envied.

There was much to admire in her, and much to fear. Why had the crow sent them to her? It was a question none of them, save perhaps Yuhdak, knew the answer to. She had led them into battle with enemies by the score, names and faces that had only been whispered in the City of Tiers: Koh-dash of the Eighteenth Culmination... Drakas Gorger... the Striding Folly... Oleander Hume... Goreshroud. Sharizad’s enemies, the obstacles in her path.

Are we your weapons then, my queen? The thought was not as unpleasant as it might once have been. Sardak had grown used to being manipulated. He and his siblings were things of Chaos, toys that bent and fell for the amusement of the gods. His fate, whatever it might be, was already sealed, he feared.

‘Do not seek to be a thing unto iron, Sardak-of-the-Nine. Be like water instead,’ Sharizad said suddenly as she studied the floor. Sardak looked at her. As ever, the Shimmering Countess seemed to know what he was thinking. Or perhaps he simply lacked the subtlety to hide his fears.

‘What?’

‘Water, Sardak. What is the strength of water?’ Sharizad said, not looking at him.

‘Water has no strength.’

‘Yes. And no. Water’s strength lies in its lack of strength, its shapelessness. Water takes the shape of whatever contains it, whatever situation it finds itself in. Water can drip, flow or crash. It does not break or bend – it simply flows forwards, always, unless it becomes trapped in one shape and thus grows stagnant. Do not grow stagnant, Sardak. Rather, flow and crash. Be water, not iron.’

Sardak was silent. He watched Sharizad, watched her fingers play across the floor, hunting the proper path. Then he looked at his remaining brothers, studying them. Did they seek to be iron? To be one thing and no other? Locked into a single fate, paying no mind to what might be and could be?

Is that our fortune, then? Is that what we seek? A single, indivertible fate – one moment plucked from amongst many, he thought. It occurred to him, in the same moment, that he had never truly thought about it, until he’d entered the Howling Labyrinth. Something about this place provoked such thoughts.

He watched the ghosts lope by, within the murky surface of the amber slabs of the walls and ceiling and floor. More and more of them every hour, pressed against the surface like corpses bobbing beneath frozen waters. They pursued Sharizad’s host like scavengers, waiting for the weak to fall. The Howling Labyrinth held a generation’s worth of souls within its walls and was ever-hungry for more. He shuddered, trying not to think of what it might mean to die here. Would his soul be dragged into the amber, to flock with the others?

No. No, he could feel the weight of Odak’s soul within him. When one brother died, all that he had been, or could be, was splintered and scattered amongst his surviving brothers. When one fell, the rest grew stronger. More real, he thought.

The future was a path yet unknown. It could only be travelled when the Nine were the One, and the weight of all of the diverse possibilities shed. Or, at least that was what he had always told himself. What they had always told themselves. The destiny of the Nine was to be One. But which one? And in all the manifold turns of the wheel, would not each assume that burden and blessing? His victory was assured, or so his bones said. But Odak’s cards had said the same, hadn’t they? And now his brother was dead.

Of them all, only Yuhdak appeared to have no certainty. Sardak studied his ever-silent brother, wondering what thoughts were concealed behind that featureless mask. As if sensing his thoughts, Yuhdak turned to look at him. His sibling motioned surreptitiously, and Sardak returned the gesture. Yes, brother. All is well, he signed.

Yuhdak inclined his head and turned away, apparently listening to something Bodak was saying. Bodak slapped Yuhdak on the shoulder, and laughed. Sardak’s hand dropped to the pommel of his blade.

‘Yes, brother... All will be well,’ he murmured.

Zephacleas stopped and lifted his hammer. ‘Hold,’ he said. The Stormcasts crashed to a halt behind him. Instantly, Liberators from the Astral Templars moved forwards. They arrayed themselves in a rough line across the path ahead and sank down to one knee, waiting for further orders. The canyon bent slightly to the left up ahead, creating a natural choke point. There was no clear line of sight to the trail ahead. They would need to send out scouts.

The Lord-Celestant looked up. Heratus and his huntsmen still hadn’t returned. Only a single Angelos retinue had accompanied his forces into the Gargant’s Graveyard. The others were scattered across the Ghurlands, searching for any sign of Gorkamorka, under the direction of his chamber’s Knight-Azyros, Gulos Fellwing. Without Heratus, the Beast-bane were as good as blind in this maze. He thought of the lightning they had seen, and glanced back at Seker, who led the column behind him.

The Lord-Relictor shook his head. Zephacleas growled in frustration.

‘They have returned to Azyr, and to Sigmar’s forge,’ Greel rumbled.

‘We don’t know that,’ Zephacleas said, more sharply than he had intended. He looked at the other Lord-Celestant, standing nearby. The Iron-sides were arrayed about him in close formation, their shields held at the ready. The Stormcasts marched in two columns where possible. The Sons of Mallus seemed to have little inclination to mingle with their fellow warriors. Zephacleas didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

‘Even your warriors are not prone to such long absences without good reason, Beast-bane,’ Greel said. ‘We should make for the Howling Labyrinth without delay and smash aside anything – orruk or otherwise – that attempts to bar our path.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Taros said. The Lord-Castellant knelt and set his lantern down. He placed his palm on the ground. His gryph-hounds pressed close about him, chirping. The vibrations were making them uneasy. ‘Something is coming.’ He looked up. ‘Something big... Or many small things.’

‘How far?’

‘Not far enough. Liberators, forwards,’ Taros said, as he rose to his feet. ‘Judicators to the vanguard, staggered formation. Skirmishers–’

‘Skirmishers to me! Duras, Thetaleas. Decimators and Liberators,’ Zephacleas bellowed. ‘We need to see what’s coming this way. Without Heratus, we’re stalking blind.’ He looked at Greel. ‘Care to join me, Iron-side? It’s a rare thing when Lord-Celestants get to do their own scouting.’

Greel hesitated. Then he nodded and stepped forwards. His warriors moved to follow him, but he waved them back. ‘Calithus, see to the line,’ he said to one of them. ‘Follow the Lord-Relictor’s orders. I will return.’

Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. He looked at the other Lord-Celestant. Gaius Greel was almost a thing of iron. Zephacleas wondered how much of that was due to the Iron-side’s personality and how much of it was due to the Reforging he had endured. Regardless, he wished to know him better. It was not good for a warrior to hold himself apart. It often led to misunderstandings.

Part of it, he suspected, was that Greel reminded him of the Hallowed Knight, Gardus. The Lord-Celestant of the Steel Souls was the epitome of a Stormcast Eternal. His purity was such that he had fought his way free of Nurgle’s garden. It was Gardus who had reached Alarielle in her Hidden Vale, and brought her into the war for the Mortal Realms. More importantly, Zephacleas regarded the Steel Soul as a friend.

But Gardus had fallen in the final moments of the war for Alarielle’s haven. Now his soul was undergoing the Reforging. Zephacleas couldn’t help but wonder whether the warrior who emerged from the fires of that tribulation would bear any resemblance to the Gardus he had known. He hoped that by coming to know Greel, he might get an answer to that question.

He led Greel and the others into the twisting confines of the canyon ahead, moving swiftly, but cautiously. They were not looking for a fight, merely confirmation of what the Lord-Castellant had said. Sound carried oddly in the Gargant’s Graveyard, and he could not tell whether the cause of the vibrations Taros had detected was drawing closer or receding. Sloped cliffs of piled bones, interwoven with thick, brown vines and scraggly brush, rose to either side of them, and the ground was covered in broken bones and ochre dust. A million-million bones filled this wasteland, and more were added to it every day.

‘Eyes and ears open, brothers,’ Zephacleas called out, as the thin line of skirmishers spread out. ‘If it comes to it, we’ll draw them in and let the others have a chance, eh?’ Duras and Thetaleas and their warriors laughed. Greel didn’t.

Carrion-birds circled far above them, their shadows stretched long by the light of the suns. Bones occasionally clattered down from above as some beast moved through the rickety tunnels that time and hungry animals had dug in the piled remains. There were hills in the Ghurish Heights that were nothing more than thin shrouds of earth and rock over similar heaps of ancient carrion, Zephacleas knew.

‘The air is so still here,’ Thetaleas said, from off to Zephacleas’ right. ‘It fills my lungs like mud.’ The Decimator-Prime shifted his grip on his axe. His voice bounced off the walls of the canyon, rising up to startle something that might have been a bird.

Zephacleas watched it flap awkwardly away and shook his head. ‘There’s been too much death here,’ he said. ‘It sours the air and the soil. Whatever this land was once, now it’s nothing more than a killing ground.’ There were hundreds of places like the Gargant’s Graveyard scattered throughout the Realm of Beasts, places where no civilisation had ever set roots, where no tribes had ever made camp – wild places, full of hungry ghosts and hungrier monsters. There were no fallen temples here, no ruins, no ancient duardin roads. Only bones and beasts.

Birds flocked through the air overhead, flapping in the direction of the rest of the Stormcasts. Zephacleas scanned the upper reaches of the canyon, where the hairy shapes of sabretusks and other creatures fled in the same direction.

They’re running from something. Taros was right, he thought.

Roars and shrieks drifted down, and he raised his hammer. ‘Halt. I think this is far enough. Nine-strike was right – something is heading this way.’

‘Why is he called Nine-strike?’ Greel said, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Lord-Castellant Taros,’ Greel said. ‘Nine-strike... An odd war-name.’

Zephacleas looked at his fellow Lord-Celestant. He chuckled. Greel stiffened. Zephacleas shook his head. ‘No offence meant, brother. It is an odd name. And in truth, I do not know. Taros has been called Nine-strike for as long as I have known him. Some in our chamber think it has to do with his Reforging... Nine strikes of Sigmar’s hammer to bend Taros into shape, where most of us require but one. Others think it is a name earned in the Boralis Mountains, while Taros was on his proving quest. Supposedly, he slew a great cave-beast with nine blows from his fist.’

‘Supposedly?’

Zephacleas laughed again. ‘He’s never said. And I’ve never pressed him.’

‘You do not wish to know?’

Zephacleas shrugged. ‘I am his Lord-Celestant, not his nursemaid. If he wishes to tell me, he will. Until then, I am satisfied.’ He looked at Greel, and for a moment wondered what was beneath the other man’s helm. Was there still flesh there, still a face? Or something else? What was left of a warrior, once he endured a second Reforging?

‘Satisfied,’ Greel repeated. He looked away.

Zephacleas hesitated, considering. Then, ‘Do you remember it, Gaius?’

Greel didn’t look at him. ‘Remember what, Beast-bane?’

‘Your death.’ Zephacleas cursed himself the moment he said it. A shudder ran through Greel’s frame. The Lord-Celestant said nothing in reply. Zephacleas reached for him, but after a moment he let his hand drop. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he said, softly.

‘For what? No– Be silent, Beast-bane. I think I hear something,’ Greel said harshly.

‘Orruks. I’ve been hearing them since we rounded that last bend,’ Zephacleas said.

‘No. Not orruks,’ Greel said. Before Zephacleas could reply, something exploded out of the canyon wall in a cloud of shattered bone and rock. It was a big beast, shaggy, with long tusks rising from its bestial, bear-like muzzle.

‘Mournfang,’ Zephacleas snarled. In his mortal life, he had hunted such creatures for food and sport in the high caves of the Ghurish Heights. ‘Mournfangs,’ he corrected himself as more of the creatures followed the first, their splayed paws skidding on the scattered bones. ‘Let them pass – stay out of their way,’ he called out, as Thetaleas moved to confront the shaggy monsters. ‘They’re running from something. Leave them to it.’

The creatures gave out warbling howls as they bounded away, avoiding the Stormcasts. He had been right. They didn’t want to fight. They wanted to run. Mournfangs weren’t easy to panic. The cave-monsters would fight an avalanche over a scrap of meat, if it came down to it. If whatever was coming had set them to flight...

The air filled with the sound of grunting and squealing. One big something, or lots of little somethings. Or maybe both, he thought, as Taros’ words came back to him. The ground began to judder, as the thunder of cloven hooves swelled up through the canyon. Zephacleas waved Thetaleas and the others back. ‘Back! Back to the others – go,’ he said, as he grabbed Greel’s shoulder and jerked him back. ‘Run!’

Chapter Five

Gore-charge

‘Be at your ease, Spur, my girl,’ Taros Nine-strike murmured, stroking the gryph-hound’s narrow skull. Spur chirped and scraped her beak against his shoulder-plate. The other members of the pack sat or lay around him, patiently waiting. That patience was what he admired the most about the animals. They were expedient beasts, wasting nothing.

He smiled, recalling the eyes of his teachers as he returned from the madness-inducing mists of the Boralis Mountains, his new pack nipping at his heels. He’d saved the kits from one of the monstrous cave-bears that roamed the highest crags. With their parents slain, the young creatures would have surely perished. There had been nothing for it, really.

If we abandon the weak, our strength is built on falsehood, he thought.

A beak closed on his finger and he thumped the offender’s skull. ‘Cease, Spur. There’ll be prey aplenty before the sun is set,’ he said, catching the gryph-hound by the curve of her beak. She chirped and butted him in the chest with her head.

‘There are chains everywhere,’ the Lord-Relictor said. Taros looked up from Spur’s antics, and then at the heavy manacles and rusty chains that dangled from the unstable walls of the canyon. He had made note of that instability earlier and had already devised a number of stratagems to put it to use, should the need become pressing. The terrain of a battlefield was as much a weapon as a blade, in the right hands.

‘They left them on the gargants when they dropped their bodies here,’ Taros said. ‘Hard on their tools, the things of Chaos.’ He uprooted a length of rusty iron from the ground, testing the links. ‘Still serviceable, after all this time.’

‘You intend to use it?’

‘I use the tools I am given, Gravewalker. Unless you believe them to be tainted by Chaos?’ Taros asked, extending the section of chain. The Lord-Relictor shook his head.

‘Only by pain and fear. The brutes whose bones make up the roots of this maze died in agony, pushed past even their limits. I can hear them screaming, when the wind is right...’

Taros studied the other Stormcast for a moment. ‘It cannot be easy,’ he said, as he stood. ‘Hearing the voices of the dead, I mean.’

Seker shrugged. ‘They are not a talkative folk, by and large. And there are worse voices in the dark than those of pain-addled gargants.’ His voice became soft. ‘I hear another sometimes, echoing up out of some vast, lightless chasm... A voice like a funerary bell, calling his children home.’ He shuddered slightly and shook his head. ‘I first heard him in the Gnarlwood, and have dreaded the sound of his voice ever since.’

Taros looked at him.

‘How many of us fell that day, Seker?’ he said, quietly. ‘How many ascended, broken, to be forged anew?’

‘More than I care to think about,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘Those were grim days. The beasts came without regard for life or limb. When their axes shattered on our shields, they used their teeth and claws. When those splintered, they hurled themselves at us, seeking to tangle our limbs with their bodies.’ He looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘But this is not the Gnarlwood.’

‘No. Things were simpler in the Gnarlwood,’ Taros said, settling the haft of his halberd in the crook of his arm. ‘We waited and they came. But here, we seek out the foe not to eradicate them, but to talk.’

‘That is one of our tasks, yes,’ Seker said. ‘The other is to finish what was started in the Three Duchies. The Shimmering Countess is here, somewhere.’ He lifted his staff and gestured to the immense skull that marked the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard. ‘Though, I rather expect that “somewhere” is there.’

‘Yes,’ Taros said. ‘They always go for such places, don’t they?’

‘Broken things seek the strangest holes to crawl into,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘Broken isn’t the word I would use for her. She felled Greel,’ Taros said. He reached down and rubbed Spur’s narrow skull. ‘The Iron-side is a swordsman second only to Thostos Bladestorm. That creature met him blade-to-blade and beat him.’

‘And so?’ Seker said. ‘He marches beside us again, forged anew.’

‘You say it so casually,’ Taros said. The Lord-Relictor looked at him. He made as if to speak, but then turned away. Taros waited, tapping a finger on his gryph-hound’s skull. Spur twisted about with an annoyed chirrup and snapped playfully at the offending finger.

‘Do you remember your mortal life, Nine-strike?’ Gravewalker thumped the ground with his staff. ‘I do, somewhat. I grew to manhood in a place like this, where beasts screamed beyond our campfires. My people died in battle, from sickness. I sought to help them, but...’ He held up his hand. Lightning shimmered in his palm and crawled across his bent fingers. ‘I bargained with fell spirits and wrestled ghosts, but nothing could prevent the dying. Then, the hounds of Chaos came, stinking of blood and offal, harrying us from our hunting grounds.’

Taros said nothing. It was an old story, and one most Stormcasts knew intimately. His own memories were more fragmented than most. He could recall the smell of smoke rising through the flues built into the curved high walls of the parapet. He could hear the rattle of iron spears as they were passed out to the men on the wall, and the screams of the wounded. He remembered the weight of heavy iron armour and the unwieldy two-handed sword he had carried into his last battle. The memory of it made his halberd seem as light as a feather by comparison.

‘My people died, and I could do nothing to help them,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘And I will die a thousand deaths, endure a thousand Reforgings, before I let that happen again.’ He looked at Taros. ‘As would you. As would Zephacleas. We are Beast-bane. Death to the dealers of death...’

‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin,’ Taros replied, absently. ‘The air is trembling.’

‘So it is.’ The Lord-Relictor turned and lifted his staff. ‘I shall see to our brothers.’

Taros watched the Lord-Relictor stride off, towards the neatly arrayed ranks of the Sons of Mallus. He shook his head as the cries of beasts reached him. A moment later, a pack of Mournfangs burst around the bend in the canyon wall and pounded towards the Stormcast lines, howling and roaring. In their wake came Zephacleas and the others, running as swiftly as they could in their heavy war-plate. Zephacleas shouted again, and Taros swept his halberd out.

‘Let the monsters through. No need to waste the arrows if they’re not looking for a fight,’ he called out to the warriors in the vanguard.

The shield wall split, and the Mournfangs loped through the Stormcast ranks unhindered. Taros watched the beasts thunder by before turning back towards Zephacleas. He saw Greel break away from the group and hurry towards his warriors. Zephacleas and the others reached the safety of the shield wall a moment later, the breath rasping in their lungs.

‘Which is it? One big, or many small?’ Taros asked, as Zephacleas reached him.

‘Both,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Gore-gruntas.’ He drew his runeblade. ‘I’ll see to the right flank, and I’ll take Thetaleas and Duras with me. The fighting will be heaviest there.’

Taros nodded. ‘Aye, and I’ll hold the left. We’ll try to drive them towards you. Polarus,’ he called, turning. ‘Bring your bowmen forwards. We’re going to need them.’ As the Judicators hurried up to the front, he heard a shout from Arcos, the Liberator-Prime in command of the shield wall, and turned back. The air reverberated with the thud of heavy hooves and the first of the cannibal-hogs, orruks crouched atop them, burst into sight, galloping awkwardly around the bend in the canyon wall.

‘Polarus, bring them down,’ Taros said as Zephacleas moved towards the right flank, shouting orders. Skybolt bows crackled as the Judicators began to loose with a smooth rhythm. The gore-gruntas did not slow, even as dozens fell. The orruk riders bellowed in what might have been excitement, despite the losses of their comrades.

‘Liberators to the vanguard. Two ranks, quickly,’ Taros said, sweeping his halberd forwards as the Judicators loosed a final volley. ‘Polarus, fall back to the second rampart.’ A second, smaller shield wall waited midway back along the canyon. Arrayed in a loose line before it were the chamber’s Retributors. The Retributors were nigh immoveable when they put their minds to it. In this formation, they acted as a living bulwark, breaking up the enemy’s momentum before it could reach the second shield wall.

It was an old tactic, and one Taros had brought with him from his mortal life. The highborn men of his clan had fought in similar fashion, clad as they had been in thick, albeit crude, armour and carrying swords longer than they were tall.

Though I never saw that tactic performed as smoothly in those days, he thought, somewhat ruefully.

Liberators moved quickly to interpose themselves between the retreating Judicators and the approaching stampede. The bowmen fell back towards the waiting Paladins and the second shield wall, as Arcos chivvied his own warriors into position in the vanguard. Sigmarite crashed as shields were raised and braced.

Out of the corner of his eye, Taros saw the ranks of the Sons of Mallus swing into position, creating an unbreachable phalanx on the left flank. Their shield wall would deny that side of the canyon to the orruks, forcing the bulk of their forces towards the warriors of the Beast-bane. Seker still stood with them, beside Greel.

‘Stay safe, my friend,’ Taros murmured.

He lost sight of the Iron-sides as the first of the gore-gruntas reached the front ranks of the Astral Templars. The fanged boars were larger than their more common cousins, and far fiercer. They slammed into the shield wall, nearly buckling it. Hooves dug into the ground as tusks slammed into sigmarite shields and armoured boots skidded. Dust billowed into the air, momentarily blotting out the suns. The orruk riders stabbed and hacked at the Stormcasts, trying to break the line. More and more gore-gruntas flooded into the canyon, ploughing into those in front of them. Some peeled off to engage the Sons of Mallus, but not many and not enough.

‘Hold them,’ Taros shouted. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was futile. The orruks were blind to anything save what was in front of them and they had the advantage of momentum. The Stormcasts needed to take that advantage away from them. He caught sight of Zephacleas, and raised his halberd in a signal. The Lord-Celestant nodded and crashed his weapons together, catching the attention of those warriors closest to him.

‘Left flank, give way,’ Taros roared. ‘Let them in, if they’re so eager to die!’ Zephacleas bellowed similar orders on the right flank, and slowly the shield wall buckled, splitting in two. The two halves folded inwards as the Liberators let the gore-gruntas shoot past them, towards the waiting Retributors. Taros raised his halberd, and the Retributors acted with well-trained precision, slamming their heavy hammers down on the ground as one. Lightning crackled across the ochre soil as the bedrock burst and heaved.

The front rank of gore-gruntas stumbled and fell as the ground churned beneath their hooves. Soon, the whole stinking, squealing mass had become a disorganised tangle of flailing limbs. Task done, the Retributors fell back, as the Judicators loosed volley after volley. Trapped as they were, the orruks and their savage mounts died in droves. But there were still too many remaining. The Stormcasts had to finish them off, before they could regroup.

‘Seal the gates,’ Taros cried, and the foremost shield wall reformed itself, cutting the orruk advance in two. ‘Arcos, hold the rest of them back,’ he commanded. He gestured to a nearby Liberator-Prime, carrying a shield and warblade. ‘Keldamus, with me.’ As he and Keldamus’ retinue moved towards the milling orruks, he caught sight of Zephacleas doing the same, followed by Thetaleas and his Decimators. Now that they had part of the orruk force caught between the shield walls, they could grind them under, Sigmar willing.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the Iron-sides beginning their advance. The sky darkened above the canyon as bolts of lightning caromed down at the Gravewalker’s command, striking the orruks still pouring through the choke point. Spur and the rest of the gryph-hounds padded silently about Taros, waiting for his command to attack. As they closed with the gore-gruntas, he said, ‘Spur, go!’

The gryph-hounds surged forwards as one ahead of the Stormcasts, winnowing into the morass of confused pig-beasts. The hounds employed beaks and talons in swift, darting attacks, hamstringing or gutting the squealing monsters. A few moments later Taros and his warriors joined them. Taros swept his halberd out in a wide arc, smashing an orruk from the saddle. He turned and rammed his shoulder into a snarling gore-grunta’s flank and knocked the beast sprawling, deftly avoided its flailing hooves and slammed his halberd down on its head. Before its rider could free himself, Spur had torn out the orruk’s throat. Taros heard Zephacleas’ familiar bellow as the Lord-Celestant joined the fight, and turned.

