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Vengeance Eternal

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Vengeance Eternal

Matt Westbrook

They gathered in their hundreds to hear the words of their God-King. Azyrheim was a changed place since the blessed hammer Ghal Maraz, symbol of Sigmar’s might, had been returned. It had always been a city of wonders, of soaring archways and winding crystalline stairs, of boundless treasures that echoed an age when the light of humanity had shone in every corner of the realms, but now its glory appeared greater. When the first realmgate had been opened by the heroism of Vandus Hammerhand, there had been relief and joy, and then a frisson of nervous excitement as the Stormhosts poured forth into the Mortal Realms, taking the war to the great enemy with the indefatigable fervour of the righteous.

But it was symbolic victories that incited a people at war like little else, and nothing could be more emblematic of the changing times than witnessing the God-King take up his fabled weapon once more.

The hammer had been reclaimed, and with that triumph the halls of Sigmaron rang with renewed purpose. Mortal servants and workers rushed here and there, filling serene halls and quiet chambers with a flurry of excited whispers. Stormhosts were despatched in ever greater numbers, marching to war with thunderous fanfare, roaring their hymns of faith in a tumult so loud it could be heard all across the great city. And then there was the rhythmic ringing of the forges, which truly never ceased; Azyr’s armouries were the miracle that kept the gears of re-conquest moving at their relentless pace.

The Bladestorm, a Warrior Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators, had barely rested since their return from the Eldritch Fortress. They had forged countless new legends in their pursuit of Ghal Maraz there, and now they were summoned to Sigmar’s throne room. From there, the God-King himself would send them forth once more. Mortal warriors might have balked at being thrown back into the war so quickly, but these demigods were no mortals; they were giants, forged for war and destined for battle.

The Stormcasts’ boots beat a perfect rhythm on the gleaming floor of Sigmar’s throne room, a vaulted wonder filled with flawlessly carved sculptures and artisanal iconography celebrating the countless legends of the God-King. All this splendour was nothing compared to the vision of Sigmar himself. He sat upon his throne, watching proudly as his loyal warriors assembled, an avatar of righteousness and strength, radiant armour glittering, eyes burning with resolve.

Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s heart rose to see his master’s glory. It felt like an age since they had last returned to Azyr, and he drank in every wondrous sight anew, from the breathtaking statuary to the masterful paintings and tapestries that draped the walls. This was what they were fighting for, he reminded himself: to return the light of civilisation to every corner of the Mortal Realms, to bring about a world where smiths and artisans could create such works, and where simple, honest folk could bask in their glory. They would earn that future, he swore, as he took his place in the front rank of warriors. Armour creaking under the weight of relic-bones and holy parchments, the Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden came to a halt by his side.

‘I cannot help but wonder at this place, no matter how many times I see it,’ Eldroc whispered.

‘It has a certain grandeur to it,’ the Lord-Relictor said, briefly regarding the vaulted ceiling above, which was immaculately painted with images of great heroes, captured in the moment of their triumph.

‘You have no art in your soul, my friend,’ said Eldroc, grinning. ‘You would be just as happy if we gathered in some dusty old crypt to hear Sigmar’s words.’

‘In my experience there is often a great deal to be learned from dusty old crypts.’

They ceased their conversation as Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm strode past and his cold blue gaze briefly washed over them. Their liege made his way to the foot of the stairway leading to the throne, and took his place at the head of his Warrior Chamber. There he stood, still as one of the statues lining the great hall, and waited for the word of the God-King.

‘How is he?’ Tharros asked.

Eldroc felt a pang of sadness and frustration seize him. It would be a better, easier world if he knew the answer to that question.

‘He is… still not himself,’ he said. That was understating things to a laughable degree, but Eldroc had not the words to describe what he felt when he looked upon his lost friend.

‘No,’ Tharros said. ‘And he never will be. To be reforged…’

Tharros paused a moment, then turned his skull-faced visage to Eldroc.