The orruks were starting to recover their wits, but not quickly enough. The secondary shield wall was advancing steadily, keeping the gore-gruntas hemmed in. Those that got past the Liberators were cut down by the Judicators, or crushed by the Retributors. The rest of the greenskins were trying to fight their way past Taros and the others. The Lord-Castellant spun his halberd and thrust it out lengthwise to catch two orruks as they sought to gallop past him. Both brutes were knocked from their saddles, and he dispatched them before they could rise. Jerking his halberd free of a sagging body, he saw a huge gore-grunta lumber past him through the dust kicked up by the melee, heading back the way it had come.

The beast was bigger than the others, and covered in scars and chains and scrap-iron plates. The orruk crouched on its back was equally massive, and clad in filthy furs and makeshift armour. It trampled an unlucky Decimator and barrelled through Keldamus’ retinue, knocking Liberators aside. The orruk thrust a jagged spear through the helm of a Liberator, killing the warrior instantly. The gore-grunta stamped through the flare of lightning and ploughed on.

Ah, there you are, Taros thought. There was always one orruk smarter and meaner than the rest. That was usually the one in charge. If you could kill him, it made life much easier.

‘Spur,’ Taros barked. He whistled shrilly and Spur and her pack mates exploded out of the fray, pelting after the orruk chieftain. The gryph-hounds outpaced the gore-grunta easily, and began to harry it, snapping at its legs and darting towards its snout. The orruk cursed and roared, slashing at the gryph-hounds as the gore-grunta slewed sideways, hooves thudding.

Taros stepped in front of the creature, halberd at the ready. The rider thrust its jagged spear at Taros. The crude blade skidded off the Lord-Castellant’s shoulder-plate, tearing through several parchments of holy text and staggering him. He quickly regained his balance and readied his weapon once more. The gore-grunta shrieked and circled him. Taros moved swiftly and slammed his halberd down, catching the beast between the eyes.

It crumpled without a sound as Spur and her pack fell on it, ripping and slashing. The rider rolled free, booting a gryph-hound aside as he did so.

‘Killed my grunta,’ the orruk growled, hauling itself to its feet. It snatched a heavy scrap-tooth blade from the thick belt lashed about its waist. The orruk only had one eye, and its face was off-kilter, thanks to a plethora of scars. ‘Gut yer for that, storm-thing.’

‘Aye,’ Taros said. ‘You’re welcome to try.’ The orruk lunged forwards, faster than he’d been expecting, and their heads connected with a hollow clang. They staggered apart, both of them dazed. The orruk recovered first and the cruel blade in its hand whipped out. But for the Lord-Castellant’s sigmarite armour, he would have been gutted. Taros rammed the ferrule of his halberd into the orruk’s belly, knocking the beast back a step.

Before he could retract the halberd, the orruk caught hold of it and dragged him forwards, off balance. The creature extended an arm and caught him in the throat, knocking him flat. He barely managed to hold on to his halberd as he fell. The orruk raised a foot, and Taros rolled aside as his opponent stamped down where his head had been. He smashed the end of his halberd into the bottom of the orruk’s jaw, stunning the beast. Before it could recover, he was on his feet and sweeping his halberd out in a vicious arc. He drove the orruk back, step by step, drawing blood with every slash.

Furious, the orruk howled and flung itself at Taros. The Lord-Castellant sidestepped the lunge and brought the length of his halberd down across the orruk’s back, flattening the brute. As it sought to rise, Taros planted a foot between the orruk’s shoulder blades and raised his halberd in both hands for a killing blow.

‘No,’ Zephacleas said, catching Taros’ halberd by the haft. As he pulled the Lord-Castellant back, he cracked the orruk in the skull with his hammer, rendering the brute senseless.

Taros looked at him. ‘What? He’s an enemy – a beast.’

‘No. Orruks aren’t beasts. I’ve fought them enough to know that much,’ Zephacleas said. ‘There’s a sense to them, whether we see it or not.’ He looked down at the unconscious orruk. ‘We’ll chain him up. I have a feeling that he might be useful.’

The orruk did not welcome its survival. Upon regaining consciousness it roared in its bestial tongue and tried to rise. The weight of the scavenged chains looped about its bulky form prevented it from standing, but only just. Green muscles bulged as the rusty links strained to hold it tight, and more than once, nearby Stormcasts were forced to grab hold of the chains and haul the beast back. It glared about it, its single eye bulging in fury. Zephacleas replied to its bellows in kind, and soon its attention was entirely on him. It sank down into a crouch, still shouting, and Zephacleas followed suit.

Lord-Celestant Greel watched Zephacleas crouch before the beast, and wondered at the dichotomy there. The Astral Templars were famed among the varied Stormhosts for their ruthlessness. They were merciless warriors who fought with a savagery that equalled that of their foes. But for all that brutality, there was something else there – an innate understanding of the ways of this realm that Greel lacked. To Zephacleas and his warriors, the orruks were not a pestilence to be stamped out, but rivals to be beaten in honest battle.

‘I do not understand,’ he murmured, to himself.

‘What is there to understand?’

Greel turned, and saw the Lord-Relictor standing behind him. The Gravewalker had fought ably beside the Iron-sides during the battle, using his lightning to clear them room enough to charge the orruks and break them at the end. He hesitated and then nodded towards Zephacleas. ‘Him. I do not understand him. There is death to be dealt, and enemies to be cast down, and he wastes time talking with monsters. I was told that the warriors of your Stormhost were merciless, lacking in pity or hesitation. But now I see both...’

‘What were you, in life?’ the Lord-Relictor asked, not looking at him. ‘Do you remember those days, the person you were, before Sigmar’s hand plucked you from death’s grasp?’

Greel was silent for a moment. Then, ‘I remember... water. The sound of waves against a hull, and the rolling of a deck beneath my feet. I remember the smell of fire. Little else – names, faces, but nothing I will share with you.’ It came out more bluntly than he had intended, but Seker seemed to take no offence.

‘Zephacleas was a chieftain,’ he said.

‘So he has claimed,’ Greel said.

Seker chuckled. ‘He likes to talk. It is his weakness and his strength.’ He looked at Greel. ‘There is more of the mortal he was, in Zephacleas, than in some of us. It is not hesitation you see, but consideration. Zephacleas is many things, but he is not a fool. Not all enemies are the same. In the Jade Kingdoms, he fought like a bear, loud and brash, to give heart to his chamber. In the Crawling City, he was a hunter, harrying his prey to exhaustion and death. Here, he fights like a chieftain, seeking to win not simply a battle, but a war.’ The Lord-Relictor tapped the side of his head. ‘He has learned the cost of exuberance, you see.’

‘You admire him,’ Greel said.

‘I have hopes for him, yes,’ Seker said. ‘And what of you, Gaius Greel? Have you learned anything?’

Greel turned away. ‘I have learned that your Lord-Celestant is not the only one who likes to talk.’ As he strode away, he heard the Lord-Relictor laugh. They laugh too much, he thought irritably. His own Lord-Relictor never laughed. It was not seemly for such as they to succumb to merriment.

Angry now, though he could not say why, Greel strode towards the bend in the canyon, where his warriors waited, arrayed in a loose formation. The might of the Iron-sides was much diminished since the battle in the Temple of the Empty Heart – barely a third of the retinues under his command had survived. The rest even now endured the fires of the Reforging. Those who remained had been split between himself and Ogarus Fane, the Lord-Relictor of his chamber, after Greel had returned to resume command as his warriors crossed Nettlefang Mere. There, in the wide ruins of Nettlefang Keep, the Iron-sides had joined forces with the Beast-bane.

It irked Greel that such had been necessary. The Iron-sides had proven at Hreth that they needed no aid. He had failed once. He would not do so again. Even so, it was Sigmar’s command that he fight alongside the Beast-bane, and he would do so. The God-King’s wisdom could not be questioned, no matter Greel’s own feelings on the subject.

Fane had marched south in pursuit of the perfidious Count Bator, one of Sharizad’s minions. With the fall of the Charn Duchies and the deaths of her two monstrous siblings, Sharizad’s remaining armies had scattered, as had those fell champions who had flocked to her banner – twisted creatures like Bator or Sataka of Rhu’goss. Lord-Relictor Fane and others, including warriors from the Hallowed Knights and the Lions of Sigmar, ranged across the Ghurlands, looking to run down these disparate enemy commanders as they fled towards the riftcoasts of the Amber Sea, or to the humid jungles of the Southern Reach. Such creatures could not be allowed to find new demesnes or gather new armies, not if the Ghurlands were to finally be freed from the clutches of Chaos.

Greel missed his Lord-Relictor’s quiet counsel. Fane was a warrior of few words, but of a sure and certain judgement. And he does not laugh, he thought, casting a glance back towards the Astral Templars.

Shaking his head, he studied his warriors. They waited silently, arrayed across the width of the bend, shields ready. Judicators stood at ease behind the Liberators, as did his remaining Decimator retinues.

‘Calithus,’ Greel said.

Calithus snapped to attention. The Liberator-Prime gestured with his hammer. ‘Drums, my Lord-Celestant. The orruks are not finished with us, I think.’

‘No, they’re not,’ Zephacleas said, as he trotted towards them. Greel turned, annoyed.

‘Did your new pet tell you that?’ Greel said, trying not to let his anger show. Zephacleas was dawdling, wasting time talking to the beasts instead of smashing them aside. And every moment they spent fending off greenskins was a moment the Shimmering Countess drew closer to accomplishing the horror she had come to achieve.

‘No. Experience did.’ Zephacleas pulled off his war-helm, and took a deep breath. His shaggy hair was bound back in a thick braid, as was his beard. Keen, dark eyes met Greel’s own. Zephacleas scrubbed at his scalp and said, ‘The boar-riders are always far ahead of the main body of orruks. They get carried away, you see. Orruks aren’t disciplined – at least, not in any way we’d recognise. The rest will be along shortly. Lucky for us, this bend makes for a fine defensive position. The canyon is narrower here, and Taros thinks he’s found a way to block it off, should it become necessary for us to retreat.’

‘That’s your plan – to simply sit and wait?’

‘My plan is to beat them,’ Zephacleas said. ‘But to do that, we must weather the coming storm. If we move, they’ll swamp us. So we must stay and throw them back, until we know the limits of their strength.’ He looked at Greel. ‘I know orruks. They’re stirred up now, and we can’t simply bull through them.’

‘You sound as if you’re afraid of them.’

Zephacleas grunted. ‘And you know about fear, do you?’

‘I knew fear... Just for a moment,’ Greel said. ‘An instant, but it was enough. And then, I knew nothing save the storm.’ He didn’t look at Zephacleas. Instead, he stared out over the ranks of his warriors. ‘I was weak. I failed, and the witch escaped. How many died because of my weakness? How many have suffered since the fall of the Three Duchies?’ Greel bent his head. ‘I remember... I can smell the charnel pits still. Hear the crack of my cousins’ bones. I can hear the screams of my chamber as they fell around me.’ He spun and Zephacleas stepped back. ‘I will not be weak again. We will meet these orruks and we will break them.’

Zephacleas laughed. He held up his hand as Greel glared at him. ‘Fear is not weakness, brother. It is a part of being mortal, like courage or sadness. Joy, rage. Among my people – when I had a people – it was said that a man who had never felt fear was one who had never truly lived. The fear of facing a sabretusk, with only a spear between you and it. The fear of starvation, of daemons in the night. The fear of pain, as your enemy’s blade draws close. The fear of... surviving, where others died.’

‘I was told you were a warrior, not a philosopher,’ Greel said.

Zephacleas snorted. ‘Hardly a philosopher. I was a chieftain, Iron-side. Not a hunter or a warrior, or even a tender of the sick, but a ruler. And I have had this talk more times than I can remember. You still know fear, brother, but now you fear failure rather than death.’

‘And is that better, or worse?’

‘Only Sigmar can say,’ Zephacleas said. He straightened, and spread his arms. ‘For me, I fear nothing save the loss of fear. For when fear goes, can courage and honour be far behind?’

‘It is not like that,’ Greel said. Zephacleas looked down at him. Greel stared out over the shield wall at the tangled pathways of the boneyard, his body as still as the statue he resembled. ‘I cannot say what was lost, if anything was. Death was like sleep, a dream, and now I am awake and I do not know what was a dream and what was reality.’

‘And now?’

‘Now, I know only that I must find the witch and kill her.’ He tilted his head. ‘Sigmar himself told me, as what I had been was burned to ash and forged anew,’ Greel said, his voice hesitant. ‘He spoke to me in a voice like seven thunders, and burned my purpose into me. It is in every drop of blood and strand of sinew. I was reforged for one purpose – to kill the one who killed me. To split her heart, the way she split mine and spill her life’s blood in the dust.’ His hands clenched on the haft of his hammer, and his voice became harsh.

‘He brought you back for what? Vengeance?’ Zephacleas asked.

‘Isn’t that what we are? Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest, the tools of his wrath given form?’ Greel rasped. He shook his head. ‘But no. The crimes of the Shimmering Countess are legion, but it is not what she has done that sees me on her track – rather, it is what she may do.’ He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Every moment we delay, every hour we waste, fighting these beasts, she draws closer to her goal. She seeks... something. I know not what. But she must not find it. Whatever else happens, she must not find it.’

‘And if she does?’

‘Then she must not live to keep it,’ Greel said. He cocked his head. ‘The ground is shaking. Another stampede?’

Zephacleas paused. Greel knew what he was listening to, for he could hear it as well: the tramp of many feet, and many voices bellowing in unison. He took a tighter grip on his hammer. Zephacleas shook his head ruefully, and slid his helm back on. ‘No. Not a stampede. I told you they’d be along shortly.’

The first orruks burst into sight a moment later, running flat out, their brutal weapons raised as they hurtled towards the warriors arrayed across the bend. As they ran, they chanted a single word. A name, Greel realised, even as he shouted orders.

‘Gordrakk!’

‘Gordrakk!’

‘GORDRAKK!’

Chapter Six

Gordrakk

Sharizad traced her fingers along the amber wall. Her reflection changed as she moved, becoming youthful and ancient, or changing from a woman to a man to a beast and back again. Every time she looked, the face looking back was different. Always familiar – herself as a child, her mother, her siblings – but always different.

‘What are they?’ Curdak asked, watching the shapes. He sounded on the cusp of tears, as always. Curdak the sorrowful, the guilty. His reflections were simple things, unformed and indistinct. The Nine-in-One had only one true fate, until the Changer of Ways decreed otherwise. All else was but a shadow cast on a cave wall.

One of them was always next to her. It changed, moment to moment, but she was never without the company of at least one of the brothers. All save Yuhdak. Of them all, she preferred Sardak. Bodak was a brute, Kuldak arrogant, and Curdak... Well. Curdak was simply annoying. She glanced at him, clad in white damask and pearl.

‘Moments stolen from the past, the future. Roads not taken, or else forgotten,’ she said. She stopped and stared at the woman now watching her from the amber. She wore rough homespun, her weather-beaten skin marked by grime and tribal tattoos, her hair matted and tangled. Her eyes were empty of hope, of desire, of anything save resignation. Sharizad wondered if she had ever been that woman, or if this was but the shadow of a life not lived.

Memories were treacherous where the gods were concerned. They grew bored so easily, and wrote better stories for their chosen playthings. Her life changed from one moment to the next: a scullery maid, rising to rule; the spoiled daughter of a count, giving in to her darkest desires; a dream made flesh, stepping from a pedestal of bone and meat – all of these and none of these were her. She was a story, with no more weight than an idle whim.

She reached out with crystal-clad fingers and touched her reflection. The woman in amber did the same, her eyes sad. Sharizad felt a wrench of pity for her, for the woman she might have been, for roads not travelled. Her hand passed through the surface of the amber, sinking into the curdled warmth. Sharizad’s fingers slid past the woman’s, and curled around her throat. The eyes of her reflection widened, as Sharizad’s grip tightened.

‘My fate is my own, and shadows should know their place,’ Sharizad said, as she choked the life from the woman in amber.

The woman came apart, like drifting ochre smoke, leaving Sharizad holding nothing. She withdrew her hand from the amber and turned away. Curdak stared at her.

‘You killed her,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Why would you kill your brothers, Curdak-of-the-Nine?’ she asked, as she continued down the corridor. ‘Because it pleased me to do so.’

‘But she was...’ he began.

‘A shade. A false thing. Look around you, dearest Curdak. What do you see?’ She stopped and turned, hands held to indicate the walls to either side of their group. Clusters of reflections followed her entourage like carrion-birds trailing a wounded beast. For every warrior in her band there was a plethora of reflections, not all of them human. ‘Falsehoods, Curdak. This place is nothing more than a lie concealing a greater truth. A lie we seek to unravel...’

As she spoke, the floor beneath her feet shuddered and she heard the groan of unseen mechanisms. The walls fell away as the ceiling receded, eliciting cries from her warriors. Ochre smoke plumed from the tumbling walls and the floor swung sideways.

‘Steady yourselves, fools,’ she cried. ‘Hold fast and do not fear. It is but another trick!’

It had happened before. The Howling Labyrinth could change shape at but a moment’s notice. Corridors became balconies, balconies became tunnels, tunnels unfurled to tiers, and then it all began again. Mostly, it moved. The corridors oscillated, rotating around some unseen core, which was never in the same spot twice. The structure was as much a shape-changer as its creator was reputed to be.

As the smoke cleared, she felt the heat of the sun and the harsh rasp of the wind. The Gargant’s Graveyard spread out far below her, stretching in concentric circles around the great star-wyrm’s skull.

‘A very good trick though, I must say,’ Bodak said, rising to his feet. The most boisterous of the Nine-in-One, he was clad in bronze and yellow. ‘And a welcome one. It has been days since we have tasted clean air.’ He laughed and slapped his rounded cuirass.

The corridor they stood in extruded from the labyrinth, which now had the shape of a crumpled, rotating blossom. They stood on a narrow petal of amber, high above the boneyard below. As the platform slid slowly through the air, a hillman slipped from the edge. His screams echoed up and up, as he dwindled to a speck. Sharizad paid his shrieks little attention. Instead, she focussed on the sounds of battle rising up from the bone canyon. Lightning flashed down repeatedly in the distance, and she laughed.

‘Look, my warriors, look! See how our enemies waste their strength on one another even as we draw closer to our goal,’ she said. The wind whipped around her, tearing at the smoke of her crest.

‘How can you tell?’ Kuldak shouted, clutching the edge of the petal. The rest of her warriors crouched or stood braced as the amber moved.

‘The sound, the lightning,’ she said, turning towards him. ‘We are blessed, my warriors. The Architect of Fate weaves a web for us to follow.’ As she spoke, the petal of amber began to tremble anew. ‘Stand fast, all of you. It’s retracting.’ With a squeal and a groan, the petal began to slide back into the structure. Shadows fell across them as the other petals rose and bent, or slithered back into place. Dust sifted down, swirling in the wind as the walls of the Howling Labyrinth closed over them once more and the sounds of the Gargant’s Graveyard were lost. The corridor stretched before them much as its predecessor had. The only difference Sharizad could detect was in the shape of the walls, and the slabs on the floor.

As everything settled into shape, a vast, cataclysmic chuckling echoed through the new corridor. The amber walls shuddered and the floor undulated like the tongue of a beast. As the sound faded, so too did the groaning of the unseen mechanisms, until at last, all was still.

‘What was that?’ Kuldak demanded, glaring at the walls. ‘Who dares laugh at us?’

‘The Daemoniac Conundrum, I expect,’ Sardak said, calmly. ‘It is written in the scrolls of Patak that it sees and hears all that occurs in the places of its devising. Perhaps it finds our efforts amusing, eh, brothers?’

Before Kuldak could reply, laughter boomed out all around them, and in the polished walls of amber, wide mouths, large enough to swallow a man whole, took shape. The mouths were the source of the laughter and the sound increased in volume, until Sharizad and her entourage had to clap their hands to their ears in an attempt to block it out.

‘I am a son of the Great Kingdom, and I shall not be mocked by a giggling apparition,’ Redak roared and flung out his hand. A stream of changefire erupted from his palm and washed across the section of wall nearest him.

As if that had been a signal, the jaws shot forwards, tearing free of the walls and lunging from all sides. Sharizad’s warriors moved to defend themselves, or to settle old debts. She saw Redak raise his blade over Curdak’s head while the latter was weaving an incantation. Bodak stumbled, avoiding a set of gnashing jaws, and fell into his savage brother. Redak staggered, off balance, and a set of jaws crunched down on him before he even had a chance to scream. Bodak picked himself up and brushed at his robes.

‘Oh, how clumsy of me. Forgive me, brother,’ he called out to Redak’s convulsively kicking legs.

The jaws retreated, sliding back into the walls and fading away, taking the unfortunate Redak with them. Another toll claimed, Sharizad thought. The Howling Labyrinth demanded death, it seemed. Blood to grease the unseen gears, death to feed the hungry ghosts that populated the unseen spaces of the labyrinth. The laughter began again.

A soft moan rose up from the walls to join it. Insubstantial shapes pressed themselves against the slabs, pawing uselessly at the barriers that separated them from the living. There were thousands of them. Some were hulking giants, others the size of men or crouching beasts. All wailed or howled in seeming agony. Annoyed, Sharizad thrust her hands out and muttered a simple incantation. For a moment, her hands glimmered with amethyst fire. Abruptly, the spirits fell silent.

The laughter, however, continued.

Gordrakk roared in pleasure as Chompa slammed full tilt into the Stormcast shield wall, scattering black-armoured bodies. The maw-krusha bellowed and a hammer-wielding warrior was knocked sprawling, his body coming apart in streamers of lightning. Gordrakk watched the azure energy spear upwards and gave a guttural laugh.

‘That’s right – run home, you git,’ he shouted. ‘Run and tell the Hammer God that Gordrakk is the best!’

He hunched forwards in his saddle as Chompa barrelled ahead, deeper into the ranks of the storm-things. They resisted the maw-krusha’s advance every step of the way, trying to hold the monster back with their shields and muscle. He admired that sort of stubbornness in an opponent, even if they weren’t Ironjawz.

They had reacted quickly when his warriors had charged towards them. Now most of his warriors were still caught on the wrong side of the shield wall. That suited Gordrakk fine. More opponents for him. Kunnin’ whispered a warning and he twisted around. Shimmering arrows sped towards him, loosed from the bows of the Stormcast archers huddled behind the shield wall. Gordrakk spun Smasha and split the first arrow to reach him. Kunnin’ took care of the others, chopping the lightning into harmless sparks.

Dead gore-gruntas and orruks lined the canyon floor, and Gordrakk wondered whether Stabbajak was among them. He hoped so. It was better that way. More proper. He hadn’t really wanted to kill old Stabbajak, but he would have had to, eventually. That was always the way of it – you could only bang their heads together for so long before it stopped hurting and they decided to try their luck. Gordrakk had killed dozens of bosses, even megabosses, in the same fashion over the years. He was the best, and they knew it, but no orruk could resist trying to beat the best. That was what made orruks orruks.

Chompa roared and lunged, hopping into the air. The maw-krusha slammed down, scattering the bowmen. The maw-krusha snapped out, catching a warrior in its jaws. Teeth pierced the black armour and a moment later, Chompa belched lightning. The shield wall started to give ground grudgingly, their line splintering beneath the force of Chompa’s fury. Gordrakk leaned forwards, Chompa’s chains wrapped about his brawny forearms, and hacked at any Stormcast who got too close.

A voice cried out, catching Gordrakk’s attention. He turned in time to see a heavy shape, clad in ornate armour, set one foot on Chompa’s snout and steadily begin to scale the confused maw-krusha’s head. Hammer-boss, he thought, laughing out loud.

The storm-things had their own bosses. Sometimes they rode lizards, other times they fought on foot. Either way, they always made for an entertaining few minutes. This hammer-boss was wearing black like his warriors, and he carried a choppa and a hammer, both of which he put to quick use.

Gordrakk spun Kunnin’ in a hard circle, parrying his opponent’s sword. Chompa reared, lifting them both into the air. Smasha snarled in his head, and Gordrakk obliged the weapon, bringing it down to meet the rising hammer. Lightning crackled and fire sparked as they traded blows, swaying atop the maw-krusha’s broad neck and head. The hammer-boss was strong, but not as strong as Gordrakk. He could still feel the rhythm of Grund’s chant deep in the marrow of his bones, and knew Gork’s eyes were on him.

All around Chompa, his boys drove the shield wall back, step by step. The biggest and surliest of his brutes knocked the Stormcasts sprawling, as black orruks charged forwards, daring each other on to greater and more maniacal acts of bravery.

Swiftly, he swept both axes out in a wild blow, knocking both of his opponent’s weapons aside. Before the hammer-boss could react, Gordrakk lurched forwards and drove his broad skull down against his foe’s helm. Their heads met with a thunderous clang, and the hammer-boss pitched backwards, tumbling off Chompa. The maw-krusha gave an eager gurgle and lunged, jaws wide, but its fangs snapped shut on empty space as the hammer-boss rolled aside. He came to his feet with a hollow roar.

Chompa was determined to eat the warrior. The maw-krusha surged about, snapping at the hammer-boss as he circled the beast. Chompa smashed aside storm-thing and orruk alike in its eagerness to catch its prey. One of its wide paws crashed down on the warrior, knocking him flat. Gordrakk yelled in pleasure.

At that moment, a second hammer-boss, this one the colour of bruised meat, slammed into Chompa from the side, driving his shoulder into the maw-krusha’s head. Chompa staggered, off balance. The newcomer stumbled back and kicked Chompa in the side of the jaw. Gordrakk swung Smasha down, but the storm-thing twisted aside.

‘Stand still and fight,’ Gordrakk snarled. He wrenched back on Chompa’s chains, hauling the beast around to face this new threat.

Chompa swung its head towards the new hammer-boss, bellowing. The warrior backed away. He whirled around, and his cloak flared out. Lightning sparked, momentarily blinding Gordrakk. Chompa howled in pain as bolts of something slammed into it. Its claws slid as it tried to maintain its balance, gouging the ground. Gordrakk hauled on Chompa’s chains, and the maw-krusha bellowed in protest. He saw the purple warrior drag the black one to his feet. Together, they hurried back towards the broken shield wall. As they reached it, the other storm-things began to give ground.

‘They’re running away?’ Gordrakk snarled, in surprise, as they started to withdraw. The storm-things never ran away. Disappointment turned to anger and he stomped on Chompa’s skull, urging the maw-krusha forwards. ‘Get up and at ’em, gitface,’ he growled. ‘Nobody leaves the fight, not until I’ve krumped ’em.’

More arrows hissed up over him as he urged his mount forwards. The volley fell with deadly accuracy. Explosions rocked the canyon, as chain-lightning tore through the mobs of orruks. Gordrakk laughed. Any boy who died from a bit of weather wasn’t fit to take part in his Waaagh! – the storm-things were practically doing him a favour. The harder you got hit, the harder you had to fight. The harder you fought, the bigger you got. Gordrakk beat on his chest, striking his iron chest-plate with the flat of Smasha. His boys were yelling and all the earth was howling at the sky. The cliffs of bones that rose to either side of him were rattling cacophonously. It was a good day to be alive, and a good day to die.

Gordrakk straightened, forcing Chompa to rear up. ‘WAAAGH! Give me a fight,’ he bawled. ‘Fight me-fight me-FIGHT ME!’ All around him, nobs and boys alike took up the cry and redoubled their efforts to reach the retreating storm-things. ‘Oi, stop running,’ Gordrakk bellowed. ‘Stop running and FIGHT!’

But they didn’t. As the armoured shapes retreated beneath the cover of the incessant volleys, other storm-things advanced. These were clad in bulky iron and wielding heavy, two-handed hammers. They too wore purple armour, rather than black, just like the other hammer-boss, and Gordrakk wondered idly how many colours of storm-thing there were as he urged Chompa through the rain of crackling arrows. As he closed in on them, the big storm-things began to strike the sides of the canyon wall.

The great cliffs of piled bone began to tremble and creak, and Kunnin’ murmured suddenly, urgently. Gordrakk pulled Chompa up short at the weapon’s warning. He realised why the storm-things had run, and the anger left him all at once. The maw-krusha shrieked resentfully as Gordrakk hauled back on the chains, laughing. The beast came to a stop just as the way ahead was suddenly filled with dust and falling bones. He looked up, as the sides of the canyon began to heave and writhe like a beast in pain. Lightning crawled across the stacked bones, radiating outwards from every strike of the hammers.

‘Stop,’ Gordrakk howled, as boys poured past him, into the shadows of the shuddering bones. ‘Stop, you gits! Stop!’

‘They’re getting away,’ Grotrak roared, foam clinging to his jaws, as he barrelled past Chompa, leading his nobs. He lurched after the retreating storm-things, his eyes bulging. The song of the gods was bouncing around inside the megaboss’ head. His muscles were bulging and his eyes were shiny with fire.

‘Let them,’ Gordrakk snarled after him, one eye still on the canyon walls.

‘Bash them!’ Grotrak bellowed, giving no indication that he had heard Gordrakk’s command. He was still half deaf to everything but the song of the gods. He bounded towards the enemy, axe raised. Orruks streamed after him, yelling in excitement.

Gordrakk watched him go. Goodbye, Grotrak, he thought, not entirely unhappily.

He wheeled Chompa round and set about putting a safe distance between himself and what Kunnin’ said was about to happen. Smasha protested loudly, quivering in his grip, but Gordrakk knew better than to listen to it in this instance. Smasha was like Grotrak, or Drokka – it wanted to fight, and nothing else. But Kunnin’ wanted to win. That was why Gorkamorka had given them to Gordrakk, to teach him the difference. Having fights was all well and good, but you had to win some of them for it to count.

Some orruks followed him as he withdrew. Some didn’t. He let those that didn’t go. They had the song of the gods echoing in their skulls, like Grotrak, and there would be no stopping them. The ground was shaking beneath Chompa’s talons when Gordrakk finally turned. Dust flooded the canyon as the walls bulged, swayed and finally shattered.

The shattering shook the Gargant’s Graveyard down to its roots. The path vanished in an avalanche of bone and dirt. The ground shook and the air was thick with dust. It billowed outwards and flooded the canyon, painting green skin white and clogging Gordrakk’s mouth with the taste of dried marrow. He squinted through the dust, hacked and spat.

The storm-things had blocked off the trail, and buried every orruk who hadn’t been smart enough to follow Gordrakk. Orruks like Grotrak. Just like Kunnin’ had said.

It was smart. Smarter than Gordrakk had expected. Every other time he had fought the storm-things, they had tried to match orruks strength for strength, until one side or the other gave way, just the way Gork liked it. But this time, they had done things the Morky way. Gordrakk laughed again.

If the storm-things could learn, they might make good opponents after all.

‘Back, fall back,’ Zephacleas shouted. The air was thick with dust and noise from the collapse. The echo of tumbling bones still hung heavy on the air. Taros’ plan had been a good one, if loud. The Gargant’s Graveyard as a whole was fairly unstable, thanks mostly to the orruks. No foundation was steady when orruks were about. One blow in the right place in these boneyards could cause an avalanche.

‘Reform twenty paces to the rear. Arcos, get your warriors into position,’ he shouted. Astral Templars streamed past him, forming up in a second shield wall across the width of the dust-filled canyon. ‘Polarus, ready your arrows. They won’t let a little thing like a collapsed canyon wall slow them down for long,’ he added, signalling to the Judicators.

Greel, his armour dented and turned grey with dust, coughed and said, ‘That was your plan?’ Zephacleas turned to his fellow Lord-Celestant. Greel glared at him. ‘We’re trapped now, and on the wrong side. The orruks are still between us and our true quarry, Zephacleas.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Zephacleas said, bluntly.

‘What?’

‘For saving your life,’ Zephacleas said. ‘And we’re not trapped. But we will be if they get to grips with us.’ He pointed his runeblade towards the collapsed section of the canyon. Greel turned. Orruks were crawling through the fallen bones, emerging in ones and twos like dusty maggots from the roots of the newly made escarpment. As the two Lord-Celestants watched, a massive orruk, wielding a broad-bladed axe, hacked his way free of the bones and staggered towards the Stormcasts. The beast bellowed a wheezy challenge and stumbled forwards, seemingly none the worse for wear despite having half a canyon dropped on his head.

‘They survived?’ Greel sputtered.

‘They’re orruks,’ Zephacleas said, simply. Thetaleas and his Decimators charged forwards to meet the creatures. Thunderaxes licked out, lopping off heads or severing sword-arms. The orruks were in no shape to put up an organised resistance, and they fell quickly to the axemen of Azyr. Those that got past Thetaleas fell to the hammers and warblades of the waiting Liberators.

Satisfied that the situation was in hand, Zephacleas looked around. ‘Nine-strike, we need to keep them on the other side of that new wall of yours,’ he called out to the Lord-Castellant, as Taros hurried towards them. He was accompanied by several retinues of Judicators and Retributors.

‘Easy enough. A few more well-placed blows and I can collapse the cliff-faces to either side, make them impassable,’ Taros said. ‘But we need to keep the orruks off the escarpment to do it, and keep any more from coming over or worming through.’ He turned. ‘Carachus, Daximedes – take your retinues forwards,’ he said. ‘Lend our brothers aid.’

‘We should go as well,’ Greel said.

‘No need.’ Zephacleas shook his head as the Judicators hurried off. ‘Thetaleas has it well in hand.’ He sheathed his runeblade. The Decimator-Prime had engaged the bellowing megaboss, even as his retinue spread out to take on the other orruks. Soon the air was filled with the whistle-crack of skybolt bows, and the screams of orruks as they fell to the irresistible volleys or swift axes of the Stormcasts.

‘How much time before they try climbing that wall?’ Taros asked, as they watched the brutal fight wind down to its inevitable end. As the last of the orruks fell, the Judicator retinues of the Astral Templars began to scale it. Once they reached the top, they would drive the orruks on the other side back, loosing volleys at the mobs and the canyon walls alike.

‘Hard to say. This is a stopgap, at best. We need room to breathe. Something to slow them down long enough for us to regroup,’ Zephacleas said. Greel stiffened, and Zephacleas could tell the other Lord-Celestant was unhappy with his conclusion.

‘What we need is a palisade or a bulwark of some sort. You saw how quickly they smashed our shield wall – if we hadn’t been here, the Iron-sides would have been overwhelmed,’ Taros said. Zephacleas smiled. It was the natural inclination of a Lord-Castellant, whatever his chamber of origin, to build a wall. They were artisans at heart, every last one of them. Otherwise they would not have been chosen to bear the warding lantern and halberd.

‘I’m inclined to agree, but anything that slows them down will slow us down as well,’ he said, doubtfully. He watched Thetaleas slam his axe repeatedly into the head of the dying megaboss. The creature was still full of fight despite being struck by dozens of arrows, surrounded and alone. Blood glistened on the orruk’s ridged war-plate, and its agonised bellows filled the air as it swung its axe clumsily at Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime parried the blow, and struck the orruk in the skull again. The beast sank to one knee and shook its bloody head as if weary. Thetaleas struck it one last time, and the orruk toppled forwards.

‘A stubborn sort of chaff,’ Zephacleas murmured.

‘What?’ Greel said.

‘Ignore him, Lord Iron-side. It’s another of his jokes,’ Seker said, as he joined them. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was covered in dust and blood. ‘The wounded are ready to move now, should we wish to.’ As he spoke, a cooling rain began to fall over the canyon, carving trails in the thick patina of grime that covered their armour. ‘And I thought you’d like to know that our prisoner is still in hand,’ he added, looking at Zephacleas.

‘Stabbajak,’ Zephacleas said, idly. He felt Seker staring at him and sighed. ‘His name is Stabbajak. I got that much out of him, amid all of the cursing, before his clansmen arrived spoiling for a fight.’ He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Did he try to escape?’

‘Surprisingly, no. He seemed quite entertained by our efforts to hold back his kin, however,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘Particularly when we dropped the canyon on them.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Strange sense of humour, these orruks.’

‘You would know,’ Greel said.

Zephacleas looked at the other Stormcast. ‘Was that a joke, Iron-side?’ He looked at the others. ‘Was he making a joke?’

Greel shook his head. ‘Merely an observation.’

Taros snorted and peered up at the escarpment. ‘If you’re finished, Beast-bane... I can make it defensible, with a few hours. Brace it here, loosen it there. An adequate bulwark, at least. Judicators at the top, Liberators on the interior slope. Retributors and Decimators at the bottom to knock out the supports when the time comes. We can bury the brutes, if nothing else.’

‘No,’ Greel said, without preamble. He swept his blood-coated runeblade out in a dismissive gesture. ‘We should press forwards now, while they are disorganised. We require no scouts this time – our hammers shall guide us,’ he said flatly. He swung his hammer down, shattering a section of bone for emphasis. ‘We shall make a road straight through this maze, and no orruk shall hinder us.’

Taros thumped the ground with the haft of his halberd. He glared at the Lord-Celestant. ‘But they’ll try. Unless we give them something appealing to focus on. Nothing an orruk likes better than trying to kick over a wall.’ He gestured with his halberd. ‘We can defend this point until they’ve exhausted themselves, then fall back past the next bend and collapse the canyon walls on either side. We can keep doing that as long as we have boneyard to work with.’

‘You are forgetting our quarry, Lord-Castellant. In a few hours, that witch will have accomplished whatever it was she came to this wasteland to do,’ Greel said. ‘I can feel it. We must reach the Howling Labyrinth, the sooner the better. We can’t waste any more time on these beasts. I say we move, and now.’

‘Aye, and if we don’t take those hours, the orruks will simply fall on us from behind and carve us up piecemeal,’ Taros said. ‘We are not fast enough to outrun them, nor are we strong enough to bull through every obstacle. We must use their strength against them.’

‘How? By hiding?’ Greel demanded.

‘No. The opposite, in fact,’ Zephacleas said. Taros and Greel looked at him. ‘Lest you’ve forgotten, we have two goals – not one. So why not accomplish them both?’

‘You’re talking about splitting our forces,’ Greel said doubtfully.

‘Initially, yes. If all goes well, we’ll have doubled our strength by the end.’ Zephacleas looked around. ‘The orruks are not leaderless. You saw that brute on the maw-krusha, aye, and recognised him as well. No other orruk would dare to mount the skull of one of Dracothian’s children on his banner-pole.’

‘Gordrakk,’ Seker said, before Greel could reply. The Lord-Relictor traced a crude sigil in the dust with the haft of his reliquary staff. ‘The Fist of Gork, born from a blow that broke the world, and the blessed of Gorkamorka. Or so the seers of the forest temples of Ghur-Klesh say. Boss-of-bosses, the brutal hand that directs the Ironjawz in their unending Waaagh.’

Taros shook his head. ‘And so? For every five orruks there’s at least four of them claiming to be the boss-of-bosses. It’s in their nature to boast so.’

‘Not around Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said. ‘He is as much the voice of his god as the Lady of Vines was for Alarielle, though not in the same manner, I’d wager. If any being alive can aid us in finding the whereabouts of Gorkamorka, it’s Gordrakk.’ He looked at Taros. ‘Build your palisade, Nine-strike, and he’ll linger out there to knock it down. What sort of boss-of-bosses could resist kicking over a fortification built and defended by Stormcast Eternals?’

Taros laughed. ‘Ha! Aye, that’s true enough. He’ll storm towards us as quickly as he can, once he sniffs out what we’re up to. But how will he know?’ He glanced back at Stabbajak. ‘Ah. I wondered why you were keeping that brute alive. He’ll tell him.’

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Either because he thinks we’ll kill Gordrakk, or because he wants Gordrakk to kill us, but he’ll do it.’

Greel shook his head. ‘This stratagem will still require time that we do not have. If the Shimmering Countess achieves her goal – if she pierces the secrets of the Howling Labyrinth – who knows what horrors she will unleash upon this realm.’

‘Be at ease, brother,’ Zephacleas said. ‘While we occupy the orruks, you shall lead your chamber forwards, as swiftly as possible towards the Howling Labyrinth.’

‘But without reinforcements...’ Greel began.

‘You will have reinforcements, and then some,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Once we’ve convinced the orruks to join our cause.’

Seker laughed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if there might yet be hope for you, Zephacleas.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Greel said, exchanging a look with Taros. ‘They are our foes. We’ve killed hundreds of them these past few days. Why would they ally with us?’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Zephacleas looked at Taros. ‘You said it yourself earlier, Nine-strike. They were moving towards the Howling Labyrinth, and the forces arrayed there. Orruks like high places, especially if they have to fight to claim them. We distracted them.’ He laughed. ‘If we hadn’t interfered, I’d wager Gordrakk would have defeated the Shimmering Countess for us.’ He looked around. ‘Orruks aren’t particular – they want the biggest fight they can find, and the most interesting. Well, we’re going to give it to them. But first, we need to get them looking in the right direction.’

‘And you think the best way to do that is to – what? – confront Gordrakk?’ Taros said.

‘No, Nine-strike. I intend to challenge Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said.

Chapter Seven

Challenges

A cloud of dust flooded the canyon, choking and blinding the orruks in equal measure, and the ground shook violently. Caught amongst them, well away from the dangers of the vanguard, Zazul of the Radiant Veil reeled, coughing. Orruk bodies stumbled against him, bellowing and cursing, the stink of them even more cloying than the bone dust. Annoyed and frustrated, he hissed a single, abhorrent syllable. Green flames swept from his hands as he swung them out, trying to clear himself room to breathe.

Orruks shrieked as the flames consumed them. The rest fought to give him room. Breathing heavily, he looked around. His senses still ached from the force of the power that had, until only moments ago, flooded the creatures around him. Once the Waaagh! got started, there was no telling what it would do. There was no controlling it; one could only ride it out and hope to survive. Now that it was beginning to fade, he was in full control once more.

It would be a good day when at last the Dark Gods turned their attention to eradicating this pestiferous race. The orruks did not deserve even slavery – better to be done with them entirely, to wipe them from the canvas of history once and for all.

Zazul stumbled as the ground shook again, and his illusion flickered. There was still too much raw Waaagh! energy in the air. It was reducing his own carefully woven magics to uselessness. He hunched forwards, clawing at the skeins of sorcery, trying to keep his true face hidden. So intent was he on this that he failed to notice Gordrakk stalking towards him until it was too late. All around him, orruks sidled back. Zazul looked up into Gordrakk’s eyes. Before he could speak, the Fist of Gork had knocked him sprawling with a backhanded blow.

‘Where were you, shaman?’ Gordrakk growled, as Zazul tried to squirm to his feet. ‘Where was your magic? Where was your spirits?’ The Fist of Gork embedded one of his axes in the ground and caught the back of Zazul’s neck with his free hand. It took every ounce of willpower the sorcerer possessed to not simply obliterate the orruk oaf then and there. Gordrakk yanked him easily into the air and pressed the edge of his axe to Zazul’s throat.

Zazul cocked his eye skywards and saw the Ninety-Nine Feathers circling. Watching.

Hoping he’ll kill me, eh? Well, you won’t get out of our bargain that easily, carrion-eaters, he thought.

He pressed the tip of his fingers against the axe, and felt alarm as his spells of illusion wavered and snapped. His head throbbed. Something about the axe was gnawing at the edges of his sorcery. Gordrakk’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Zazul wondered if the megaboss had seen past his veil. Then, with a snort of disgust, Gordrakk tossed him to the ground.

‘When’s Mork going to bring me a proper weirdnob,’ he muttered. ‘Either they pop too many heads or not enough. Morgrum! Where are you, ya git?’ he called out, turning. The other megaboss thrust his way through the crowd of orruks, followed closely by his rival Roklud, and their nobs. Morgrum was as wide as he was tall, and smelt worse than a sty full of gore-gruntas. Zazul scrambled upwind as quickly as he could manage. Orruks laughed and kicked at him as he did so. He ignored them. Patience, he thought. Patience. This too shall pass. Play the long game, as you were taught.

‘They’re shooting arrows off the bones,’ Morgrum said. His wide-horned helmet was dotted with dents and soot marks, signs that he had found out about the arrows the hard way. ‘Had to pull back, or I’d run out of boys.’

‘Or maybe you was just scared,’ Roklud said belligerently. The other megaboss was wounded, blood pouring down his scalp and arm, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Morgrum swung his head towards the other megaboss. ‘Who says I’m scared?’

‘Me,’ Roklud growled, lifting his boss choppa.

‘I don’t see you climbing that hill,’ Morgrum said, lifting his gore-stikka and aiming it roughly in the direction of Roklud’s belly. The two megabosses glared at one another, and Zazul considered giving them a little push, just to fan the flames of dislike. He discarded the idea almost immediately – while amusing, Gordrakk would only kill them both, giving him uncontested control of the horde.

‘Nobody’s climbing that hill. Not until I say. For now, we pull back,’ Gordrakk said, wrenching his other axe free of the ground.

‘What?’ Roklud said. ‘Why don’t we just kick over that wall and finish them off?’ He looked at Morgrum for support, but the other megaboss looked away. Roklud growled as his rival started to whistle. ‘You cowardly git,’ he hissed, taking a half step towards Morgrum.

‘We gave them a kicking, but it’s no good killing them all. Not yet,’ Gordrakk said, glaring at Roklud until he stepped back. ‘We got to find another way to get at them.’

‘But...’

‘You want to go over that wall, Roklud? Fine. There it is,’ Gordrakk said, extending his axe between them. ‘Take your boys and go. Only, I don’t see Grotrak coming back, do you? Or Stabbajak? Or Drokka?’ Gordrakk snorted. ‘Besides, why go over when we can go through?’

The two megabosses stared at Gordrakk in confusion. Gordrakk smiled, and Zazul couldn’t help but shudder. Even Korghos Khul himself was not half so savage as the creature before him. The Bloodbound were barbaric, but predictable. Gordrakk was anything but.

‘We got a shaman, right?’ Gordrakk gestured to Zazul with Kunnin’, and the sorcerer felt his skin crawl at the thought of that blade touching him again. ‘Grund will play the war-song and get the boys ready, and Jabberjaw will brew up the big magic,’ Gordrakk said, fixing Zazul with his eye. ‘Then we’ll knock that wall down, and finish what we started.’