‘There is always a price for cheating death, brother. We will all pay it, before the end. Too many of us forget that. They think this is a game we play.’ He shook his head. ‘No. We fight a war beyond mortal comprehension. There is always a price.’

There was a creaking yawn as the grand double doors to the throne room opened. Again, the floor rumbled with the steps of hundreds of warriors. Marching into position alongside their brothers came a second Warrior Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators. These warriors wore the same turquoise armour as the Bladestorms, trimmed with golden sigmarite and deep red leather, but where Thostos’ officers wore purple helmet crests and plumes signifying their rank, the newcomers wore a rich, royal blue. Their leader was tall even for a Stormcast, and carried a grandblade across his back, the huge weapon almost reaching to the floor.

‘Lord-Celestant Argellon and his Argellonites,’ Eldroc murmured. ‘His star rises, it is said.’

‘His head swells, you mean,’ Tharros said.

Mykos Argellon took his place at the head of his chamber, before the throne. His mien could not have been more different to that of Thostos. Where the Bladestorm stood stock still, his fellow Lord-Celestant burned with pride and righteousness, his hands clenching and unclenching, his body fairly trembling with fervour.

‘By all accounts he has performed admirably thus far,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘Perhaps we should give him a chance.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tharros replied.

The God-King rose from his throne, ending the conversation. He was as magnificent a figure as ever, but now emanated an even greater power with Ghal Maraz held in one mighty fist. His radiance was so bright that it almost hurt to look upon him, but not one of the Stormcast Eternals averted their eyes.

And Sigmar spoke.

‘The realms shake beneath our righteous justice!’ he roared, and the throne room erupted in an echoing chorus of shouts and cheers. Sigmar smiled fiercely as he looked upon his warriors, and he let the cheers fill the room for many moments before resuming. ‘On all fronts your valiant brothers purge the taint of Chaos with the hammer and the storm, and thanks to the legends you yourselves forged in pursuit of Ghal Maraz, we can now prepare for the next stage of the great war.’

There was a breathless silence as the Celestial Vindicators waited to hear where they would bring the light of Sigmar.

‘You will travel to Ghur, the Realm of Beasts, to a wild region known as the Roaring Plains,’ the God-King proclaimed. ‘There lies a foul bastion of Chaos known as the Manticore Dreadhold. This fortress guards a realmgate that is critical to our next offensive. Destroy the dreadhold and secure this gate. Put its cursed defenders to the sword, and send their wretched souls screaming to their dark masters. This I task to you.’

Another cacophony of cheers resonated throughout the hall. Sigmar held up a hand for silence.

‘There will be many dangers,’ the God-King said. ‘The Roaring Plains is an untamed wilderness, and its dangers have already sent many of my loyal warriors back to the forge.’

His eyes bored into Thostos, whose own blazing blue orbs stared back implacably. Eldroc felt that Sigmar’s iron gaze softened for just a moment as he as he studied his champion.

‘Look to your brothers,’ Sigmar said, eyes full of pride as he surveyed his conquering heroes. ‘Trust in the gifts I have given you, and remember your oaths. Remember what it is that we fight for.’

He raised Ghal Maraz, and the light caught the intricate craftsmanship of the legendary hammer, reflecting back off the gleaming turquoise ranks of the Celestial Vindicators. There was no darkness, no cruelty or malice that could stand in the face of that holy brilliance.

‘Vengeance for the lost,’ bellowed the Celestial Vindicators. ‘Glory to Sigmar’s chosen!’

Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon parried a rat-thing’s wild swing and slammed his fist into the creature’s eye socket. It yelped and toppled backwards, and he thrust his grandblade, named Mercutia, into its panting chest. Its scream cut off abruptly, and Mykos slipped his blade out and swept it to the side to draw a red line across another creature’s throat. Alongside him, his warriors hacked their way through the last of the skaven stragglers.

Liberators battered the creatures to the ground with their heavy shields, then ran them through with swords, or crushed them with hammers. Retributors cared not for such precision; they barrelled in with heavy hammers, breaking through the ratmen’s weak guard, and shattering bones with every swing. There was no gap in the Stormcast line, no weakness for the skaven to exploit. In every direction the creatures turned they were met with sharpened steel and an impassable wall of storm-forged metal. The Lord-Celestant felt a surge of pride as he watched his men make perfect war.

Mykos looked around the cavern. No sign of Thostos and his chamber, though judging by the shattered and broken bodies that were already lying in heaps before the Argellonites had entered, they had certainly passed through this way. Mykos frowned, not for the first time concerned about his fellow Lord-Celestant’s incautious approach.

‘Sigmar casts us in blessed sigmarite, hurls us out into the realms, and there we find our true calling,’ roared Knight-Heraldor Axilon, shaking his broadsword free of gore. ‘We are gilded tavern cats, tasked with hunting mice!’

The warriors laughed, and Mykos couldn’t help but smile. ‘Pray, do not speak again, brother Axilon,’ he pleaded with mock sincerity. ‘Else you’ll bring these walls down upon us.’

The Knight-Heraldor covered his mouth with one gauntlet and nodded fervently. That earned another chuckle from the others. Axilon was the implacable herald of the Argellonites, his voice a roar of thunder that could be heard across a battlefield, extolling his brothers to ever-greater acts of valour. It was joked amongst the warriors that Axilon need not bother with his battle-horn – the radiant instrument that all Knights-Heraldor carried – for his voice alone would suffice.

‘Not good terrain, this,’ said Axilon, approaching Mykos and gesturing at the rough stone walls and winding, gnawed-out tunnels. ‘It favours the stinking rats. We cannot see ahead, and we cannot guard our flanks. I cannot even give them a taste of the God-King’s thunder, lest it brings this cursed labyrinth down on our heads.’

‘Brother,’ said Mykos, shaking his head and pointing one finger down at the floor. ‘The ground is below us, and the ceiling above. Consider our last venture, and thank Sigmar we are not battling through the warped geometry of the Tower of Lost Souls, pursued once more by the mutant scions of the Broken Prince.’

‘A fair point, my Lord,’ Axilon smiled, but his mirth did not last long. He lowered his voice as he came closer. ‘Lord-Celestant Thostos has pushed too far ahead without us. He’s going to get himself surrounded.’

‘I am certain that the Lord-Celestant’s tactical situation shifted,’ said Mykos, a note of warning in his voice, ‘and he was forced to adjust our battle plan.’ It would not do for the rest of the chamber to start voicing their own concerns about Thostos’ behaviour.

‘As you say, lord,’ said Axilon.

The Knight-Heraldor kicked one of the dead ratmen disdainfully, turning it over with the tip of his boot. The creature was ridden with boils and rashes, and wrapped in black leather marked with obscene symbols that Mykos did not care to look upon.

‘So soon we see battle,’ Axilon said. ‘We barely made it out of the realmgate before we came upon these foul creatures.’

‘Who had taken up position throughout the only pass that leads down to the Roaring Plains,’ Mykos nodded gravely. ‘It has not escaped my notice, my friend. It feels uncomfortably like these creatures were sent here to bleed us.’

That was not a pleasant thought. They had been counting on the element of surprise, but if the enemy was already aware they were coming… He shook his head. It was no use second-guessing their mission now. They could do nothing but push on and try to find a way out of these warrens, which meant his force had to link back up with Thostos as soon as possible.

‘We will push forwards, into the central passage,’ Mykos said, pointing a gauntleted finger at the largest of the three tunnels that split off from the cramped nexus that they currently occupied.

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather stepped to the tunnel entrance.

‘Battle has been joined, my Lord-Celestant,’ he said, in his clipped, distinguished voice. Goldfeather was so named for the fabulous golden quill he kept tucked into his war-helm. When asked about it, or even when none had asked, the airborne warrior would loudly proclaim that it was a gift from the ‘Father of Griffons’, in return for his slaying of a rampaging manticore, and proceed to tell that tale in punishing length and detail. Mykos considered this a small price to pay in exchange for the man’s keen senses.