He scraped his axes together, and the sound set Zazul’s teeth on edge. ‘Yeah. We’ll finish it then,’ Gordrakk continued. ‘One way or another.’

Zephacleas thrust the broken orruk spear into the wet ground, a head mounted on its haft. He looked down at the prisoner, wondering how best to go about things. The one-eyed orruk glared up at him in silence, its breathing like a bellows, its chains clinking softly. It squatted in the rain like a malevolent toad, arms bound to its chest, and the rusty chains looped about its torso, shoulders and neck. Taros’ gryph-hounds lolled nearby, watching the orruk the way a hawk might watch a mouse.

Around them, Stormcasts worked to make the area defensible. Judicators patrolled the heights as Retributors closed off the other points of entry to the canyon, and Liberators worked to shore up the escarpment under Taros’ observant gaze. Elsewhere, Seker saw to the wounded, murmuring prayers and keeping up the healing rain.

‘You didn’t try to get away,’ Zephacleas said, finally.

Stabbajak shrugged sullenly. ‘Where am I gonna go?’ he growled, looking away. ‘You gonna kill me, storm-thing?’

‘Maybe,’ Zephacleas said.

Stabbajak grunted and peered at him. ‘Gonna let me have a stabba or a choppa, before you do it?’ He shuddered. ‘Don’ wanna die in chains.’ He looked up. ‘Or wet.’

‘You won’t,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak chuckled.

‘Good. Why you got Drokka’s head onna stick?’ he said, peering up at the grisly trophy.

‘So he can watch me beat the rest of you,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak nodded.

‘That’s good. That’s proper. You know us, storm-thing.’ Stabbajak grinned. ‘Everybody knows us. Ironjawz is the best.’ The grin faded. ‘You kill Grotrak too, hammer-man?’

‘No. That was him,’ Zephacleas said, gesturing towards Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime stood nearby, with his retinue. Like the gryph-hounds, they watched the orruk closely, alert for any sign of treachery.

‘He just going to leave Grotrak laying there in the rain?’ Stabbajak asked, staring at Thetaleas.

‘No. We’ll put Grotrak’s head beside Drokka’s,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Good. Maybe his ghost will learn something,’ Stabbajak said. ‘Gordrakk is going to kill you, hammer-thing. Put your head on his banner-pole, and claim your ghost.’ He said it bluntly, with no hint of boastfulness. As far as Stabbajak was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion. The one-eyed orruk grinned again. ‘Gave him a good fight, though. Sneaky, too, knocking them bones down like that. I laughed.’

‘That’s the way of it,’ Zephacleas said. He held up a fist. ‘The Gorka...’ He held up his other fist. ‘And the Morka.’

Stabbajak gave a guttural laugh. ‘What you know about Gorkamorka, hammer-man?’

‘I know he once fought beside the Hammer God.’

Stabbajak peered at him. ‘Yeah? So?’

‘Hammer God wants to fight beside him – or them – again.’ Zephacleas brought his fists together. ‘A big war is coming. The drums are sounding in the places between worlds.’ He sank down into a crouch before the orruk. ‘The Hammer God wants Gorkamorka to join him. But I can’t find him to tell him so.’

Stabbajak chortled, rattling his chains. ‘Gorkamorka is never where you look, yeah? Always and everywhere, except where you look.’ He fixed Zephacleas with his good eye. ‘But you know that, hammer-man. So... what do you want?’

‘Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak grunted and rocked back on his heels. Zephacleas continued. ‘Gordrakk is the Fist of Gork. He speaks with the god’s voice, calling the Ironjawz to war, doesn’t he? What he hears, the gods hear?’

Stabbajak nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Yeah.’

‘If I let you go, will you tell Gordrakk I want to fight him, so I can give him the Hammer God’s words?’ Zephacleas said, studying the orruk’s brutal features. He didn’t trust the creature. Orruks couldn’t be trusted to do anything but fight. They didn’t swear oaths or have anything remotely resembling a sense of honour. But it also never occurred to them to lie.

‘You want me to tell Gordrakk you want a fight?’ Stabbajak said doubtfully. He shook his head. ‘He already knows that, hammer-man. Why else would he come here?’

‘Will you tell him that I bring the word of the Hammer God?’ Zephacleas pressed.

Stabbajak looked at him for a moment. Then, he said, ‘Hammer God and Gorkamorka got into an eatin’ contest, yeah? And Gorkamorka ate a whole kingdom, castles and all.’ He thrust a warty finger up beneath his eye-patch and scratched furiously, causing his chains to clatter. ‘Still there too,’ he added.

‘And what does that have to do with anything?’ Taros said.

Stabbajak peered up at him. ‘Best be careful Gordrakk doesn’t swallow you up too,’ he grunted. He looked at Zephacleas. ‘You’re brave, storm-thing. Almost as tough as us Ironjawz. Be a good fight, Stabbajak thinks.’

‘The fight-of-fights,’ Zephacleas said. He took the chains that bound the orruk in his hands and snapped them. Stabbajak rose to his full height, shedding the bonds with a splash. He looked around and sniffed.

‘We’ll see.’

Zephacleas watched the orruk lope through the rain towards Taros’ wall. Stabbajak lunged past the Liberators at the foot of the slope, and, with simian agility, began to climb, bones tumbling in his wake. The Stormcasts on the scarp face moved aside to let the creature pass, and soon he was clambering down the other side and lost to sight.

‘Do you trust that creature to do as you ask?’ Greel said, from behind him.

‘No. I trust him to be true to his nature. Either way, Gordrakk will come. The rest is in Sigmar’s hands,’ Zephacleas said. He turned. ‘You’d best go, before the orruks start massing. Otherwise you’ll be fighting every step of the way.’ He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Greel took it.

‘Go with Sigmar, brother,’ Zephacleas said, clasping Greel’s forearm.

‘And you, Beast-bane.’ Greel hesitated. ‘Do your best not to get killed, if you would.’

‘I shall,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Now go – hurry. We’ll keep them looking this way, as long as we can.’ Greel nodded and turned, moving away through the rain. The remnants of his chamber awaited him. They were a pitiful few, compared to what they had been, but even a few Stormcasts were more than a match for most things in this realm or any other.

Zephacleas sighed and looked at Drokka’s head. Droplets of rain rolled down the slack features of the orruk. ‘I wonder if I’m making a mistake,’ he said. ‘Then, I suppose you never worried about that. Even right there at the end.’

‘Orruks do not think of death as we do, or did. For them, it is inevitably sudden and surprising, and they waste little time worrying about it.’

Zephacleas glanced at his Lord-Relictor. ‘The wounded?’ he asked.

‘Recovering. You are worried,’ Seker said. ‘Greel is worried as well, if it helps.’

‘It doesn’t,’ Zephacleas said.

‘I doubt the orruks care either way. Where is your head, Lord-Celestant?’ Seker said.

‘Here and there. Unlike some, I can hold more than one idea in my head at a time, Gravewalker,’ Zephacleas said. ‘A chieftain must be broad-minded.’

‘You are still in the Jade Kingdoms,’ Seker said, bluntly. ‘Even after all this time. Why?’

‘Gardus,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Are you not curious? The Steel Soul died in the Hidden Vale, but he will return. Mantius Far-killer died in the Crawling City, but he too will be reforged, as Gaius Greel was reforged. Will they be the same, or will something different come back to us? Something that we do not recognise as our brethren, save in name alone?’

‘I know the fates of the Steel Soul and the Far-killer weigh on you, Zephacleas,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘But now is hardly the time to be worrying about the dead.’

‘Funny words, coming from you. And I am not worried about the dead,’ he said. ‘Because they are not dead, are they? No more than any of us are dead. We will not die. We cannot die.’ He tapped the Lord-Relictor on the shoulder with his hammer, scattering droplets of rain. ‘That is what worries me, brother. Not death, for every warrior dies. Save we blessed few. But if not death, then... what? I am – I was – a chieftain, Gravewalker, and the Beast-bane is my tribe. And it is a chieftain’s duty to worry for the fate of his tribe.’

Seker shook his head. ‘I think I like you better when you are singing and hitting things.’

‘I like myself better then as well,’ Zephacleas said. He peered up at the sky and the thick clouds, which still wept with the storm the Lord-Relictor had called down. He held out his hand, letting the rain wash some of the grime from his gauntlet. ‘It’s a foolish thing I’m doing here, I know. Gordrakk might kill me before I can get through to him. But we must take the chance, if we are to win.’

‘I said nothing,’ Seker said. ‘You are Lord-Celestant, and I but advise and say the prayers for the dying. I call the storm, but I do not direct strategy.’

‘Are you finished?’ Zephacleas said.

‘I believe so. This is foolish, yes, but we are caught in a trap. We were caught in a trap in the Gnarlwood as well. Discipline must be flexible, else it is simply a tomb waiting to be filled.’ The Lord-Relictor thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Do you remember when you spoke to the seraphon, in the Crawling City?’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said.

‘And the sylvaneth, in the Jade Kingdoms?’

‘Yes. What is your point?’

‘Sigmar chose us to accompany Greel for a reason, Zephacleas. Perhaps he foresaw this moment, or perhaps he wished for you to stir the embers of the warrior Greel was. Perhaps Sigmar fears what we will become as much as you. Did he not send the Hammerhand with Thostos Bladestorm? Maybe your purpose here is not what you think, brother.’

Zephacleas was silent for a moment. ‘Seker?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant?’

‘I think I like you better when you don’t talk.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Lord-Celestant Greel led his warriors through the hole the Decimators had chopped in the face of the bone scree. The Sons of Mallus moved swiftly, shields held over their heads. If the hastily made path threatened to collapse, the Liberators could keep the rest of the chamber from being buried, while the Decimators hacked them free. It was a risky gambit, but Greel was in no mood to waste time navigating the twisting canyons of the Gargant’s Graveyard. They would hack their way through the canyon walls, straight to the enormous skull that marked its centre. Sigmarite shields scraped against bone as they moved, and the only light was from the soft azure glow that outlined their weapons.

He could hear the thump of orruk drums, and the entirety of the boneyard seemed to tremble with the force of their impatience. It reverberated through every bone and root. He glanced back the way they had come. A tiny circle of amber light marked the canyon. Part of him wondered if he should go back. If Zephacleas was wrong, if Gordrakk ignored his challenge, then the Astral Templars would need every shield and hammer to repel the orruks.

He thrust the thought aside. His fellow Lord-Celestant had made his decision. Greel had his own task, and he intended to see it through, one way or another. He looked ahead. His Decimators swung their axes, hewing through the tangled roots and bones, occasionally striking sparks from forgotten chains. Skulls and leg-bones crunched beneath their feet as they marched. Occasionally they would be forced to take a detour around an immense skull or the vertebrae of some long-dead leviathan that proved too tough to hack through.

As Greel led his warriors forwards, bits of bone ricocheting off their war-plate, his mind turned inwards. Zephacleas’ incessant questions had awoken in him things he had not thought of since he had emerged from the cascade of lightning that had returned him to the Realm of Beasts. He had felt pain, then. The pain of rebirth, the pain of being sent back to the place where he had failed. Where he had died, where the echoes of his screams seemed to be carried in every stray breeze.

The moment of his death was like a sore spot in the body of his memory, an ache that only time would heal, if that. Other Stormcasts had died since the opening of the great gates of Azyr and the Harrowing of Aqshy. Some even now burned in the fires of purification, while others marched once more, as Greel did. He wondered if they, like him, could not shake the feeling of something lost.

We were made for battle. Imbued with the strength of the God-King and crafted in his image, he thought. So how then can we fail?

Greel did not think himself a fool, but he felt a vague sense of unease as he considered the implication. Sigmar had never denied his fallibility – far from it. As great as his deeds were, so too were his failures, and those stories were not forbidden to the scholars of the Sigmarabulum. Learn, the God-King commanded. See my mistakes and learn from them. In truth, the God-King was not as Greel or even the Hammerhand. Not a warrior, but a chieftain, Greel thought, smiling slightly.

A chieftain, who forgave his tribesmen’s failures and helped them stand when they stumbled. A part of him wished that he were a being without need of either help or forgiveness. Something in him yearned for the peace of the drawn blade, the simplicity of the hammer. Maybe then, he could begin to shed the shadows of failure that clung to his mind.

That, in the end, was the story of Gaius Greel – failure. He had failed in life, and been spared the meathooks and bait-cages of the Bloodbound only through Sigmar’s mercy. And he had failed again, in the Temple of the Empty Heart.

He had hesitated, and he had paid the price. But he could not – did not – understand why. That part of his memory was nothing but sound and fury, with no meaning to it. He heard the hollow clatter of weapons, and the screams of his brothers-in-arms as Sharizad danced among them, killing warriors with every step, an army of ghosts at her beck and call.

The spirits had rolled forwards like a fog bank. The shield wall that had withstood the hordes at Hreth had come undone in moments. Their weapons had been almost useless. Those who had not fallen to the ghosts had been consumed by fell sorceries, burned alive in their armour by changefire or reduced to screaming strands of smoke. As the shield wall reeled, Greel had taken his chance, and... what?

Something had happened. Something he had seen or felt had made him hesitate, his hammer raised over her head. It had lasted but a moment, but she had turned and spitted him smoothly, her crystalline blade piercing his blessed armour as easily as if it had been parchment. She had laughed then, and he had felt... something. Something clawing at him, tearing at his insides.

Tearing at his very soul.

Greel closed his eyes, banishing the memory. Whatever had happened in the Temple of the Empty Heart, it would not happen again.

Whatever else, Sharizad would die.

Chapter Eight

Questions

‘They want me to kick it over?’ Gordrakk said, leaning forwards in Chompa’s saddle. He scratched his cheek with Kunnin’, listening to its murmurs. The air was still thick with bone dust from the collapse of the canyon walls, and the echoes as well. He’d pulled his warriors back, waiting for the ground and the bones to settle. Roklud and the others were grumbling, but that was to be expected. He peered at the escarpment, considering. It wasn’t much of a wall, but there were storm-things moving around on top of it.

When he had caught sight of Stabbajak sliding down the slope, he’d almost thought the grunta-boss had somehow come back from the dead. He had only been captured, though, which was worse. Dead, an orruk could still fight other ghosts. But captured? That was the worst thing of all for an orruk. Gordrakk didn’t particularly like Stabbajak, but that wasn’t the sort of fate he would wish on another Ironjaw. Even a sneaky, one-eyed pig-snatcher like Stabbajak.

‘The big boss wants a scrap,’ Stabbajak said, with a shrug. ‘Said he wanted the fight-of-fights. Said he wanted to beat us flat and stomp on us until there was nothing left.’

‘Fight-of-fights,’ Gordrakk repeated. He nodded as a murmur swept through the gathered Ironjawz. ‘What was he like, the big boss?’

‘Tore off Drokka’s head,’ Stabbajak said. He gestured. ‘Put it onna stick.’ He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, at the escarpment. ‘Put all of their heads on sticks.’

Gordrakk nodded approvingly. That was the proper way of it, giving the ghosts of Drokka and the others a chance to see the fighting. These storm-things knew something, at least.

‘You lost your gore-grunta,’ he said. Stabbajak scratched his eye socket furiously.

‘Broke ’er neck,’ he said, mournfully. Stabbajak had doted on the beast, Gordrakk knew. After a moment, the megaboss shrugged. ‘But he broke my chains,’ he added, as if the one balanced the other. ‘Sent me to challenge you.’

‘That he did,’ Gordrakk said. He leaned forwards. ‘Why is that, you think?’

Stabbajak laughed. ‘He knows Ironjawz are the best. He wants to be the best, so he’s got to beat us. The purple hammer-boss is smart. Smart like an Ironjaw.’

‘Hnh. Can’t be that smart, wanting to fight me,’ Gordrakk said. He sat back, thinking. This was the sort of thing he lived for, when all was said and done. Proving he was the best, one-on-one – that was the purpose Gork had punched him into the world for. ‘Still, who am I to say no?’ he said, glancing at the escarpment.

‘I say no,’ Jabberjaw shrilled. ‘Spirits say no!’

Gordrakk rolled his eyes. The weirdnob was stamping on his last nerve, and had been since the storm-things had collapsed the canyon. It was Jabberjaw behind Roklud’s mutterings, he knew. Weirdnobs were always the same, always had to interfere in things that weren’t their business. It wasn’t healthy, listening to spirits all the time. It dulled an orruk’s mind. Too, the weirdnob hadn’t got stuck in at all, or exploded a single head. Further proof that he was less useful than Gordrakk had initially thought.

‘Spirits say a lot of things, Jabberjaw.’ He stared down at the weirdnob. ‘Spirits say attack an army of storm-things. Now they say hide like a sprog from one? Maybe I’m tired of listening to your spirits, shaman. Maybe I’m gonna listen to my own.’ He hefted Kunnin’ meaningfully.

Jabberjaw twitched, though whether it was from annoyance or a surplus of energies, Gordrakk couldn’t say. ‘What about my big magic, eh?’ the shaman said slyly. ‘Let me knock that wall down – we’ll fight them then.’

‘But he challenged me,’ Gordrakk said, speaking slowly, as if to a troggoth.

‘So?’ Jabberjaw nearly shrieked. His form flickered, as if it were lit by a fire inside.

Every orruk within earshot fell silent. Stabbajak, good eye wide, stepped back. Gordrakk’s expression didn’t change. He studied the shaman, and listened to the murmurs of Kunnin’. At its insistence, he glanced at Jabberjaw’s shadow, and saw that it was... wrong. It wasn’t an orruk’s shadow at all. It was too thin, too long.

Gordrakk closed his eyes, thinking. It was a rare thing when he didn’t simply follow his first impulse, and right now his impulse was to tear Jabberjaw’s tongue out and feed it back to him. Jabberjaw was still talking, trying to browbeat the others into agreeing with him, even though they weren’t responding, all of them watching Gordrakk. The weirdnob didn’t seem to understand how orruks worked. It didn’t matter what the others said – Gordrakk only did what Gordrakk wanted to do. That was what being the strongest meant, after all. Nobody made Ironjawz do what they didn’t want to do – not other orruks, not Chaos-things, not the Hammer God, not nobody. Not even Gorkamorka, when it came down to it.

But Jabberjaw didn’t understand that, and his shadow was wrong and he hadn’t popped any skulls. Set a few on fire, but that wasn’t the same. It was Jabberjaw who had sent him after the storm-things, and Jabberjaw who had led him to the Chaos-things. And all for what? Gordrakk opened his eyes and looked towards the Big Skull. His mind itched, and the axes snarled in unison. There was a fight there, waiting on him, and it seemed like Jabberjaw was trying to keep him from it. Decision made, Gordrakk said, ‘You hear that, Jabberjaw?’

Jabberjaw stopped talking and looked up at Gordrakk. ‘What?’ he said.

‘The sound of drums,’ Gordrakk said. ‘The gods are playing the war-song. Can’t you hear the sound of the drums?’ Stabbajak and the others nodded. Grund, standing nearby, began to chant softly, thumping his head and his knee in time to a disjointed rhythm. The war-rhythm, the battle-song. Never the same twice, because orruks got bored easily. But always recognisable, despite that. Jabberjaw stared at him.

‘I’ll meet the hammer-boss. Then we’ll see what’s what. We’ll see who’s best,’ Gordrakk said, holding the shaman’s gaze.

And we’ll see what you’re hiding, shaman, he thought. We’ll see what you don’t want me to see...

Curdak was the next to die.

He fell silently, with barely a whimper to mark his passage. Something fleshed in amber and bearing a reptilian countenance emerged from the darkness of a side corridor and tore the sorrowful one apart before he could muster a defensive incantation. The amber monstrosity turned upon the rest of them a moment later. Tribesmen and knights alike died beneath its scything talons, until Bodak and Kuldak between them put an end to it. Unlike Curdak, it died laughing.

Its laughter was the same as that which had haunted them intermittently since Redak’s death, hours or days before. Time had little meaning in the labyrinth, Sharizad thought. It passed more slowly in some corridors than others. Her warriors had grown silent and moody, and their courage wilted in the face of the seemingly endless convolutions of the Howling Labyrinth. She had but a few men left. Others had vanished down side corridors or been drawn into the mirror-like slabs that lined the walls. One of the Knights of Malachus had stepped through a smoke-spewing archway only to emerge moments later, his armour corroded and his limbs feeble with the weight of a thousand years. He had collapsed into dust soon after.

The spirits spoke to her of something watching them. Whether it was the Daemoniac Conundrum or the Howling Labyrinth itself, they did not know. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Some force was diverting them. She could hear the corridors moving and shifting, like the coils of some vast serpent. As if it doesn’t want me to find what I am searching for, she thought. Even her strongest spells of seeking were swallowed up by the strange corridors.

‘Cast your sands, Kuldak, and tell us which way we are to go,’ she said. They stood at an intersection. Before them, the corridor split into two winding paths: one that curved upwards, the other downwards.

Kuldak scattered a handful of sand across the air, as the others watched. The grains shone with an odd light and hung suspended in the air, twisting first one way and then the next.

‘Like the great snakes of the Ochre Desert,’ Bodak said, looking at her. ‘He followed their trails, collecting the sands that they slithered across. He thinks they carry a potent magic in their scales, eh?’ He gestured, mimicking a snake’s undulations.

‘And what do you think, Bodak-of-the-Nine?’

‘I? I do not think. My magics are instinctive. We were born of magic, and I see no reason to clutter the issue with ritual and rite.’ He tapped the length of his club. ‘This is all the magic I require, O Destined Queen.’

‘Did you kill it yourself, then?’ she said. It was no small feat to slay a toad-dragon. The bilious beasts were impossibly tough. The strongest magics cascaded off their scales.

‘Eventually,’ Bodak said. ‘My brother loves you.’

‘Which one?’ she asked, watching Kuldak manipulate his coiling sands.

‘Sardak, of course. He’s always been the weakest of us. Even more so than Curdak, or gentle Yuhdak,’ Bodak said. ‘I do not love you, for I know you. There is no love in you, only hunger. I admire that, the way I might admire a roaring flame.’

‘But you are wary of it,’ she said. There was more to Bodak than she had first thought.

He nodded. ‘You do not trust me, do you, woman?’

‘Trust is as ephemeral as a morning mist,’ she said.

‘Ha!’ Bodak slapped his club and inclined his head. ‘I still wonder why the crow put us in your shadow, but I think I am beginning to understand. I–’

A shriek cut him off. One of her hillmen staggered, his leg pinned between two great talon-tips, rising from the floor. Something massive yet indistinct floated beneath them in the polished stones of the floor. Swiftly and surely, it dragged the unfortunate barbarian down, until only his face and hands remained free of the amber. Sardak stepped forwards, blade drawn, but Sharizad waved him back.

‘Do you not understand? We must pay the toll to go any further. Let it have him. He was born to die for me, and now he does so, fulfilled.’ She knelt beside the struggling warrior, and gently stroked his fear-struck features. Then, as he babbled in protest, she pushed him fully into the amber, until he was lost to sight. She stood. ‘Every time we stop, a toll is required. A new soul added to the mortar of this place.’

‘And that’s a price you’ll happily pay, is it?’ Bodak said, staring at her. Yuhdak placed a warning hand on his arm, but Bodak shrugged him off. ‘As I said, you are hungry, countess. And I fear you will devour us all, before you are satiated.’