‘They have encountered heavy resistance,’ he continued gravely. ‘It’s not just swarm rats – I can hear the vermin’s heavier weapons in the field. Foul, sorcerous siege pieces.’

Mykos approached, and even without the Prosecutor’s superior senses, he could hear it too. The spatter-whine of the skaven’s filthy magic, and the barking crack of their bizarre weapon-pieces. Undercutting those alien sounds, faint but unmistakable, were the battle-hymns of his Vindicator brothers, the tramp of booted feet, and the cleansing celestial thunder of Sigmar’s storm.

‘We must move quickly,’ Mykos muttered, and raised his runeblade high. ‘To me, Argellonites. Forwards to glory!’

Thostos Bladestorm swept his runeblade back and forth in great arcs, hewing his way through dozens of the shrieking vermin. Heads flew. Limbs shattered. The warren stank of fear, the sour terror of the ratfolk and the foul reek of their diseased blood. One of the degenerates, bolder than its fellows, jabbed at Thostos with a crude shortspear. The blow skipped off his blessed sigmarite, barely denting the god-forged metal. The Bladestorm replied with a backhand sweep of his sword that bisected the unfortunate creature, sending its torso spinning away over the heads of its fellows. Hot blood splashed across Thostos’ battle-mask, and he roared in exultation.

Exultation? No, that implied that pleasure was found in the act. Fury? That came closer, but what he felt lacked the cleansing, satisfying heat of true rage. He settled for whatever it was he did feel, because he felt something, and that was enough.

In truth, the filthy skaven were poor subjects for his anger. They fell before him in their dozens, hacked and hewed apart. Those nearest to him barely even attempted to block his attacks. Instead they scampered as far away as they could in the cramped confines of the warren, scratching and pulling at their fellows, dragging others into the path of blows aimed at them. He was dimly aware of his brothers following in his wake, launching themselves at the skaven in a sea-green blur.

In the face of Thostos’ onslaught, the pack broke. Dropping weapons, abandoning all pretence of organised retreat, they swarmed from the cavern in a ragged tide of brown-and-grey fur. Something buried deep within Thostos called for caution; the skaven were unpredictable and treacherous foes, and these tunnels were suited to their deviant, backstabbing form of warfare. That caution met the desperate battle-lust that filled him, and evaporated in an instant.

‘Vengeance,’ he roared, his voice thick with hatred, ‘Vengeance in the name of Sigmar!’

The Lord-Celestant charged after the fleeing vermin. Bellowing battle-hymns of praise to the God-King, the Bladestorm Warrior Chamber followed him to war.

The Celestial Vindicators followed the skaven through a rough-hewn corridor no taller than a mortal man, losing pace with their quarry as they bent to force their way through the cramped confines. The Stormcasts had many reasons to be thankful for their blessed armour, but here, in the skaven’s favoured terrain, it slowed them and made movement cumbersome.

Thostos simply smashed his way through the dry earth, his momentum hardly slowed by the ramshackle, makeshift nature of the skaven excavations. He broke free of the tunnel in a rain of debris, sword and hammer raised.

He had entered a central chamber of the warren, some thirty feet high and maybe four times that across. In the centre was a raised mound of dirt, flecked with rat spoor and other filth, around which the fleeing ratmen swarmed in their hundreds. Upon the raised earth stood several larger beasts. Near three times the height of their multifarious kin, these skaven rippled with muscles. Bizarre, arcane devices were bolted to their flesh, strange, cylindrical tubes of metal capped with several small nozzles. As Thostos burst into the chamber, the creatures screeched as one, and as one their strange weapons blared with a vile eldritch light, and let loose a repeating blast that echoed like thunder.

Retributor Arodus was the first Stormcast to follow his Lord-Celestant into the central chamber, and was rewarded with a hail of bullets that blasted him backwards into his fellows, blood pouring from countless holes punched through his armour. Retributor Wulkus leapt forwards in fury at his brother’s death, crushing a one-eyed skaven foot soldier into the dirt with a wild overhead swing of his hammer. As he brought the weapon back up there was a loud crack, and a hole appeared in the centre of his faceplate, releasing a faint pink mist. He collapsed, and both Stormcast bodies disappeared in a blast of pale light. As the main force of Celestial Vindicators poured out to meet the skaven infantry, a whickering storm of fire met them.

The cavern was strobed with violent green light as the strange contraptions continued to fire. Those skaven unfortunate enough to be nearest to the Stormcasts exploded in torrents of gore, and others went down howling as ricochets found thighs, ankles and fingers.

Even the devastating hail of bullets could not hold back the fury of the Celestial Vindicators, who broke into the main chamber and launched themselves at the enemy. Thostos ignored the chattel that snapped at his heels, barrelling further into the press of bodies, straining to reach the escarpment. Daggers were thrust at him as he ground his way into the skaven ranks, tapping out a staccato rhythm as they scraped against his war-plate. He butted a taller, wire-furred rat-thing, splattering its nose, then slammed his hammer into its gut and trampled over its mewling, bleeding form. On to the next, a pot-bellied fiend encased in pockmarked iron. That one died quickly as his sword bit into its skull, blessed sigmarite tearing through bone and tissue as if it were parchment. To the next, a runt of a thing wearing robes, which tasted the blunt face of his hammer and burst apart in a spray of viscera.

And on to the next…

Lord-Castellant Eldroc realised, with a horrible clarity, that they had been baited neatly into the skaven’s trap. Caught up in their fury, they had pushed forwards too far from their brothers, and now the enemy hurled fresh troops at them from every angle. Eldroc’s loyal gryph-hound Redbeak snarled and spat at his side, his trusty senses overwhelmed by the stench of the enveloping skaven mass. Ratmen dropped from hidden holes in the roof of the cavern, clawed their way free from cunningly disguised apertures in the walls, and leapt upon the Bladestorm’s exposed flanks. Suddenly the Stormcasts were an island of turquoise in a sea of wretched grey fur.

Cursing their foolhardiness, and cursing himself for allowing the joy of righteous battle to overrule his caution, Eldroc scanned the packed ranks of the Celestial Vindicators for a glimpse of his Lord-Celestant. He found him, of course, at the very forefront of the battle.

Vermin assailed him from every side, but they could not slow his furious advance. Eldroc knew well how mighty Thostos was in battle, but even he was shocked at the raw-edged brutality his commander displayed. The Bladestorm had always tempered fury with caution; that was why he was chosen to lead, because he could channel the rage and lust for vengeance of the Celestial Vindicators – ever the most aggressive of Sigmar’s sons, ever the first to leap into battle – to its true potential.

Now, he barely seemed to acknowledge his brothers. He never looked back, merely ploughing forwards into the packed ranks of the enemy like a tormented hound let loose.

In such numbers, even the primitive weapons of the skaven clanrats began to take their toll. Stormcasts were dragged down by dozens of the creatures, which stabbed and cut at them in a frenzied orgy of carnage. Daggers found eye sockets, the gaps between gorgets, and vulnerable spots where the barrage of bullets had weakened even the mighty sigmarite battle-plate. It was honourless murder, of the sort at which the ratmen excelled. Eldroc rushed to one fallen Stormcast, stuck with half a dozen blades and weakly pawing at a band of wretches who cackled as they clambered over him, dissecting him with wicked glee. Redbeak hurled himself onto one of the creatures, ripping with his sharp beak and raking with four powerful talons, but another skaven quickly scrabbled up to replace it.