‘Perhaps... or perhaps only the strong are fit to serve me. That is the way of it, Bodak. The weak are broken underfoot, and the strong stride forth. Which are you?’ Sharizad said.

‘We will find out by and by, I expect,’ Bodak said. ‘Ah, brother, your sands seem agitated.’ Sharizad turned and saw Kuldak gesturing frenziedly as his sands whipped around him. Abruptly, they flowed away from him and down one of the corridors.

‘Not agitated,’ Kuldak said. ‘Excited.’ He bowed floridly to Sharizad. ‘I have found the path, my queen.’

‘Or have been allowed to find it,’ Sharizad said. ‘Come, my warriors, my loves. Let us tarry no longer. Sardak, would you walk beside me?’ Sardak hurried to her side, as his brother stared in what Sharizad thought was either consternation or envy. Only four of them remained. She wondered whether she would be forced to cull the other three herself, or whether the Howling Labyrinth would do it for her.

‘You have lost five brothers so far, Sardak,’ Sharizad said, as they entered the corridor. Sardak didn’t look at her. He was seemingly rapt by the play of light across his gauntlet.

‘And we – I – feel all the better for it. Each one who falls adds to the strength of those remaining. Soon, only one of us will be left.’ He curled his clawed fingers. ‘And then we – I – he – shall know what it was all in service of.’

‘Strange are the ways of Tzeentch,’ Sharizad said.

‘And mighty his machinations,’ Sardak said, still gazing at his hand. ‘Did you know that we all have the same memories, until the moment of our sundering? And then our lives diverge like paths in a wood. I wonder, are we but possibilities? Is our contest nothing more than a winnowing of alternatives, until the moment when the true path makes itself known?’

‘And if it is?’ Sharizad asked, genuinely curious.

‘Then I intend my path to be the true one, my queen.’ Sardak reached out, as if to take her hand, but stopped himself. He turned away and she restrained a smile. Of all the Nine, Sardak was the easiest to predict. She hoped he was right. He would be powerful, and all the more useful for it. A potent champion to head her armies and carry her standard.

‘Who is Archaon?’ he asked, suddenly.

She looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Archaon. Who is he?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘When one of us dies, our fate becomes more clear. I see things, hear bits and pieces, rags and tatters of what may come to pass. When Curdak died, I heard a great voice call out a name – Archaon – and I knew... fear? And then, anticipation. Who is he?’

‘No one,’ Sharizad said, frowning. ‘A fable. A myth.’

‘You’re lying,’ Sardak said, softly.

Sharizad caught him by the throat and bore him backwards. He made no sound as she pinned him against the wall. A murmur swept through her warriors, and she felt, rather than saw, Sardak’s brothers move towards her. She ignored them. They were nothing. Lesser fates. ‘He is nothing. He bears a title no one gave him, and makes demands upon his betters. You do not serve Archaon, Sardak-of-the-Nine. You serve me.’

There was no anger in her voice, and none in her heart. Anger was useless, where the Grand Marshal of Chaos was concerned. Archaon was more myth than man, and more a force of nature than an enemy to be fought. His servants were legion and his aims simple: the complete and utter subjugation of the Mortal Realms in the name of the Ruinous Powers.

But the Ruinous Powers already had dominion here. It had been theirs for centuries. And what good had it done them? What good was absolute control, without an enemy to test yourself against? Archaon was a raging fire that would devour everything and snuff itself in the process. ‘You... serve... me,’ she hissed.

Sardak nodded, choking. She released him and stepped back. She turned. ‘You all serve me. Your fates are chained to mine now, as surely as those souls that I hold caged,’ she said, tapping a finger against the facets of her armour. ‘And if you test me I shall bring you to heel as I do them.’

One by one, they dropped to their knees before her. And Sharizad smiled.

Chapter Nine

Fight-of-fights

‘Bring that big one’s head, and any others that are in good shape, eh?’ Zephacleas said, knocking his knuckles against Thetaleas’ shoulder-plate. ‘I’ll set up the first few, you mount the others.’ The Decimator-Prime nodded and strode off, leaving his Lord-Celestant standing at the base of the escarpment. Taros joined Zephacleas, his gryph-hounds trailing in his wake.

‘More heads?’ the Lord-Castellant asked.

‘As many as are in good shape. We want to show our friendly foes that they’re welcome, after all,’ Zephacleas said. He hefted several makeshift poles made from longer bones onto his shoulder. An orruk head was mounted on each one.

‘Friendly,’ Taros repeated, flatly.

Zephacleas looked at him. ‘Orruks aren’t like the Bloodbound, or Rotbringers, brother. They are not things of Chaos. Rather, they are forces of nature. Your folk tilled the earth, did they not? Do you drain a river that threatens your fields, or do you merely divert it?’

Taros grunted. ‘Sometimes I forget you’re not half the fool Seker claims you are.’

‘Not half, no,’ Zephacleas said. The sound of orruk drums rose up from the other side of the escarpment. ‘Sounds like Stabbajak passed along my message. Took him long enough.’ He started up the slope, bones crunching beneath his feet. He stopped and glanced at Taros. ‘Are you coming?’ Taros shook his head and followed Zephacleas up the slope.

‘This is tantamount to suicide, you know,’ Taros said, when they reached the top. He looked down at the milling orruks. ‘That beast isn’t natural – he’s god-forged, as much as we are. You can smell it on the air.’

‘For shame, Nine-strike. Have you no faith in your Lord-Celestant?’ Zephacleas said. He set each of the makeshift poles with their grisly adornments into place. He angled them so that they faced the horde below. It was an old custom, though when and where he had learned it he could not truly recall. There was nothing an orruk feared more than missing a fight. This way, their ghosts could at least taste some of the blood that would be spilled in the coming hours.

‘I have faith that you’ll give a good accounting of yourself,’ Taros said doubtfully. ‘That monster has defeated at least three Warrior Chambers, Zephacleas. Remember what happened at the Biting Gorge, when the Lions of Sigmar tried to bring him to heel? Or in the Ghurvale, when he slaughtered an entire chamber of the Blades of Dawn? Hundreds of warriors have fallen to the axes of this creature.’

‘I remember,’ Zephacleas said. He finished fixing the last pole in place, and gave the head that surmounted it a friendly pat. ‘But there is an obvious difference between this moment and those that you are forgetting, my friend.’

‘Oh? And what might that be?’

‘None of those warriors were me.’ Zephacleas raised his weapons and shouted something in the harsh tongue of the orruks. Down below, the orruks reacted, screaming at the bulwark. Zephacleas continued to shout, and slammed his weapons together for good measure. The orruks matched him shout for shout, and began to stamp their feet and shake their weapons.

‘What in Sigmar’s name are you saying to them?’ Taros said.

‘Insults,’ Zephacleas said. ‘The orruk language is mostly insults. Well, insults and threats.’ He glanced at the Lord-Castellant. ‘The trick is getting the right mix. Too much, and they’ll just charge up the slope and attack. Too little, and they’ll laugh.’ He turned and shouted again. This time, from somewhere back amid the ranks of the orruks, a single voice replied. It was as loud as the thunder of Azyr, and as brutal as any beast’s roar. Bones rattled, and the Stormcasts at the top of the slope tensed. The other orruks fell silent. Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction and sheathed his sword. ‘There he is. Get ready.’

‘If this doesn’t work...’ Taros began.

‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll be bound for Reforging, and you’ll have to do what you can,’ Zephacleas said, bluntly. He looked at Taros. ‘But it will work. Why else would Sigmar have sent me?’

‘Necessity?’ Taros said.

‘Exactly, my friend. Necessity,’ Zephacleas said. He dropped his fist down on the other Stormcast’s shoulder-plate. ‘Hold fast. I’ll be back soon.’ Then he turned and stepped over the edge of the bulwark. He skidded down the slope of bones, slowing his descent with his free hand. He reached the bottom with a clatter and stood. The orruks spread out before him in a disorganised line. As ever, clan stood with clan, and were easily distinguished from one another. Gordrakk had bullied hundreds of smaller tribes into joining his horde.

Fist of Gork indeed, Zephacleas thought. That was only one of Gordrakk’s names. He was known in every corner of the Realm of Beasts and beyond. Wherever the Ironjawz ravaged, the name of Gordrakk went with them. He was the personification of a storm worse than any to have swept the Mortal Realms since the coming of Chaos.

Zephacleas walked towards the orruks, and was enveloped in an almost solid shroud of noise. They were louder than men. The creatures howled, cursed, thumped their shields, stamped their feet or otherwise added to the general cacophony as enthusiastically as possible. Sometimes he wondered if they made noise not to frighten their foes but to attract the attention of their gods. An orruk probably thought it had to make a lot of noise, given how many of them there were and how many battles their kind were waging throughout the Mortal Realms.

He slammed his weapons together as he walked. He suspected that Gordrakk was on his way to meet him, given the agitation in their ranks. When he caught sight of the lumbering shape of the maw-krusha, he knew he had been right. With a roar, the scaly beast lunged into the air and flew awkwardly over the heads of the orruks in the front ranks. It crashed down between the orruks and Zephacleas, shaking the ground. The wide head undulated forwards, and the maw-krusha bellowed in challenge.

Zephacleas crossed his weapons before his face and endured the wave of noise, though it shook him to his marrow. A maw-krusha’s roar could flatten a wall or pulverise flesh and bone in the right circumstances. The massive orruk sitting astride the monster’s neck slammed the haft of one of his two axes against the maw-krusha’s skull.

‘Shut it,’ Gordrakk roared. The monster subsided with a petulant rumbling.

Zephacleas looked up at Gordrakk, examining him. The orruk was the largest he had ever seen, larger even than a Stormcast, and clad in crude piecemeal armour. Savage trophies hung from every available surface, and his broad features were heavily scarred. It was the first time he had ever seen the beast known by some riftcoast tribes as Bastion-killer up close and in the warty flesh. The hillmen called Gordrakk the Mountain-cracker, and the folk of the Crawling City of Shu’gohl knew him as Obol’Ogar – the King of Death. None of those names truly captured the monstrous savagery of the orruk who glared down at him. A pall of implacable fury hung over the creature, and he stank of violence and brutality in a way that not even the followers of the Blood God could manage. Gordrakk was nothing less than the rage of a god given form.

But so too was Zephacleas – so too were all Stormcasts. Sigmar had forged them in wrath and they were as much things of divine rage as Gordrakk.

Zephacleas took a deep breath. Let us see whose rage is greater, then, he thought.

He pointed his runeblade at Gordrakk. ‘Are you going to hide up there all day, or are you going to come down here and fight?’ he shouted.

Gordrakk cocked his head. ‘You want to fight?’ he rumbled.

‘In a moment – first I want to talk,’ Zephacleas said. This was the most dangerous part. He had Gordrakk’s attention. Now he had to keep it. Otherwise the brute would just order his monstrous steed to swallow Zephacleas whole, and his forces to attack.

‘Talk?’ Gordrakk growled.

‘First we talk. Then we fight,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk gave a harsh laugh. He thumped the maw-krusha’s head with the haft of one of his axes and the great beast lowered itself with a querulous grunt. The orruk slid down and lumbered towards Zephacleas.

When he reached the Lord-Celestant, Gordrakk buried both of his axes in a large skull half covered by earth and crossed his thick arms over his chest. ‘You wanted to talk, so talk, storm-thing,’ he growled. The creature’s voice was like a sack of rocks caught in an iron drum, but there was a savage intelligence in his eyes.

‘Zephacleas,’ Zephacleas said.

‘What?’

‘My name is Zephacleas,’ he said. ‘And I bring the word of the Hammer God.’

Gordrakk laughed. ‘Oh? Does the Hammer God want to fight Gordrakk, or just you?’

‘The Hammer God wants to talk to Gorkamorka,’ Zephacleas said.

‘So?’ Gordrakk said, waving his hand.

‘The Hammer God doesn’t know where Gorkamorka is. He thinks you do.’

Gordrakk cocked his head, as if listening to something. Or perhaps someone. The creature studied Zephacleas for a moment. Then he grunted and looked up. He caught sight of the heads on their poles, jutting from the bulwark. One in particular caught his eye.

‘Drokka,’ Gordrakk grunted, peering up at the head. He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Good fight?’

Zephacleas shrugged. ‘I’ve had better. He had a bad knee.’

Gordrakk threw his head back and laughed uproariously. Still chuckling, he said, ‘You want to find Gorkamorka?’

‘I do.’

‘If you win, I tell you,’ Gordrakk said. He thrust a finger in his ear and twirled it. ‘You lose, maybe you meet Gorkamorka anyway.’ He pulled his finger out of his ear and sniffed it. Then he looked at Zephacleas. ‘You ready to fight Gordrakk now?’

‘Why else would I be standing here?’ Zephacleas said. Then, ‘Maybe Gordrakk doesn’t want to fight me, eh?’

Gordrakk stopped laughing. He cocked his head and put a hand up to his ear. ‘What?’

‘I said...’ Zephacleas began. He knew what was coming, and he rolled with the blow as Gordrakk punched him in the face. He staggered, armour reverberating, ears ringing. Gordrakk tore his weapons free of the skull and charged towards him with a bellow.

Zephacleas backed away, trying to clear his head. Gordrakk was strong – stronger even than he had anticipated. Zephacleas had been struck by ogors and gargants, but rarely had his wits been so addled by a single blow.

Gordrakk swung wildly at him, his axes hissing through the air. Zephacleas, ears still ringing, ducked aside and booted his opponent in the small of the back. Gordrakk roared and stumbled.

‘You want to fight dirty?’ Zephacleas called after him. ‘We’ll fight dirty.’

Zazul watched the duel begin with mingled satisfaction and agitation. As with every twist of fate, here was a chance for success and failure all in one. If the orruk won, the Stormcast Eternals would be summarily defeated. If the Stormcast won, then Gordrakk’s threat would be ended once and for all. But... he had not planned for this. He had not foreseen it. The strands of fate trembled, uncertain, loose in all the wrong places. He heard a croaking and looked up. Ravens circled overhead. One of them swooped towards him.

‘They have tricked you, Zazul,’ the raven croaked as it landed on his shoulder.

‘What?’ He glanced at the bird, and then up, where the others circled.

‘The Stormcasts are moving towards the Howling Labyrinth. This is but a distraction.’

‘Why did you not warn me?’ he snarled.

‘I just have warned you,’ she replied. The raven fixed him with a glittering eye.

‘We had a bargain, witch. You and your flock owe me a debt, and you shall not squirm out of it,’ he said. He caught hold of the bird before she could flee. Briefly, he considered crushing her. But to do so would enrage the remaining members of her flock. He could not afford to fight the Ninety-Nine Feathers, not here and now. He glanced up, watching the circling forms of the others, and frowned. No, he could still get some use out of them.

Still clutching the raven, he sidled towards Stabbajak and the others. The remaining megabosses crouched, watching the duel. They did not watch as deathbringers might have watched, or any other champions of the Ruinous Powers, seeking opportunity and searching for weakness in an opponent. Instead, they were rapt, hypnotised by the spectacle being played out before them. He winced as something passed between the orruks and his veil flickered. He glanced back at the duel.

It was hard to tell who was winning. Gordrakk was the stronger, but the Stormcast fought with a fury that Zazul had seldom witnessed. The two traded blows that would have killed a lesser being. Every time their weapons connected, lightning sparked. The longer they fought, the greater Gordrakk’s rage grew, and the greater the orruks’ excitement became. His head ached with the weight of it all. He could feel the strands of magic he had woven about himself coming undone. He didn’t have long.

‘Gordrakk ain’t looking,’ Zazul hissed, trying to worm his way into Stabbajak’s thoughts. His voice pulsed on the air, bleeding into the orruk’s mind. Or so it should have done. Instead, Stabbajak simply scratched his jowls and gestured irritably. ‘You can go give him a kickin’, Stabbajak... You and all the others,’ Zazul pressed.

‘Shut up, shaman,’ the one-eyed orruk grunted, without looking at him. His eye, the eyes of all of his fellow megabosses, were on the fight. They growled with pleasure every time a blow was struck. To Zazul, the orruks’ minds glowed like the embers of a brazier, pulsing with a power he could not fathom. The orruks drew what brute sorcery they possessed not from the gods, but from within themselves. Each one was like a fire, stirred to life and fed by carnage and violence. It blazed within the soul of every orruk in sight, Ironjaw and otherwise. Some chanted, others thumped the ground with fists and feet, and blinding sparks of emerald light bounced from skull to skull and soul to soul.

It was a hurricane, battering against the walls of his psyche, a raw, elemental force that he had no counter for. It was a hungry thing, almost alive. For a moment, Zazul almost felt fear. There was no controlling such a force. One could only divert it for a time. And his time was almost up. He felt Stabbajak’s eye on him, and he snarled. The megaboss stared at him openly.

‘You don’t look right, Jabberjaw...’

Zazul hissed. He could feel his spells beginning to bend beneath the force of that hurricane. ‘Fine then, and fie,’ he said. His glamour faded, and he stood revealed in gold and azure, his brutish totems transformed into the tools of his art – his grimoires, scrolls and talismans. The wood of his skull-topped staff shifted and ran like water, shedding its crude shroud to become a war-staff, surmounted by the witch-rune of Tzeentch.

The orruk gaped at him and then snarled, reaching for the blade on his belt. Zazul thrust his taloned gauntlet forwards and into Stabbajak’s chest. The megaboss howled and convulsed as bale-fire filled him and burned him up from the inside out. Zazul tore his hand free of the ashes and spun, filling the air with fire and death.

‘Fie on all brutes and savages,’ he roared, as orruks screamed. With a gesture, he condensed the ashes and scraps of bloody flesh into the shape of a disc. Blades of bone sprouted from its rim and slashed at the closest orruks with predatory intent. Stinger-tipped tendrils flicked out, helping him to step up onto it.

He hurled the raven into the air.

‘One last service, witch – kill them!’

‘He’s doing well enough, don’t you think?’ Taros Nine-strike said, watching the duel as its participants careered back and forth below. Stormcasts stood arrayed on the wall of bone, watching as their Lord-Celestant fought the orruk megaboss.

Seker Gravewalker inclined his head. ‘Whatever his faults, Zephacleas is a match for most warriors, living or dead.’ He watched his Lord-Celestant parry a wild axe-stroke and reply in kind with his hammer. The combatants’ weapons clashed loudly as they staggered and stumbled back and forth. Despite his faith in Zephacleas, it was obvious that the Lord-Celestant was all but outmatched by his monstrous opponent. Gordrakk fought wildly, and seemed to grow in strength the harder Zephacleas resisted him.

Seker could almost see the spirits that clung to the orruk’s axes. They were indistinct things, more hint than substance. They grew more vibrant as Gordrakk became stronger, and seemed to guide his hand. They fed off each other, though the Lord-Relictor could not say which it started with. He had fought orruks often enough, both as a mortal and since, to know that it didn’t truly matter.

He could see the heat of the Waaagh! growing amongst the mobs of orruks who chanted and watched as their boss-of-bosses battled Sigmar’s chosen. It was a flame easily fanned, and it grew in direct proportion to Gordrakk’s fury. It beat against the surface of Seker’s thoughts with palpable force, and he murmured a prayer of protection. The battle-madness of Gorkamorka was akin to a sickness, and could infect and weaken even the strongest of wills. He prayed that Zephacleas could resist it.

His worries faded as he caught a hint of unnatural radiance hovering amongst the orruks. It was a sour glow, like the shine on infected flesh. Seker recognised that light easily enough, and felt a chill.

‘No...’ he murmured.

He turned to Taros. ‘We must–’ He was interrupted by a sudden explosion from within the orruk ranks. Burning bodies were hurled into the air, or sent tumbling across the ground like windblown leaves. Zephacleas and Gordrakk, weapons locked together, ceased their battle and turned as one.

Moments later, there was a harsh cry from above and a flock of ravens swooped down towards the two, croaking and shrieking. The birds twisted as they fell, sprouting arms and legs and curved black blades, becoming robed and armoured warriors who attacked Gordrakk and Zephacleas.

‘Judicators!’ Taros roared, sweeping his halberd down. Skybolt bows crackled and black shapes fell, but not all, and not enough.

Orruks roared and charged forwards, but before they could reach the combatants, multi-hued flames exploded outwards and consumed them.

‘What in Sigmar’s name was that?’ Taros snarled.

‘Sorcery,’ Seker said. ‘There – look!’

The sorcerer hurtled towards Zephacleas and Gordrakk. He stood atop a shrieking daemon-disc, clutching a staff wreathed in baleful flames and clad in shimmering robes and armour of beaten gold. In his wake came a chortling horde of gangly-limbed monstrosities. The pink-fleshed daemons were truly bizarre, their spindly limbs flailing about blocky torsos that sported leering faces. They emitted shrieks of excitement as they floundered towards Zephacleas and Gordrakk, or else fell upon the nearby orruks with cheerful ferocity.

Trails of pinkish smoke and shimmering lights surrounded them as they ran, scampered and caterwauled through the greenskin ranks. Sickly hued warp-flames erupted from their constantly moving paws, and whole mobs of orruks were incinerated. Others were twisted into wholly monstrous shapes by the unnatural fire. The bodies of the daemons resisted all save the strongest blows, and any wound that did not kill them vanished as if it had never been made. Only Gordrakk’s maw-krusha seemed to have no difficulty in tearing them apart, but for every daemon the beast ripped in half, two smaller blue ones emerged from the carcass to clutch and claw at the monster.

Gordrakk headbutted a raven-warrior, flattening him, and caught sight of the sorcerer gliding towards him.

‘I see you, Jabberjaw,’ he bellowed. ‘You thought you could fool me, but I see you! I’ll have you, Jabberjaw, no matter how many gigglers and bird-boys you got!’ The orruk started forwards, but a darting, bird-like shape slid past him, its sword scraping against his chest. Gordrakk stumbled back with a roar of anger as more of the raven-warriors darted towards him, moving with unnatural speed. Black, curved blades drew sparks from Gordrakk’s armour, keeping him off balance.

Zephacleas moved to aid the orruk and soon the two were fighting back-to-back against daemons and raven-warriors alike. Behind them, creatures were scrambling up the slope of bones towards the Stormcasts. The Judicators loosed volley after volley, but the daemons seemed limitless. At Taros’ order, the Liberators set themselves, awaiting the talons and Chaos-fire of the foe. Seker stepped to the edge of the slope, the words of a prayer on his lips. He lifted his reliquary staff in both hands and brought it down with a dull crunch.

Lightning streaked down, striking the reliquary case. It spilled through the staff and spread in a rippling azure wave through the bone escarpment. Daemons shrieked as the celestial energies reduced them to motes of ash. Without pausing for breath, the Lord-Relictor uprooted his staff and leapt off the top.

Seker slid down the slope of bones, his reliquary staff extended before him. Lightning flared from the eye sockets of the fire-wyrm skull mounted within it, and washed across the closest of the black-robed warriors attacking Zephacleas, staggering some of them, killing others. The Lord-Relictor reached the bottom in a spill of bones, and lunged forwards, his hammer snapping out to catch a shrieking pink monstrosity in its malformed face. The daemon pitched backwards with what might have been a whoop of happiness, its body splitting into two. Lean limbs sprung out of the collapsing pink carcass, but before the blue daemons could free themselves, Seker incinerated them with a burst of lightning. More daemons bounded towards him, outsized paws reaching for him.