Eldroc raised his warding lantern and intoned the name of blessed Sigmar as he unleashed its celestial energies. Warm, cleansing light washed over the stricken Stormcast, wrapping his form in a halo of flickering luminescence. The skaven skittered back from the power of the holy light, screeching as it burned at their cruel, beady eyes. The fallen warrior’s back arched, and as the glow washed over his body, the sigmarite melted and flowed like wax, refashioning the rents in his armour so that his hallowed war-plate glistened as if it had been freshly forged. Up came the Stormcast, blade in hand, howling his hatred at the enemy with renewed vigour.

Yet Eldroc could not reach all his brothers. Bursts of lightning rippled across the cavern walls as loyal warriors were called back to Azyr, strobing the unfolding carnage with blue light. Even these few losses were too many; they had barely begun their holy purpose, and already they were weakened.

Thostos had reached the central mound now, and was hewing his way through the Stormfiends that had opened fire on them. He thrust his sword into the neck of one creature, then swept his hammer across, low, to snap the vermin’s legs. It screeched in agony and toppled to the floor. As Eldroc watched, Thostos let gravity drag the broken thing from his blade, then caved in its chest with another mighty blow from his hammer. Ahead, cowering behind its taller bodyguards, was a wiry, grey-mottled creature whose yelps and screeches echoed over even the general clatter and chaos of battle. Its bronzed armour carried a shoulder-rack upon which were mounted several strange icons, ragged banners and shrivelled heads. The skaven commander, Eldroc surmised.

Thostos was killing his way towards the warlord, bleeding now from a dozen wounds. More Stormcasts hauled themselves up onto the mound, but still the skaven guns blazed, now joined by an enfilade from the right flank. The skaven had brought forth a heavy wooden shield, from behind which several long-barrelled rifles laid down a vicious crossfire. Another Liberator went down, crimson spurting from his ruined gorget, spasming as he fell. Eldroc felt a dull thud on his thigh, and growled as it was followed by searing, white-hot agony. Not the sharp, honest pain of a flesh wound, but something more sinister, a rapidly spreading toxic ache that burned across his leg. He lowered his warding lantern and let the blessed light bathe his smoking limb.

They had pushed too hard and too fast, and they had fallen for the enemy’s trap.

Then, the blaring of a war-horn shook the cavern.

The battle was over as soon as the Argellonites crashed into the flank of the skaven horde. At the tip of the spear, Knight-Heraldor Axilon and his retinue, hardy Retributors wielding mighty two-handed hammers, smashed apart the skaven’s vile weapon platforms, slaughtering the operators and ending their savage crossfire. More Celestial Vindicators followed in their wake, shields together in a line of blessed sigmarite that crashed into the enemy’s softened ranks, battering broken ratmen to the floor where they were either ground underneath the boots of onrushing Stormcasts, or despatched with swift blows.

As the first wave pushed left to clear the flank of the besieged Bladestorm, Mykos Argellon led the rest of his warriors straight through to the mound and Thostos. The Argellonites’ Lord-Celestant was the very image of the God-King’s glory in his ornate plate, luminescent even in the darkness of the cavern as he cut a bloody swathe through the enemy horde.

‘Forward, Argellonites!’ he shouted, voice rising even above the chaotic din of battle. ‘Show them the fury of the Celestial Vindicators.’

He wielded Mercutia in a blur, thrusting, slashing and battering with the heavy pommel in a whirlwind rush so fast it seemed impossible that he could retain any measure of control. Yet not a single strike was misplaced, and the Lord-Celestant left great piles of broken and torn skaven behind him as he went.

‘Take the Stormfiends,’ shouted Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather to his men, finally given space to stretch his wings in the vaults of the cavern.

His retinue swept above the fray, calling lightning-wreathed javelins into their hands to hurl at the towering beasts. One went down under a hail of missiles, still firing its bizarre weapon as it toppled from the central mound. Another turned and fired at the Prosecutors, projectiles stitching across the roof of the cavern and cutting down two heralds in clouds of bloody smoke.