He spat a prayer, calling down Sigmar’s fury. Lightning cascaded from the sky, and the daemons caught in its path jerked and twitched in agony. But still more of them tumbled towards him, shrieking in glee.

It is the sorcerer who has called them, he thought. Kill him, and they will lose their hold on the world.

He crushed a giggling horror with a blow from his hammer and stepped towards the sorcerer, who stood atop his daemon-disc, untouched amidst the carnage, surrounded by his flames.

The Lord-Relictor fought his way through the gambolling daemons. When he was within striking distance, he called down the lightning once more with a shouted incantation. It slammed to ground, lighting up the battlefield and nearly blinding every eye that saw it, mortal or otherwise. The sorcerer was caught unawares. His daemon-disc screamed like an infant and came apart in strands of bloody smoke, tumbling him to the ground. He staggered to his feet, flames momentarily snuffed, his golden armour blackened, his featureless helm cracked. Seker lunged forwards, hammer raised.

But before he could land a blow, a slim, feather-shrouded shape intervened. A curved blade scraped sparks from his skull-faced helm, driving him to one knee. Stunned, he looked up at his attacker. He saw a woman, clad in obsidian armour and robes. Two great wings, as black as the void between stars, stretched out from her back. Her narrow helmet was shaped like the head of a raven, and the eyes within glittered with a darkling radiance. She pressed the tip of her sword to his throat and cocked her head.

‘Your soul is made of lightning – do you wish to return to the storm, as the others did?’

Before he could answer, she threw back her head and gave a croaking laugh. Then she turned to the sorcerer, who was staring at them in what Seker thought must be consternation. Seker thrust himself to his feet, hammer raised.

‘Our bargain is finished, Zazul,’ the woman in black cried, as she whirled aside, avoiding Seker’s blow. ‘A life for a life! Our debt to you is paid, Radiant One, and the Ninety-Nine Feathers bid you farewell!’ She leapt into the air with a shriek, and the others followed her. Black-feathered birds swooped skywards as the sorcerer stared after them.

‘No! Cheat! Your debt is not... Fine. Fie on it, and fie on you, Stormcast,’ the sorcerer snarled, as he turned his attention on Seker. He drew his curved sword. ‘You thought you could kill me? My destiny lies elsewhere – but yours is here.’ He lifted his staff, and the air before him split like a wound. Pink daemons pressed against the rent in reality and spilled, chortling, to the ground. They capered towards Seker, their fiery paws blackening his sigmarite. More and more of them, a flood of unnatural flesh and leering faces. He fell back, defending himself as best he could. There was no time to summon the lightning, and for a moment he feared he would be overwhelmed.

Then, all at once, a blazing light swept over him, and those daemons closest to him were reduced to ash and dust. Seker turned.

‘Stand fast, brother,’ Taros said, striding forwards, his warding lantern raised. ‘I am here and I shall not let you fall.’

The light of the lantern washed out, incinerating any daemons that drew close, including the ones still surrounding Seker. Those that managed to avoid the holy light fell to Taros’ halberd, or the sharp beaks and talons of his gryph-hounds. Behind the Lord-Castellant marched the rest of the Beast-bane, shields raised.

Seker thrust himself through the ash-cloud of dissolving daemons towards the sorcerer. The creature was intent on killing Gordrakk, and his flames enveloped the bellowing orruk even as Seker closed in. The sorcerer turned at the last moment, alerted by some instinct, and Seker was forced to duck beneath a gout of coruscating witch-fire. As the flames died away, he lunged forwards and smashed the ferrule of his reliquary staff into the sorcerer’s chest, knocking him backwards. Off balance, the sorcerer slashed out with his blade, and knocked Seker’s hammer from his grip. Knowing that to pause was to die, the Lord-Relictor brought his reliquary staff around, driving the fire-wyrm skull into the side of his opponent’s head. Bone cracked and the sorcerer staggered.

‘You...’ the sorcerer began.

‘I told you, Jabberjaw,’ a deep voice rasped. The sorcerer turned. Gordrakk stepped forwards, smoke rising from his armour and axes. ‘I ain’t so easy to kill. And I told you I’d feed you to the gore-gruntas, one piece at a time.’ Faster than Seker could react, the orruk drove one of his axes down through the sorcerer’s head with a wet sound. The sorcerer convulsed, his flames dying, the sword falling from his hand. ‘Kunnin’ says be quiet,’ Gordrakk growled. He slammed his other axe into the sorcerer’s side, nearly splitting his enemy in two. Gordrakk wrenched his axes free of the sorcerer with a roar and, as if in response, every remaining daemon, whether pink or blue, wavered and vanished.

Breathing heavily, Gordrakk glared at Seker. He extended his axe towards the Lord-Relictor. ‘This your shaman, hammer-boss?’

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Does he talk a lot?’

‘Less than you’d think,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk nodded. ‘That’s good.’ He looked around. Orruks and Stormcasts watched each other warily, both sides bloody and battered from the battle. ‘Good fight.’ He turned back to Zephacleas. ‘Ready to finish what we started, hammer-boss?’

‘No. You win,’ Zephacleas said. Gordrakk blinked. Then, a slow grin spread across his brutal features. Gordrakk lifted his head and bellowed in triumph.

Zephacleas waited for him to finish. ‘Now, will the Fist of Gork heed the words of the Hammer God?’ He gestured towards Seker. ‘Speak, shaman – what does the Hammer God say?’

Gordrakk looked at Seker, and the Lord-Relictor was momentarily taken aback by the savage intelligence in the orruk’s eyes. Thinking quickly, he said, ‘The Hammer God says that there is another enemy. The enemy who tricked Gordrakk...’

Gordrakk growled. Seker went on. ‘The enemy who hides atop the skull of the great star-wyrm,’ he said, and pointed towards the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard. ‘The enemy who hides from Gorkamorka and the Hammer God both.’

Gordrakk fell silent. The orruk’s head was cocked, as if listening to something. Seker could see the great, green forces that clung to him pulsing like dying suns and he wondered what might be passing between them.

Is this then the god we seek, he thought, or something else? He looked around, and to his eyes, green flames flickered in the gaze of every orruk, growing brighter and brighter.

At last, Gordrakk looked at Zephacleas. ‘You put Drokka’s head on a stick. And you fought beside me, against the gigglers and the bird-boys.’

‘I did,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk laughed and spread his arms. He howled with what might have been joy, or excitement, or perhaps warning. Every orruk howled with him, and Seker shivered as he felt the edges of the power within that sound.

‘Maybe I bash you first, and then them, hnh, hammer-boss?’ Gordrakk said.

‘Would that be any way to treat your friends, Gordrakk?’ Zephacleas said. His response only made Gordrakk laugh.

As the orruk’s harsh chortles scraped his eardrums, Zephacleas shook his head. Not for the first time, he wondered whether this was the wisest course. Not simply his own actions, but those of Sigmar as well. Zephacleas was not alone in seeking out the gods who slumbered hidden in the Mortal Realms. Others had been dispatched to Shyish and Ulgu, to find those who had once stood beside Sigmar: Nagash, Tyrion and his brother Teclis, Malerion, as well as Gorkamorka.

Of those other quests, Zephacleas knew little save that the warriors sent to seek the Starless Gates in the Realm of Death had met some terrible fate. The forge-seers whispered of shuddering spirits, almost too broken to be reforged, and of a single soul as yet missing.

A chill passed through Zephacleas at the thought. Orruks were dangerous, but the dead were even worse in some ways. At least orruks wouldn’t swallow your soul. He eyed the battered trophies that hung from Gordrakk’s back-banner. Not so far as he was aware, at any rate...

He controlled his revulsion at the sight of the dracoth’s skull, and the shattered husk of a Lord-Celestant’s helm. Davos Silverclaw, he realised, recognising the helmet’s markings. The Silverclaw was a Lord-Celestant of the Lions of Sigmar, and had been one of the first Stormcasts to be unlucky enough to cross Gordrakk’s path.

Gordrakk caught him looking and smiled unpleasantly. He reached up with one of his axes and tapped the helmet.

‘Good fighter, him. Took two chops with Smasha to take his head off,’ the orruk said, chuckling. Zephacleas felt his stomach twist.

‘I’ll let him know you said that. And that you have his helmet. He’s been looking for it,’ he said, with forced cheerfulness. Gordrakk’s smile faded.

‘You said that the Hammer God wants to meet Gorkamorka?’ He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Where’s the Hammer God?’ He looked around. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

‘He’s in Azyr,’ Zephacleas said. Gordrakk looked at him blankly. Then, ‘In the storm, and the rain and every rumble of thunder. He can’t come, because he’s fighting. But he sent me to talk for him, and I know where he is.’

Gordrakk nodded in understanding. ‘Good. That’s good. You should always know where your god is, in case he forgets and gets lost.’

‘Is Gorkamorka lost, then?’

Gordrakk threw back his head and howled with laughter. ‘Gorkamorka isn’t lost. Gorkamorka is everywhere,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘He’s in the wind and the rocks and the howling of the beasts. Gorkamorka is in us and beside us and around us.’

‘So he’s here now? Can he hear us?’ Zephacleas looked around.

‘Maybe, if he’s listening,’ Gordrakk said, with a shrug. ‘Maybe one of him hears, and not the other. Maybe both. Maybe neither.’ He grinned at Zephacleas. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like what he hears and tells me to bash you in the noggin, hammer-boss.’

‘The Hammer God misses his friend. He misses his brother. He misses fighting beside Gorkamorka and wishes to do so again, in the coming war,’ Zephacleas said. ‘He wishes that his warriors, and those of his brother, could march side-by-side, as we do now, to fight the Old Enemy.’

‘Gorkamorka has been fighting them, hammer-boss,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘He’s been fighting them forever. But where is the Hammer God? Why has he not been fighting alongside Gorkamorka?’

‘The Hammer God thought Gorkamorka didn’t want to fight beside him any more,’ Zephacleas said. ‘The Hammer God thought Gorkamorka had become his enemy.’

Gordrakk laughed. ‘Yeah? So?’ He snorted and tapped the side of his head. ‘Hammer God never understood Gorkamorka, never saw. Gorkamorka wants to fight forever, but the Hammer God doesn’t. Hammer God wants to build walls and towers and castles... But what’s the point of that if you never knock them over?’ He snorted. ‘Even the Chaos-things don’t understand. They think the point is to kill everyone, but then who’d be there to fight? Nobody understands but Ironjawz, because we’re the smartest and the toughest.’

Zephacleas stared at the orruk. Despite himself, he was beginning to comprehend how Gordrakk saw the world. For the orruks, there was no difference between an enemy and a friend. A friend was just an enemy you weren’t fighting at the moment, and an enemy was just a friend who was trying to kill you. He cocked his head, considering. Then, he said, ‘So? Why not show us?’

Gordrakk stared at him. The moment stretched and Zephacleas began to think he had made a mistake. Finally, Gordrakk grunted and spat. He clashed his axes together.

‘I came here to see what’s at the top of the Big Skull, and if you want to follow me, you can. If you can keep up.’ The orruk leaned forwards. ‘And if there are Chaos-things up there, I’ll thump ’em but good and show them who’s the boss of the boneyard. Boss-of-bosses,’ he growled. ‘Not even gods give me lip. Gordrakk is the best!’ He turned and raised his axes in a defiant gesture.

‘They think they can trick me? Hide from me? You hear, Chaos-things – nobody hides from Gordrakk,’ he roared. ‘Gordrakk is coming to get you!’

Chapter Ten

Skull of the Star-wyrm

The skull of the great star-wyrm was half sunken in the earth. Even so, its shadow covered the closest canyons and paths that the Sons of Mallus smashed their way through to reach it. Curtains of tangled roots filled its gigantic eye sockets, and great slopes of dust and scattered bone filled its cracks and followed its contours, creating wide, curving paths from the ground to its crown. A shrill wind blew through the wide cracks in the immense skull, and clouds of dust billowed across the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard. Dust devils spun through the empty spaces, making it nearly impossible to see anything save the skull itself, rising like a mountain, and the abominable structure that crowned it.

It had taken what felt like hours to traverse the shadowed emptiness between the boneyard and the skull that was its centre. At the summit, the gleaming, ever-changing shape of the Howling Labyrinth taunted Greel. It seemed to be beckoning him, calling him. At first, he thought it was simply eagerness, or his earlier determination. But as they drew closer to the palisade of brown fangs, each as tall as a watchtower and sunk deep into the ground, Greel began to feel doubt. It was not born of fear, or worry, but suspicion. Suspicion that he and his warriors were being led into a trap. That things had been too easy.

His suspicions only grew as they passed through the field of skulls. The skulls – both human and orruk – hung in bunches from spears that had been thrust at random intervals into the lower slopes of the skull. Hungry birds squawked and squabbled over the choicest morsels, and hopped from spear to spear, thrusting their beaks into eye sockets and sagging jaws.

Someone is defending this place, he thought.

‘Stay alert,’ he said, as they climbed the widest of the windblown paths that wound their way up the side of the star-wyrm’s skull. The path was long and twisting, narrower in some places than others. The air became thin and foul the higher they went. Sometimes, Greel caught the briefest snatch of sound, of the clangour of battle, from far below and away among the canyons of the boneyard.

When the first arrow caromed off Greel’s chest-plate, it didn’t come as a complete surprise. Dust scraped against his armour as he peered up at the force occupying the upper reaches of the path. The Stormcasts were halfway to the summit, and the ground stretched far below. The warriors above them were mortal, clad in steel armour and silk robes. They wore conical helms and carried heavy war-bows, which they loosed with deadly accuracy. A Liberator pitched backwards as an arrow sprouted from the eye-slit of his helm. His body jerked and came apart in a burst of lightning. Greel cursed and chopped an arrow in two as it sped towards him.

‘More dangerous than they look,’ he muttered. ‘Raise shields.’

The Liberators moved forwards, one rank kneeling, the other moving up behind them. Two rows of shields formed a curved bulwark of sigmarite on the slope, protecting those behind against the arrows raining down from above. Greel twitched as an arrow spanged off his helm. He turned. ‘Judicators, to the front. Match them arrow for arrow. Teach them that we are better at this game than they could ever hope to be.’

Crackling volleys sent the mortal archers searching for cover. Before Greel could order his chamber forwards to take advantage of the enemy’s disarray, he heard a strange trilling and the thunder of hooves. He turned and cursed as he saw armoured horsemen galloping up the path towards his warriors.

The Chaos knights wore heavy, hell-forged armour the colour of malachite, and their steeds were scaly with strange gemstones that erupted from their flesh. Some wielded axes and swords, others held broad-bladed spears. They sang an eerie trilling hymn as they galloped up the slope of bone and soil. Fur and feather-clad hillmen loped after them, howling out arrhythmic war-songs as they slammed their weapons against their brightly painted shields.

‘They’re behind us,’ Greel snarled. ‘Hold fast, shields to the rear.’ Those Liberators not already engaged at the front moved quickly, readying themselves to meet the enemy charging up towards them. The Iron-sides had formed a rough square, but they were caught between two enemies on a narrow path. They could neither advance nor retreat, not without incurring casualties.

Greel shook his head in frustration. If it must be done, let it be done quickly, he thought angrily. I will waste no more time.

‘Lycos, ready your axes,’ he called. The Decimator-Prime lifted his thunderaxe in a sign that he had heard. ‘The rest of you, we must split the square. Two phalanxes. Calithus, take the high ground. Whatever else happens, you must reach the Howling Labyrinth. Let nothing stay you from your goal.’

Greel turned back to the approaching Chaos knights. He tapped his hammer against the shoulder-plate of one of the Liberators standing before him. ‘Gorenus, concentrate on the savages. Leave the knights to Lycos’ axemen. Let nothing get past you to endanger Calithus’ rear.’ The Liberator nodded silently. Satisfied, Greel drew his runeblade and glanced at Lycos. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant. Let us teach them to fear the axes of Azyr,’ Lycos said. He and his Decimators stepped forwards, past the shield wall. Greel joined them, and with barely a sound, the Sons of Mallus moved to meet their attackers. The Chaos knights did not slow, but instead spread out, so that more of them could join the madcap gallop.

As they reached the waiting Decimators, Lycos barked a command. The Decimators sank down, and their thunderaxes licked out to cut the legs out from under the charging horses. The daemonic steeds fell with squeals and disturbingly human screams. Their thrashing bodies tangled those of their fellows racing behind them, and the second rank of riders fell in their turn, or else found their charge blunted. The Decimators stalked forwards, giving their foes no chance to recover. Axes rose and fell, reaping a red harvest from amongst the helpless knights. Those who survived rushed to encircle the Decimators.

Greel started forwards, Gorenus’ Liberators at his back. They picked up speed as the tribesmen loped through the melee. Shields crashed into tattooed flesh as the Liberators forced their savage foes back with bone-crushing inexorability. The tribesmen’s weapons skittered harmlessly off the sigmarite, and soon they were put to flight, leaving only despairing howls in their wake. But the Chaos knights held their ground, still emitting their eerie trill. Their armour was almost as tough as sigmarite, and they fought almost as well as the Stormcasts.

Those Chaos knights who were still mounted tried to use the bulk of their scaly steeds to force a path through the Liberators. One, his armour more ornate than that of his companions, drove a heavy spear through the gap between Gorenus’ helmet and his chest-plate, killing him instantly. As the Chaos knight’s steed reared, startled by the crash of lightning that followed, Greel charged him from the side. The knight wheeled his mount around with a hollow oath as he caught sight of the Lord-Celestant.

Greel struck the daemonic horse, breaking its scaly neck with a blow from his hammer. As it fell, its rider tumbled from the saddle and crashed down. Greel raised his sword as the Chaos knight scrambled to his feet, drawing his own blade as he did so. The Lord-Celestant parried the warrior’s blow, and swung his hammer. The Chaos knight twisted aside. They circled one another.

‘You are the one the Destined Queen killed in the Temple of the Empty Heart,’ the Chaos knight said, his voice almost a moan. ‘I recognise your soul-scent.’

Greel didn’t reply, though a chill swept through him. He rained down blow after blow, driving his opponent back towards the edge of the slope. The Chaos knight laughed hollowly as he retreated, his sword extended in a two-handed grip. ‘I was there that day... You fought bravely, for a storm-born cur. But bravery is no substitute for skill, is it? I was like you, once. I thought to match blades and cunning with her, but my skills were as nothing to hers. I knew when I was beaten.’

‘That is the difference between us,’ Greel said. ‘I know no such thing.’ He lunged and the Chaos knight reared back, sword lifted over his head. Before he could strike, however, the slope gave way beneath him and he toppled backwards with a cry. Greel watched the emerald shape of his opponent grow smaller and smaller, until it was gone, and the only sound was the cry of carrion-birds. Then he turned and began to ascend, picking his way over the trail of dead, trying not to think about his opponent’s parting words.

When he reached the others, he saw that Calithus had smashed the bowmen, scattering their bodies for the crows. Lycos and his Decimators waited nearby, their axes dripping with the ichor of the Chaos knights. Without a word, they fell into step behind Greel and followed him. He led them along the path in silence. Every so often, the ground beneath his feet trembled, as if the skull were stirring in its eternal slumber. Everything about this place had an air of anticipation.

It grew worse the closer the Stormcasts drew to the summit. The air became treacle-like and foul, as if the Howling Labyrinth radiated some vile miasma. The sound of unseen gears and mechanisms throbbed, causing Greel’s teeth to rattle in his jaw. His first glimpse of the Howling Labyrinth in all of its glory brought him to a horrified standstill.

It was all shapes and none, constantly shifting, expanding, shrinking. It clung to the curve of the star-wyrm’s skull, held fast by massive iron hooks and tendrils of amber that had long ago merged with the bare bone. Pylons of stone braced the ever-moving structure, grinding softly as they were thrust aside or pulled in. Dust spilled from its joints, filling the air and hiding its true scope. Facets of amber slid into place, rising and falling with arrhythmic precision. Towers grew from its body, only to bend and burst, rejoining the sprawling structure. Carrion-birds perched precariously on jutting flanges of amber, croaking disharmoniously.

‘Sigmar above, it’s a monstrosity,’ Lycos whispered hoarsely. Greel nodded.

‘It is the work of Chaos,’ he said simply. He saw no entrance. Archways formed like blisters only to shrink and vanish in moments. The surface of the walls was lit by an oily sheen, and strange, unformed shapes moved within them. He stepped forwards and raised his hammer. What had served in the boneyard would serve here – he would simply smash his way in, if he had to.

‘I... see... you, child of Azyr. Long have I awaited thee, little carcass.’

The voice echoed out over the crown of the skull, and set the carrion-birds to flight. Greel felt a wave of repulsion as its words insinuated themselves in his mind. He stopped, hammer raised.

‘And who are you? Some daemon, set to guard this place? It matters not. You shall not stop me.’

‘And why would I wish to do that, Gaius Greel? I have been waiting for you for many lifetimes, warrior. I have kept her running in circles, chasing shadows, until you could reach me.’ Then, somewhat petulantly, ‘You took quite a long time, my friend. I began to despair of you, if you must know...’

‘Her – you mean Sharizad?’ Greel said, though every instinct warned him against speaking to whatever this thing was. It knew his name. It knew why he had come.

‘Who else? The daughter of the Manifold Path has come to her chosen moment, and fate will and must decree that you be there to oppose her. It has always been and so it will be.’

The voice laughed, and Greel’s skin crawled.

‘Silence – if you would take me to her, then do so. If you will not, then I shall tear this labyrinth apart, brick by brick,’ he growled, hammer raised. The laughter tapered off.

‘Careful, careful, son of the Dark Moon. Your fate is not so straight as all that, and if you insult me, I might just trap you both for an eternity to amuse myself.’ The unseen entity gave a vast sigh, and the skull trembled underfoot. ‘But... I am tired. So tired. I would see it all at an end.’

Before Greel’s eyes, the bricks of amber began to ripple like water and, one by one, they split. A gigantic, dripping orifice opened in the wall and the dark corridor beyond squirmed as if in invitation. His warriors murmured in consternation as the darkness fled, and strange lights lit the path. At the other end of its length, he could see a high, wide archway, full of ochre smoke.

‘What is this?’ he said. ‘Some trick?’

‘No trick. You are expected, after all. The Howling Labyrinth knows its own. Your coming was etched into every brick and slab of my prison, warrior.

‘Enter, Gaius Greel... Enter and be damned.’

Zephacleas and his warriors ran smoothly in the wake of the orruks. The greenskins chanted, argued and, in some cases, fought as they loped. Noise rose from the warhorde constantly, merging into a wordless dissonance that shook the bones of the canyon even more than the bellowing of Gordrakk’s maw-krusha. It was the rumble of an avalanche and the snarl of raging waters. They truly are like a river, he thought. A force that could not be stopped, only diverted.

He glanced aside at Seker. The Lord-Relictor showed no ill-effects from his confrontation with the Chaos sorcerer. He kept pace with Zephacleas easily, as did those warriors Zephacleas had chosen to accompany them. He had taken barely a third of their forces, knowing that any more might provoke the orruks, who were spoiling for a fight.

Despite the fact that they had joined forces to defeat the daemons, the orruks had initially seemed quite happy to pile into the Stormcasts. Only Gordrakk’s bellowed imprecations, and the threat of his axes, had seen the creatures subside. Now they charged ahead of the Stormcasts, smashing a path towards the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard and the enemies that awaited them there.

Taros would follow Zephacleas and the others more slowly, ready to reinforce them should it become necessary. Or, failing that, prevent Sharizad from escaping the Gargant’s Graveyard. The Lord-Castellant intended to ring the vast skull in sigmarite. Zephacleas hoped Taros’ defences wouldn’t be put to the test. The Shimmering Countess had escaped once. He didn’t intend for her to do so again.

Far ahead of them, Gordrakk’s maw-krusha led the way, galloping through the canyons of bone, or occasionally breaking into flight for short distances. Zephacleas didn’t understand how such an awkwardly made beast could escape the pull of the earth, but then, much about the orruks didn’t make sense. From moment to moment, they defied expectation. They were not simply beasts or fools, but instead utterly alien in their view of the world. Ready to join forces with an enemy at a moment’s notice, when given the proper encouragement. It was no wonder Sigmar had found Gorkamorka’s presence so taxing, if some legends were to be believed.

‘There it is,’ Seker said, startling the Lord-Celestant. He looked up, and up, and up... The skull of the star-wyrm towered over the cliffs and crags of bone around it. Its shadow blighted the land, and there was nothing save chalky dust as far as the eye could see. The host spilled out of the boneyard and the orruks picked up speed.

The skull was half sunken into the dust, and ancient pathways wound up and around its contours. Too, there were bodies, littering those paths.

Greel has been this way, Zephacleas thought.

There was no way of telling how Gordrakk would react if he knew someone had reached the top before him. He hoped that they hadn’t come this far just to wind up fighting the orruks again.

Far ahead of them, Gordrakk howled. Orruks took up the cry, as if unable to stop themselves. Zephacleas found his eyes drawn inexplicably upwards. A vast shape, like a shadow stretched across the sky, strode along at once beside and above the mingled host of orruks and Stormcasts. It had no features that he could discern, save for its blazing eyes. Sometimes there were two, sometimes four, but as they burned brighter and brighter, he could almost hear the sound of titanic footfalls.

The loping orruks began to chant a name, though whether it was Gordrakk’s, or Gorkamorka’s, Zephacleas couldn’t say. Their voices seemed to merge and swell, filling the horizon from end to end, until the whole of the world shuddered from the force of it. The earth shook underfoot as the orruks picked up speed, and the great shadow seemed to darken and grow more real as it loped among them.

Zephacleas felt his heart begin to pound in sympathy with the immense footfalls. He thought he heard a great voice, roaring in the distance, urging them on. It was a voice as fierce and as wild as Ghur itself, a tempest more savage than any that wracked the seas of Azyr. It was the voice of a beast and a god and a world all in one. It was a cry of cosmic challenge, cast into the teeth of a hostile universe.

Unable to contain himself, Zephacleas joined his voice to that of his allies. Seker did as well, and the retinues following them, each and every Stormcast roaring out their loudest war-cries. The orruks seemed to take it as a challenge, and they redoubled their efforts, until sky and ground alike shook with the mingled fury of Azyr and Ghur.

And for the first time, and maybe for the last, Stormcast Eternals and Ironjawz orruks marched to war together.

Chapter Eleven

Marrowcutter

They found the centre suddenly, as if whatever force that had been playing with them had grown bored. The corridor expanded, widening into an immense chamber, far larger than the Howling Labyrinth itself. It was a cavernous void, occupied only by a structure-within-a-structure that rose up over a seemingly infinite web of walkways and bridges, extending from every angle and direction. Sharizad stared and said, simply, ‘We have arrived.’ Her voice carried out over the void, and for a moment, all was still. In the dark, something sighed, as if in relief. Then the silence faded, and the cacophony rose anew.

The heart of the labyrinth resembled an inverted beehive citadel of rotating amber tiers. Archways lined every tier, and the bridges trembled as they slid into place against each one in their turn. Dust filled the air, and the moans of the dead made for sweet accompaniment to the clashing rumble of amber. Down in the depths, far below the web of walkways, monstrous shapes, stretched like shadows, writhed against one another in eternal agony.

‘Enslaved in life and death... Truly this place is sacred to the Architect of Fate,’ Kuldak said piously, as they started across the bridge of amber connecting them to the citadel.

‘When the Daemoniac Conundrum set this place to moving, it is said that it did so with a great sacrifice – a realm’s worth of lives, made grist for this mill of abomination,’ Bodak said. ‘I can think of better things to do with that many lives, myself, but then, I’m not a daemon afflicted with lunacy.’

‘Or it could simply be that you lack imagination, brother,’ Sardak said, walking beside Sharizad. ‘This place is a monument to fate and all of its vagaries. It is a trick and a trap, a prison and a fortress all in one. At once a truth and a falsehood.’

‘Well, you know about one of those at least, brother,’ Kuldak said. Bodak laughed. Sardak made as to turn, but Sharizad laid a hand on his arm.

‘Water, Sardak. Not iron,’ she murmured. ‘We are so close now, do not sully it with your childish squabbling.’ She could feel it now, stronger than ever before, calling to her. Her multitude of potential fates narrowed, honed to a single point of destiny. Irresistible, and unalterable. She felt neither fear nor doubt, only... longing. This then was the moment she had come into the world for. This was her fate, to be plucked from an unworthy sea.

Moments yet to be, memories of things to come, swirled in her mind, nearly overwhelming her. She saw herself, blade in hand, leading an army across the face of Ghur. All would fall before her, or bend knee to her. Or perhaps no army, for what did she need with servants, with squabbling champions, when she had Marrowcutter? A sword that could cut a god, or carve open the universe. Why, with that daemon-sword in hand, she might even challenge the Grand Marshal of Chaos himself. He whose war was long over, and whose time had passed.

Yes. Yes, that was the way of it.

A new war was coming. New enemies fell like lightning from the heavens. The servants of the Ruinous Powers had grown soft and indolent, content to fight amongst themselves and rule petty kingdoms, even as she had done. It was time for something new. That was why Tzeentch had set her on this path, she knew.

I am the Destined Queen, and I will bring about a new age – not of blood or Chaos, but instead one of... change, Sharizad thought.

The prospect lent speed to her step as she led the tattered remnants of her warband through one of the yawning archways and into the chamber beyond.

The chamber was an abstract shape, full of movement – the clockwork heart of the Howling Labyrinth. Light speared through continually opening and closing squares of amber, illuminating centuries of dust. The floor moved with a steady clunking rhythm as the walls expanded and shrank in sections. Beneath the grinding thump of unseen mechanisms came the groaning of the innumerable spirits enslaved to this place.

It was their efforts, she realised, that kept the structure constantly moving and changing. The Daemoniac Conundrum had bound them, alive and dead, to this ever-shifting architectural monstrosity.

Marrowcutter hung suspended at the chamber’s centre in a web of opalescent tissue, streaked with pulsing veins and capillaries. The Worldsplitter’s cage had been made from the vivisected remains of a gargant, and the beast’s idiot-face and knobbly arms hung low over the hell-sword, suspended by marionette strings of muscle and corded flesh. The rest of its body had been stretched and scattered about, pulled all out of shape by the strange undulations of the chamber. Runnels, filled with dried blood, lined the oscillating slope of amber bricks leading up to the cage of bone and meat that encased Marrowcutter.

As she stepped into the chamber, its constant grinding came to a sudden halt. Dust billowed between the seams of the floor and walls, and the groans of the spirits fell silent. Sharizad waited, counting the moments. She knew now that there was a rhythm to these places, and so she waited for it to reveal itself. She didn’t have to wait long. The slack-jawed features of the butchered gargant twitched, and its empty eye sockets blazed to sudden life.

The sagging flesh of its head swelled, as if it were a mask. The jaw opened, revealing a blazing corona of multicoloured lights. The same lights danced in its orbits and within the old wounds in its flesh.

‘Who... comes?’

The voice came like a wave striking a shore. It washed over her like a stinging salt-spray, causing her flesh to prickle and her soul to twist in anticipation. She lifted her chin.

‘Who asks?’ she said, resting her hand on the pommel of her blade.

‘Why... ask who?’

‘Who asks why?’ she said, smiling slightly. The voice stuttered in laughter. Whatever spirit lurked here was easily amused. The gargant’s head bobbed on its ruined neck. Sharizad cocked her head. ‘The why is easy enough. I come to lay claim to the daemon-blade, in the name of fates-yet-to-be-written. The who is more difficult, for are any of us truly who we claim, or are we but shadows cast by the fires of what is, what was and what will be?’

‘You lack... certainty, daughter of the Manifold Path.’

‘Certainty is an anchor, dragging all potential into oblivion. Reality is vast and contains multitudes – why then should I limit myself? My fate is stronger than all others, for mine is not iron, but instead water. I go where I will, and cannot be denied.’

‘Ahhh... I once thought as you. Perhaps I shall again, by and by.’

‘And who were you? Not the flesh you inhabit, I expect,’ she said. More stuttering laughter, like the crackle of flames or crumbling stones, followed her words.

‘No. Not this sad flesh. Its owner is long since lost and gone forever. I am that which was Agorath, and will be again, once my burden is taken from me.’

‘Agorath is dead,’ Sharizad said. ‘We stand upon his skull.’

‘What is death to that which hunts the stars, O daughter of the Manifold Path? I was Agorath and I shall be again, once you have passed my test.’

‘Why a test, when we both seek the same end, O mighty Agorath?’

‘Not all paths follow the same course, woman. Though our destination is the same, the route we must take to reach it is vastly different. I am bound by geas and guile, and I owe you no friendship, no consideration... Only the mildest of courtesies.’

Sharizad inclined her head. The spirits were murmuring to her now, insistently, urgently. Trying to warn her of something. ‘If it must be so, then let it be, Agorath. Set your test, mighty one, and I shall pass it.’

‘Oh darling child of fate, it has already begun!’

‘Monster!’

The voice echoed out over the grinding of the amber slabs as they shifted position and rotated abruptly away from the centre of the chamber. A wall had dissolved into swirling tawny dust, and black-armoured warriors stalked into sight. They stank of the storm, and of heavenly magics. To Sharizad’s eyes, attuned to the subtler arts, each one was a puppet, dancing on strings of lightning.

‘Greel,’ she breathed. Her armour quivered in anticipation as she spoke, for here at last was the one soul who had escaped her.

She could not say how he had survived, or even how he had come here. Anger warred with pleasure in her. An old foe, already bested – if this was Agorath’s test, then it was surely as good as passed. Nonetheless, a trickle of doubt wormed its way through her surety.

‘Monster!’ Greel roared again, as he stepped between her and the daemon-blade. ‘I see you there, witch.’ His warriors, few in number as they were, took up positions before the oscillating slope of bricks. ‘Long have I hunted you, since the fall of your abominable kingdom.’

Sharizad tore her sword from its sheath.

‘You let them in?’ she shouted, glaring at the bloated features of the gargant, where it hung above the newly arrived Stormcast Eternals. The slabs beneath her feet trembled as she was forced backwards, away from the slope of amber bricks and Marrowcutter.

‘As I said... A test. An old enemy, come again. How will you get past him, O child of the Forking Path? Guile? Force? Show me your cunning, Destined Queen.’

‘Sharizad,’ Greel rumbled. His voice was much the same as she remembered. Like lightning trapped in an iron box. ‘Turn, hag. Turn, daemon. You shall not pass. You shall not claim whatever daemon-weapon hangs there, in its cage of flesh and bone.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not,’ she called out, regaining her composure. ‘Then, who can say what fate has in store? For I surely did not expect to see you again, Greel. Not after I left you gasping out your life on the floor of the Temple of the Empty Heart.’

Greel tensed, and she laughed. ‘You drape yourselves in the skin of a dead world. What have I to fear from shadows who wear the price of failure so openly?’ She spread her arms. The Stormcast Eternals outnumbered her own forces somewhat, and her warriors would be no match for the war-hounds of Azyr. But they didn’t have to be. They just had to occupy them.

‘Bodak, Kuldak, Sardak, Yuhdak. Come to me, you princes of the Great Kingdom! This is thy moment, Nine-in-One... This is thy destiny.’

‘We stand at thy shoulder, Destined Queen,’ Sardak said, as he slid his blade from its sheath of bone. He glanced around at his brothers. ‘Well, brothers? Shall we settle this affair once and for all?’

‘Aye, and why not? I grow tired of hearing your voices,’ Bodak said, hefting his club. ‘Come, Kuldak. Scatter your sands and let us go to war one last time, as befitting princes of the City of Tiers.’

‘Pray you die quickly, Bodak,’ Kuldak said. ‘For should we two survive, I shall have no mercy on you, brother.’ He glanced at Sardak. ‘Or you, Sardak.’

‘Ah, Kuldak, if they don’t crush that thick skull of yours, I think I’ll take your head and use it to adorn my standard, so that you will ever bear witness to the victories that might have been yours,’ Sardak said, his voice mild.

Yuhdak, as ever, took no part in the banter. He stood behind his three brothers, blade in hand, a shield of sorcerous light on his arm. He looked at Sharizad, and for an instant she thought he might be weeping. She dismissed the thought a moment later – it was simply the way the witch-light played across the curves of his helm. She laughed and lifted her sword high.

‘Awaken, spirits,’ she said. ‘Awaken, O failed ones, O broken and beaten ones. Come forth and witness the culmination of that which you died in service of.’ She turned, casting a last, lingering glance over her remaining warriors – the Knights of Malachus, softly trilling their eerie war-song, and her fierce hillmen, who trembled like hounds on the scent, ready to die at her word. She turned back to the Stormcast Eternals and cocked her head. ‘Woe to thee, who stand between the Destined Queen and her chosen fate,’ she said, softly.

She darted forwards, smoke spewing from the facets of her armour. Sardak and the others leapt into motion, followed by her knights and hillmen. As she charged, the spirits of the bound dead took shape around her, Goreshroud at their head. The Three Queens of Ferro were there, and the Brothers Absinthe. The Duke of Quatr, and the Sisters Night. Bloodbound and Stormcasts. All of the foes and weaker fates that had fallen before her own.

The bound souls crashed into the Stormcast shield wall like a wave, staggering them. Their hammers passed harmlessly through their phantasmal opponents, but the weapons of the dead struck sparks from the blessed sigmarite. Goreshroud roared silently and hacked her a path through her enemies. Greel traded blows with the ghostly deathbringer and was soon lost to sight. She heard Kuldak scream out incantation after incantation, and the air grew warm and ugly with the magics of change and death.

As she parried a hammer-strike and slid her blade through the eye-slit of the warrior’s helm, she saw Bodak send a Stormcast flying with a strike from his war-club. She heard the hissing crackle of the Stormcast bowmen, and the scream of her warriors as they died. She saw a Knight of Malachus stumble and sway, his malachite armour pulverised by hammer-blows. All these scenes and more passed before her eyes as she winnowed through the melee, and darted up the oscillating slope. As she drew close to the daemon-blade, a rancid humidity enveloped her. She could hear a voice murmuring eagerly in her ear, urging her on. Whether it was Agorath or the voice of the blade itself, she could not say and did not care. Her armour cracked and came away in shards as her hand stretched towards Marrowcutter’s hilt.

Pain speared through her and she staggered, just short of her goal. She twisted and caught sight of the crackling arrow jutting from between her shoulder blades. Another arrow caught her in the chest as she turned, and the lightning that clung to it was dispersed across the facets of her armour. She stumbled. More arrows thudded home as she gestured and unleashed a wash of bale-fire to envelop the bowman. More arrows hissed towards her, and she sliced them from the air. She spat one of the Nine Black Sutras, and an archer screamed as his celestial flesh expanded within his armour.

The Stormcast staggered forwards, clawing at himself. His armour cracked and burst open, allowing the transforming shape within the room it needed to grow. Mottled flesh spilled out of the shattered husk of sigmarite, sprouting eyes and circular, pulsing maws. The Chaos spawn flopped hungrily towards the remaining bowmen, enfolding them in rubbery flaps or gnawing at them with its newly sprouted fangs. The Stormcasts drew short, stabbing blades and hacked at the corrupted shape of their former comrade.

Hissing in pain, Sharizad turned. More Stormcasts thudded up the slope towards her, hammers raised.

‘Now, witch, you die,’ one of the warriors said. Sharizad whipped her sword up and out, scoring the warrior’s chest-plate. He staggered back, unable to maintain his balance on the fluctuating bricks. She lunged up and slammed her sword through a gap in his armour. He groaned and toppled backwards, yanking her blade from her hand. She let it fall and turned back. His soul would be lost to her, but she no longer cared. She had a new weapon to claim – a better one. A weapon fit for a queen.

As the others raced to stop her, her bare flesh touched the strangely barbed hilt of the daemon-weapon and she felt something gnaw at her palm. The weapon seemed to undulate towards her, and she felt thin tendrils of unnatural metal slide through the newly made wounds on her palms and beneath her flesh. She heard something sing out with barbaric joy inside her mind, and she knew that it was the song of Marrowcutter. A hellish light flared, driving the Stormcasts back and nearly blinding her.

Sharizad tore the blade from its cage of meat, and time slowed to a trickle. Marrowcutter seemed to leap after her, like an eager pet... or perhaps a hungry predator. The blade gleamed with an oily light, and it changed shape moment to moment – first a straight blade, then curved – broad, then slim. Sometimes it was made of bone or steel or even the serrated, crimson flesh of a daemon. Her mind reeled from the enormity of it. Marrowcutter was less a weapon than the idea of a weapon, taking whatever shape suited it at a given moment.

It spoke to her, sang to her, beating aside all thought and cunning with a simplicity of purpose which was at once relief and anathema. Marrowcutter desired only one thing, above all else: a hand to hold it, an arm to wield it and a mind to guide it. It desired blood and fire, war and death. It desired the quick thrust in the dark, and the heroic slash amid the clangour of war. It was a weapon forged for gods rather than mortals. Its desires beat upon her mind relentlessly, drowning her schemes in the night-black sea of its alien and monstrous will.

‘Do you hear it, child? Do you hear the song of the Worldsplitter? It was forged in the heat of a caged star, and its metal was cooled in the blood of daemons. I have endured its maniacal demands for untold centuries, but now... now, at last, I am free.’

Agorath’s voice stirred the embers of her intent, and she sank down, planting Marrowcutter point-first into the brick slope. Pain rippled outwards from her sword-hand, pulsing through her lean frame. The remains of the gargant that had served as Marrowcutter’s cage slumped, and something that might have been starlight bled upwards. A vast, serpentine face leered down at her, and the star-wyrm’s laughter filled her mind.

‘A thousand paths once spread before you, child. Now only one remains. You have chosen your fate and etched it in blood, O Shimmering Countess. Be jubilant, now and evermore, for certainty at last shackles you. Do you see it in your mind’s eye? Do you feel the light of apotheosis, as time itself loses its clutch upon your flesh? You will be like me, one with the black between the stars... Hail, Sharizad. Hail and farewell!’

Sharizad threw back her head and screamed, as the starlight streaked upwards in a gout of blinding flame. The Howling Labyrinth shook like a beast in pain as the consciousness of Agorath fled its long captivity, and hurtled towards the sky, back to the dark of the void. As the echoes of its passage faded, threads of cold fire raced through her and she felt her blood boil in her veins. The noise of battle, Agorath’s laughter, the groaning of the Howling Labyrinth, it all faded to a dull throb. Marrowcutter’s voice rose to fill her skull, singing a wordless song of change. It was the weapon of a god, and only a god or something close to a god was worthy to wield it.

Her crystalline armour stretched and cracked as her form expanded with agonising alacrity. Her limbs elongated, the joints popping painfully and her flesh going taut. Her torso lengthened, squeezing her breath from her lungs, and two great leathery wings unfolded from her back with a wet, ripping sound. She screamed as they snapped out to their full width, scattering crystalline shards. Strange, iridescent feathers slid from the pores on her wings and limbs, rattling like spear-blades. And Marrowcutter purred in her grip as she continued to scream away what was left of her humanity.

Greel turned at the sound of Sharizad’s screams. Or, rather, the screams of the thing that had been Sharizad. She towered over those Stormcasts who advanced cautiously towards her, up the grinding slope of amber. His heart sank as he caught sight of the unholy weapon clutched in one inhuman talon. It was the blade Sigmar had spoken of, the blade whose edge could cut away the very threads that bound reality together. I have failed, he thought.

Shaken, he almost didn’t notice the spectral shape surging towards him once more. At the last moment, compelled by instinct, he spun and blocked the great axe as it swept down towards him. The eyeless apparition cursed soundlessly at him as he shoved its insubstantial bulk back. More spirits swirled about, dissipating and reforming to attack his warriors. Disturbingly, there were Stormcasts among them – ones he recognised. His own warriors, their souls bound in abominable magics and kept from the cleansing flames of Azyr. Somehow, the witch was keeping them captive.

No. No, this shall not be, he thought, fury lending him strength even as a newborn fear blossomed in his heart. Was that what he had seen, in the Temple of the Empty Heart? Was this what had made him hesitate that day?

The eyeless warrior swept towards him again, raising its spectral axe. Greel avoided the blow and slid his runeblade through his opponent’s smoky torso. He encountered no resistance, but the spirit spasmed as if mortally wounded. Lightning crawled up the blade and flared outwards, reducing the eyeless soul to tattered wisps of mist.

‘Go to your rest, butcher,’ Greel snarled. More ghosts converged on him – these clad in spectral sigmarite, their eyes empty of everything save hopeless fury.

‘Brothers, stay back,’ he said, sweeping his weapons out in a wide arc. ‘I would not cause you more harm.’ They ignored him, attacking in awful silence. He fought back as best he could, trying to ignore the fear that cut through him.

This is what he had feared – not simply failure, but to lose his soul, to become nothing but another weapon in her monstrous arsenal. He parried a blow from a ghostly warblade, and ducked aside as another scraped across his shoulder-plate.

Fear is not weakness. That was what Zephacleas had said. And Greel had already died once. He had tasted the ashes of defeat, but risen to fight anew. I fear nothing save failure, he thought, hardening his heart.

‘I am sorry, brothers, but you will not deter me. I will not fail you here, as I failed you then. I am Gaius Greel. I am your Lord-Celestant. And I bid you lay down and fight no more!’ He brought his weapons together with a resounding clash, and lightning sparked, spreading down blade and across hammer.

With a roar, Greel slammed his hammer down against the floor. Lightning speared from the point of impact, and the spirits of his warriors stiffened as the fury of Azyr caught them and wrenched them from whatever half-life held them. The lightning danced from phantom to phantom, trapping them in a flickering cage even as it enveloped the weapons of the living Stormcasts.

‘Strike, Iron-sides,’ Greel cried. ‘Strike and free the souls of our brothers!’

Warhammers rang down, dispersing the trapped spirits. A moan swept the chamber, and a full third of the spectral host wavered and vanished. But others yet remained, and these pressed the assault as savagely as before. As his warriors continued to fight, Greel turned, seeking out their true foe. Some instinct told him that if Sharizad could be felled, her phantom host would follow her into oblivion, or else be freed to pass on to whatever fate awaited them.

He saw her, crouched atop the slope, sweep her blade out in a vicious arc. The daemon-weapon sheared through shield and armour alike, reducing those warriors who faced her to drifting sparks of lightning. Greel roared in denial and heaved himself towards her. Amber bricks cracked beneath his weight as he surged forwards. ‘Sharizad!’

‘At last,’ she hissed, as she turned. ‘My old sword failed to take your soul, Greel. But Marrowcutter is stronger than your godling’s magics.’

And, with a shriek of joyous savagery, the Shimmering Countess sprang to meet him.

Chapter Twelve

Weapons of the Gods

Lightning struck the shifting amber face of the Howling Labyrinth, and, for a moment, the unnatural surface of the structure gave way.

‘Ha! That’s the way, Gravewalker,’ Zephacleas said. As soon as they had come in sight of the place, the Lord-Relictor had called down the lightning. Gordrakk bellowed and thumped his beast’s skull with the flat of his axes. The maw-krusha roared and picked up speed as it bounded up the slope towards the writhing structure.

The creature didn’t slow down as it reached the summit, but instead roared again, this time loud enough to rattle Zephacleas’ bones down to the marrow. The force of its cry obliterated the lightning-scorched wall before it, allowing the maw-krusha to barrel through into the daemon-structure. Shards of amber pinged off Zephacleas’ war-plate as the Stormcasts charged after the orruks into the Howling Labyrinth. The monster slewed to a halt at Gordrakk’s urging as greenskins spilled past the maw-krusha in a bellowing flood.

‘Bigger on the inside,’ Gordrakk grunted, looking around. Zephacleas nodded. They stood on a massive balcony, overlooking a great void. Walkways and bridges of amber stretched from every direction and angle to the slowly oscillating hive-shape structure that hung suspended at the centre of the web of bridges. Everything was shaking, and as they watched, one of the bridges cracked and came apart, tumbling upwards to vanish into the darkness above. A rain of amber shards ascended noisily from the void below, as if something were tearing apart the roots of the labyrinth from within, and a strange glow rose from the depths. Zephacleas looked over at Seker.

‘What’s happening?’

The Lord-Relictor shook his head. ‘I know not, though I fear this place has served its purpose,’ he said, shouting to be heard over the noise. ‘Whatever the answer, I think we will find it there.’ He gestured towards the rotating structure. ‘We should go now, and quickly.’

Zephacleas glanced at Gordrakk. ‘You heard the shaman,’ he said. Gordrakk gave Zephacleas a long look before he finally nodded and hauled on his maw-krusha’s chains, eliciting a shriek. The beast began to lumber forwards, towards the walkway that connected their balcony to the structure. As it picked up speed, the discordant crashing grew louder and a monstrous hand, composed of glistening amber and ancient bones, clamped on to the edge of the balcony.

An amber gargant hauled itself up with a fluidity it had not possessed in life. Another followed it, and another. The balcony cracked and shifted beneath their weight as they groped towards orruk and Stormcast alike. A gleaming hand snatched up an orruk brute, and amber teeth bit its head off. A Liberator was crushed in amber fingers, his flesh and bone pulped inside his sigmarite war-plate.

‘Beast-bane, raise shields,’ Zephacleas shouted. He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Seker–’

‘Go,’ Seker said, as he smashed a gargant’s hand. ‘You must get inside that chamber, Zephacleas. We shall join you when we can.’

‘Shaman’s right, hammer-boss,’ Gordrakk snarled. ‘Kunnin’ says this is a little fight. I’m here for a big one,’ he roared and slashed out with his axe as the maw-krusha loped between two of the abominations. The amber gargant shattered, its pieces tumbling into the void above, drawn upwards by whatever force was tearing apart the labyrinth.

Zephacleas ducked the flailing paw of the other gargant, and slammed his hammer into the side of its head. Thin cracks spread across its frame and it too exploded into shimmering shards and brown, broken bones. Then he followed Gordrakk. The maw-krusha was past the gargants and galloping across the walkway. The Lord-Celestant turned and looked back. Stormcasts and orruks fought side-by-side against the amber gargants, occupying the full attention of their foes.

A moment later he was across the walkway, pulled in Gordrakk’s wake through the archway into the chamber beyond. The clash of weapons greeted them. Zephacleas saw the few remaining Sons of Mallus engaged in battle with a small force of green-armoured Chaos knights and swirling, phantasmal warriors. He saw Greel as well, lying weaponless and prone on a slope of amber, a monstrous shape that could only be Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, standing over him.

The thing had been a woman once, but her form was stretched and twisted all out of sorts. It was as if something abominable had pulled her flesh and tattered armour over itself. Iridescent feathers framed a face of inhuman perfection, and a mouth full of needle-thin fangs opened in a shout of triumph as she raised the daemon-blade she held.

The maw-krusha’s roar startled her, and Greel managed to crawl away from her. Gordrakk laughed as he caught sight of her and he slammed his axes together.

‘The Chaos-thing is mine, hammer-boss,’ he growled. He stamped on the maw-krusha’s head. ‘Go, Chompa – go fasta!’ The creature leapt into the air, stubby wings flapping.

The maw-krusha swooped over the melee, and Zephacleas hurried after it, smashing aside howling hillmen as he fought his way towards Greel and the Sons of Mallus. The beast had crossed half the chamber in a single leap, but it couldn’t hold itself aloft for long. A few moments of frantic, awkward flight later, the maw-krusha fell from the air like a stone. A Chaos warrior clad in dark robes and armour looked up at the last moment, his banded war-club half raised, even as the scaly hulk slammed down atop him. The monster roared as it tore at what was left of the unfortunate warrior.

‘Bodak,’ another warrior, clad in ochre and bronze, cried. Sinuous clouds of sand rose up around him at his gesture, and slammed into the maw-krusha’s side. The monster shrieked in anger as the sand scraped across it.

Zephacleas lunged forwards and swept his runeblade out. The warrior slid back, his hand falling to the hilt of the curved desert-blade sheathed on his hip.

‘You have made a deadly mistake, dog of Azyr. Kuldak-of-the-Nine knows no equal when it comes to swordplay.’ He drew his blade in a single motion and parried Zephacleas’ next blow.

‘Good thing we’re not playing then,’ Zephacleas grunted, as the scimitar skidded across his shoulder-plate. It burned with a fierce heat, and the sigils etched into the blade gleamed red. He rolled into the blow, and drove his hammer into his opponent’s stomach as hard as he could. Kuldak staggered back, wheezing. Sands lashed at Zephacleas, stripping his armour of colour and gilt. He crossed his weapons before his face and pressed forwards, into the stinging storm.

When he judged himself close enough, he wrenched his weapons apart, momentarily dispersing the sands and leaving his opponent exposed. Kuldak raised his scimitar, but not fast enough. Zephacleas swatted the blade aside and drove his own sword through his foe’s armoured torso with a tooth-rattling crunch. Kuldak folded over him with a sigh. As Zephacleas tore his blade free, he turned, looking for Gordrakk.

He saw the orruk and his maw-krusha galloping through the fray towards Sharizad, scattering Stormcast and Chaos warrior alike.

‘Who’s the best,’ Gordrakk roared, urging his maw-krusha forwards. ‘Gordrakk is the best!’ The monster crashed into Sharizad, sending her staggering. She whirled, her daemon-blade nearly cleaving the beast’s scaly skull from its neck. The maw-krusha wailed and staggered, blood pouring from the wound. It slumped forwards and Gordrakk howled in fury. The Fist of Gork flung himself from his injured mount and slammed into Sharizad. His axes flashed as he hacked at her. The Shimmering Countess shrieked and backhanded the orruk, sending him flying.

Zephacleas ducked aside as the orruk hurtled past him, and charged, hammer raised. An armoured shape interposed itself before he could strike Sharizad, and his runeblade crashed against a Chaos-wrought sword.

‘You shall not have her, spawn of Azyr,’ the Chaos champion said. ‘So says Sardak-of-the-Nine.’

‘Maybe not, but you’ll do well enough,’ Zephacleas snarled. He smashed his opponent’s blade aside and lunged forwards. His head connected with his foe’s, and the warrior reeled. Before he could recover, Zephacleas slammed his hammer into the side of his opponent’s cuirass, crumpling the ornate armour and flinging him aside. The Chaos champion hit the ground and tried to scramble upright. A strange light formed around his fingers as he raised his hand, but before he could unleash his spell, Zephacleas chopped through his wrist.

‘I’ve fought enough sorcerers to last me a lifetime,’ the Lord-Celestant growled. His boot crunched against the Chaos champion’s helm, and the warrior slumped with a groan. Satisfied that the creature was no longer a threat, Zephacleas turned. A shadow fell over him and he looked up into the too-perfect features of Sharizad.

Her blade sang down, and Zephacleas barely managed to interpose his sword. Her strength was greater than he had expected, her too-long arm bulging with oddly rolling muscles beneath the facets of her armour. The floor cracked beneath him as he struggled to hold her weapon at bay. Lightning crackled between the swords, and the daemon-blade wailed like an injured animal. With a hiss, she forced him back a step. A deafening crack sounded, and his runeblade snapped in two. The explosion of lightning forced them apart.

Zephacleas spared a glance for his broken sword, and then tossed it aside in order to take a two-handed grip on his hammer.

‘Good sword,’ he said.

‘It is a better weapon than any in this realm,’ she said. ‘And soon, it will be greater than any weapon in existence.’ Her clawed feet scraped on the floor as she circled him. ‘Marrowcutter is weak after its long imprisonment, but soon it will regain its strength.’

She wove aside, avoiding Zephacleas’ blow, and Marrowcutter moaned hungrily as it carved a gouge in his war-plate. Zephacleas tottered back as she pressed her attack. The air seemed to thicken around her, and ran with searing colours.

‘This is my fate, Stormcast. My fate and mine alone. Greel will die. You will die. And I will rise.’

Marrowcutter slammed into Zephacleas’ arm, and the force of the blow lifted him from his feet and sent him tumbling through the air. He fell heavily, and pain reverberated through him. Sharizad shrieked with laughter, but her amusement was cut short when Gordrakk careered into her. The orruk tackled her to her knees. One of his axes sank into the remnants of her armour and he reared back, ready to bury the other in her skull. Sharizad drove her elbow back into the orruk’s face with a loud crack.

Gordrakk shuffled back, shaking his head. Sharizad rose to her feet. ‘You – you would dare to attack your betters, brute?’

‘Ain’t nobody better than Gordrakk,’ Gordrakk said. ‘I’m the best. Me. Gordrakk!’ He bulled forwards into Sharizad, knocking her back through sheer fury. The two traded bone-rattling blows. Zephacleas tried to get to his feet, but his injured arm prevented him from doing so. As he struggled, hands found him and helped him to sit upright.

He turned. ‘Greel. You live.’

‘Not for long. I am... dying. Again,’ Greel said. Blood stained his broken armour. His breath rasped brokenly in his lungs. ‘She shattered my weapons. Humbled me. That hell-blade has added to her strength.’

‘So I noticed,’ Zephacleas said, trying to catch his breath. His ribs ached, and his arm was numb and leaden. He couldn’t even make a fist. Gordrakk roared in pain as Sharizad slashed him across the chest. He drove her back with a wild sweep of his axes, but she closed with him again almost immediately. The orruk was powerful, but outmatched. Whatever Sharizad was becoming, it was stronger even than the Fist of Gork.

‘We have to help him,’ Zephacleas said, using his hammer to lever himself to his feet.

All around them, Stormcasts still fought their enemies. Sigmarite rang against hell-forged armour. The Sons of Mallus were nothing if not determined. The chamber shuddered and bucked, like a thing in pain. Cracks had begun to run up the ever-shifting walls, and things that were not stars were visible between them. Chunks of amber plummeted from the ceiling, to crash down and scatter across the floor.

‘I must find a weapon,’ Greel coughed. Zephacleas looked at him. His fellow Lord-Celestant was trembling, blood pouring down the plates of his armour. Zephacleas caught him by the shoulder. Then, with a nod, he launched himself back into battle.

Sharizad’s blade rang down on Gordrakk’s axes, filling the air with the sound of animals caught in a life-or-death struggle. In the air above, vast, shadowy shapes were locked in combat. Gorkamorka is a killer of monsters, Zephacleas thought, as he brought his hammer around and struck Sharizad in the back. Had the two-headed god come to aid his truest follower?

Sharizad laughed and backhanded him, knocking him from his feet. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Her wings stretched out, covering him in their shadow, and for a moment he struggled for breath. The blade in her hand glowed with an unhealthy light. It was an open wound in the skin of reality. A seeping soreness that grew more inflamed with every thrust and slash. He could hear a voice, like the tolling of a brass bell, far away in the deep places between worlds – but he could not understand its words.

Choking, half blind and sick of shadows, Zephacleas struck the floor with his hammer. Sharizad staggered back as the amber ruptured and cracked beneath her feet. As her shadow was pulled away from him, Zephacleas gratefully sucked in a lungful of air. He could see Gordrakk on one knee nearby, head bowed, blood dripping from his wounds. And someone else.

Greel.

‘Sharizad,’ the Lord-Celestant said.

Sharizad turned. Greel lunged forwards, a crystalline blade held in his hands. He drove the sword into her chest. She stepped back, eyes wide, and stared at the protruding hilt.

‘You took my weapons... so I borrowed yours,’ Greel said. Sharizad reached up, as if to wrench the blade free. Before she could, a smoky axe slashed down through one of her wings as the monstrous spirit of an eyeless Bloodbound chopped at her. Sharizad shrilled as more spectral weapons pierced her feathered flesh, opening bloodless wounds.

‘No! I killed you once, fools, I can do so again,’ she howled. ‘Back, get back! I will not be denied by broken fates and inferior destinies. This is my moment, my future! I will be queen!’ In moments, she was surrounded by the hazy shapes of the phantasmal warriors. There were Stormcasts among them, Zephacleas saw, and Bloodbound, and others he didn’t recognise. They attacked as one, from every direction, even as they began to dissolve. Sharizad struggled against them, but whatever Marrowcutter’s other powers, it seemed to be no more use against the dead than any other weapon.

‘Your... your chains are broken, witch,’ Greel said, swaying on his feet. ‘Your slaves rise up, even as they did in the Temple of the Empty Heart. Your destined empire crumbles...’

Lightning speared upwards as the ghostly Stormcasts began to vanish, one by one, tearing through the vaulted ceiling of the chamber. Sharizad’s screams grew in volume as the lightning washed over and through her, setting her feathers aflame and boiling her eyes in their sockets. Smoke plumed from her fanged mouth and her wounds widened, gleaming like veins of gold in her flesh before she finally managed to rip the crystalline sword from her chest and crush it in one bloody talon.

As the fragments of the sword fell from her hand, the ghosts began to disappear. Their vaporous shapes bled upwards, stretching and fading. Reeling, smoking, Sharizad stumbled away from the dissolving spirits. Greel followed her, lightning crawling across his body. He was coming apart, even as the last of his life’s blood dripped down the contours of his armour. He crashed into her with a roar, grappling with her. His eyes met Zephacleas’, in the instant before the lightning took him. When it flashed, Sharizad’s scream filled the shuddering chamber. As the light faded, her feathers were blackened and crumbling. Her too-long limbs were burned and bloody. But she did not fall. Blinded by the light of Azyr, she swayed drunkenly.

‘I will not... This is my age. My time,’ she croaked. ‘I will... I must...’ She stopped, and her blind gaze fixed on the floor. Her features twisted into an expression of loathing, as if she had seen something unwelcome, and she lifted Marrowcutter in both hands and drove it down. The floor heaved and cracks sped across the slabs of amber.

‘My fate is my own, and shadows should know their place!’ she howled as she tore the sword loose.

Zephacleas heaved himself up and saw Gordrakk doing the same. He met the orruk’s gaze and nodded. They would only have this last chance – she was simply too powerful. Now she was stunned, wounded. But it wouldn’t last. Already new feathers were sprouting on her healing flesh, and her eyes were beginning to clear.

Gordrakk roared and brought an axe down on Sharizad’s wrist, hacking through it in one blow. She screamed and the daemon-blade whirled from her mangled grip. It sank point first into the floor and quivered there for a moment. Then, with something that might have been a sigh, it slid through the floor and vanished from sight. The chamber’s shudders grew in intensity. A light swelled in the depths of the amber, growing brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding.

‘No,’ Sharizad moaned. ‘Mine... It was mine.’ She clawed at the floor with her remaining hand. Her body seemed to be caught halfway between being one thing and another. Without Marrowcutter, the changes that had been wrought upon her were coming undone. Her flesh began to peel away from her bones and slip upwards, joining the swirling shards of amber. She lurched upright, screaming.

As one, Gordrakk and Zephacleas struck. Hammer and axes slammed home, and Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, came apart in a storm of iridescent splinters. The splinters whirled in place for a moment, her face screaming from within each one, and then they sped upwards and vanished. The floor followed suit, uprooting itself and dissolving into ochre dust as it billowed around Zephacleas.

Deafened and blinded, he fought to remain standing as the Howling Labyrinth tore itself apart around him. He felt as if he were sinking into a stifling mire. Chunks of amber struck his war-plate, and he thought he felt something clutching at him. Then, all at once, it was done and he was left standing in the open air on the great skull of the star-wyrm. His vision cleared and he could hear again. He saw the surviving Sons of Mallus, standing nearby, their faces turned towards the sky. He saw Seker and the warriors of his chamber, and orruks as well. The greenskins looked about in obvious consternation.

Zephacleas looked up, and watched the hurricane of amber shards, all that was left of the Howling Labyrinth, spiral up into the sky, until it was lost to sight. When it had gone, he looked down. Seker was leading the surviving Stormcasts from both chambers towards him. He heard a growl behind him and turned. Gordrakk stood beside his wounded maw-krusha, which snuffled at its master. The battered remnants of his horde gathered around him.

Zephacleas met Gordrakk’s gaze and said, ‘Good fight.’

Gordrakk was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Good fight, hammer-boss.’

‘Maybe we’ll fight again, Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Maybe. Maybe the Hammer God sees now, eh? Or maybe next time I’ll put your head on a stick,’ Gordrakk grunted, smiling crookedly. He clashed his axes together and threw back his head. The Fist of Gork roared out the name of his gods, and his warriors roared with him. Zephacleas looked up. For a moment, he thought he could see two great shapes, as wide as the horizon and as tall as the stars, staring down at him. Then they were gone.

‘Lost once more,’ Seker said, softly.

‘No. Not lost,’ Zephacleas said, watching the orruks celebrate their victory. ‘Gorkamorka is everywhere. Gorkamorka is in them and beside them and around them.’

‘Very poetic,’ Seker said.

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said.

‘We still have to find him. Wherever he is.’

‘I know,’ Zephacleas said.

‘That was our mission, you’ll recall,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘Seker?’

‘Yes, my Lord-Celestant?’

‘Please be quiet.’

Seker laughed. After a moment, Zephacleas joined him.

Epilogue

The One-in-Nine

Sardak coughed. The hammer had crushed his ribs and spine, and numbness crept through him on cat-feet. Yuhdak held him, and he wondered to hear his brother weeping. Somehow, Yuhdak had dragged him from the chamber, away from the battle. Caring Yuhdak, kind Yuhdak. Sardak laughed, until the pain turned it into a groan. Of course it would be Yuhdak. The only one to never fight, the only one with no ambition.

‘Why do you weep, brother? You are now the One... The One-in-Nine. Your fate eclipses ours, brother. Bodak... Kuldak... All dead. Our fate is... yours...’ he wheezed.

‘No,’ Yuhdak said, softly. Sardak twitched. It was the first time he had ever heard his brother speak. ‘There has only ever been my fate, brother,’ Yuhdak continued. ‘When I was but a child, I begged a boon of the Master of Manifold Paths. I was lonely, you see. Father ignored me, for I was but a shadow of him, and who pays attention to their shadow?’

The dark closed in around Sardak. The last dark, the true dark, where no daemons dwelt and no gods listened. Fear gripped him and he looked at his brother.

‘What... what boon?’ he croaked, unable to deny his curiosity, even this close to the precipice. He could feel the labyrinth shaking around him, and hear the sounds of battle.

‘I asked him to give me brothers,’ Yuhdak said. ‘I asked him and he split my fate into nine, so that I would never be alone.’ He bowed his head, and shimmering tears spilled through the cracks in his mask. ‘And now, I can never be anything else.’

Sardak reached up, trying to touch his brother’s face, but the dark was faster and stronger, and it claimed him, as he had feared it would. And all of this Yuhdak knew, in the part of him that was Sardak, that was Redak and Bodak and all of the others. His eight querulous brothers, who had ever been a part of him. They had taken his voice, his fear, his courage and even his sorrow. They had made him the shadow he’d always thought himself to be.

But it had been a good bargain, if only for a little while. He had enjoyed playing their brutal games in the City of Tiers, and for a time he had forgotten what it meant to be lonely. But the moment the eyeless crow had come, Yuhdak had known that an end was coming. An end to joy, an end to childish amusements.

It had not simply been a god’s jest, or a darkling boon, it had been a test as well. A test of him, a test of fate and chance. A gambit of souls that only a god would understand.

Nine possible paths, and only the truest and strongest could bear our – my – weight, he thought as he looked down at his brother’s cracked and crumbling helm.

Sardak’s body came apart like sand, and slid out of his grip. Yuhdak hunched forwards, whole for the first time in a long time. He did not care for the feeling. The Howling Labyrinth shuddered around him, as somewhere, Sharizad met her fate. Part of Yuhdak, the part that had just recently been Sardak, longed to go to her aid. Another part of him whispered that he ought to go back and claim Marrowcutter for himself.

But he was not Sardak. He was not Bodak or Redak. He had no illusions as to what awaited him, should he follow those impulses. He was Yuhdak and he intended to remain whole for the foreseeable future. He stood slowly, as the dust that had been his brother spilled from his robes and swirled away.

The Howling Labyrinth shuddered in a paroxysm. It would not long outlive his brother. He wondered where Marrowcutter would go, now that it was free. Perhaps it would slice through reality and tumble into the void. Or perhaps the Daemoniac Conundrum would come for it and hide it away once more. He found that he didn’t care.

Yuhdak lifted his sword in silent salute to the Destined Queen. Perhaps they would meet again one day. Somehow, he doubted it. The crow had been right, so many moons ago. In helping her meet her fate, he had found his own. The bargain was fulfilled, and he was whole once more. There was no more need for him to tarry. As she had claimed so many times, her fate was her own, and he felt no urge to witness it.

He had seen the world through nine pairs of eyes, and learned its secrets with nine minds, but now that knowledge had to be put to use. Somewhere, at the mad heart of all reality, the Grand Marshal of Chaos waited, gathering those like him, who had been purged of the old fears and indulgences of childhood. Those who saw the world for what it was and what it must be. His time in the shadows was done. Now he would stand in the light. He left the oscillating structure behind, even as lightning tore through its walls. As he strode along the trembling bridge of amber towards a fang-lined archway, he heard Sharizad’s scream of denial, and the great animal cry of the Worldsplitter, as it fell once more into legend.

And, as the Howling Labyrinth shattered and came apart around him, Yuhdak of the Nine, last prince of the City of Tiers, stepped through the archway to meet his fate.

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and for Age of Sigmar he has written the Legends of the Age of Sigmar novels Pestilens and Black Rift, the Realmgate Wars novel Fury of Gork and several audio dramas including The Lords of Helstone. He lives and works in Northampton.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Cover illustration by Diana Martinez.

The Realmgate Wars: Fury of Gork © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Realmgate Wars: Fury of Gork, 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: 978-1-78572-071-0

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.