Emboldened by the arrival of their allies, the Bladestorms renewed their own vicious assault. Now the skaven’s superior numbers became their downfall; pressed against two unyielding walls of steel, there was no room to scrabble free, and barely space to gasp a desperate lungful of air. Dead skaven were packed so tight in the melee that they were held upright by their fellows, who scratched and tore in panic but could find no escape. Those vermin fortunate enough to be on the outskirts of the battle wavered, their fear-musk foul and pungent.

Blessed with that uniquely skaven insight of when to cut your losses and scamper away, Warlord Zirix cursed, spat and turned to flee, content in the knowledge that his filthy kin would keep these metal warriors busy long enough for him to disappear into the darkness.

As he turned, he met a pair of blazing blue eyes.

Terror escaped him in a sharp, sour odour as the giant before him snapped out a gauntlet to wrap around his neck. He tried to scrabble for his blade, a rusted, green-tinged shard of metal whose toxic coating had eaten away the flesh of many man-creatures in his short and wretched life. The blade was slapped free from his paw and skittered away.

Zirix screeched and gasped as he was lifted slowly into the air. The giant was so strong. He scratched and clawed at its arm, but to no avail. His eyes bulged and his vision swam with crimson as blood vessels burst under the pressure of the vice-like grip. The giant brought him closer.

‘Vengeance,’ it growled, its voice the pitiless inevitability of an avalanche. ‘Ever vengeance.’

The creature stopped struggling, and Thostos placed one gauntlet behind its neck, wrenched its head around with a sickening crunch and hurled the dead thing into the sea of ratmen that surged around the foot of the raised knoll, where it was swept up like a leaf in a rushing river.

The warlord’s death marked the end of any semblance of skaven resistance. Away the ratmen scurried, hurtling down hidden passages and burrows, scrambling over each in terrified desperation. The Celestial Vindicators culled those too slow to run, and Mykos’ warriors flowed around the Bladestorm formation, forming a wall of steel at every entrance to the cavern in case of counter-attack.

The Lord-Celestant of the Argellonites surveyed the carnage. The Bladestorm had wreaked a horrific toll on the skaven. The cavern was a charnel-pit of dead vermin, their stinking blood marking every surface, spattering the armour of the Celestial Vindicators from helm to boot. The nature of the Stormcasts’ god-given immortality meant that it was hard to judge losses, but there were more than a few stricken warriors lying amongst the wreckage of corpses. They were being tended to by Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden, who went from man to man, salving their wounds with the power of his healing storm.

Alone at the heart of the wreckage stood Thostos himself, surrounded by the broken and hewn corpses of the skaven Stormfiends, weapons hanging limply by his side. He stared at the dead creatures, barely moving. Mykos approached him and as the Lord-Celestant turned, he felt a shiver run down his spine as those pitiless eyes bored into him.

‘Their leader is dead,’ Thostos said. ‘The vermin will not trouble us further as we progress through these warrens.’

Mykos cleared his throat. ‘You slew many of these foul beasts today, brother,’ he said, cautiously. ‘You and your men fought a valiant battle.’

He paused, on the verge of saying more. There was a silence that dragged on too long, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the low, droning chant of the Lord-Relictor at work. The Bladestorm had a way of leaving him tongue-tied.

‘You wish to chastise me for my rashness,’ said Thostos. ‘For not regrouping with your Argellonites before making a push into the core chamber.’

‘I…’ Mykos blinked in surprise.

‘The movement of the enemy force suggested coordination, which meant there had to be a leader directing the vermin. The largest concentration was coming from a single direction, where I judged that the leader was likely to be. There was no time to inform you of my decision, so I trusted that the sound of battle would lead you to us.’

Mykos smiled behind his mask and shook his head.

‘You disagree with my actions?’

‘No, not entirely. I would prefer that our communication was more open, but I understand the value of risk in war. That is the Celestial Vindicators’ way.’ The Lord-Celestant shrugged. ‘It’s simply that this is the most words we’ve exchanged since we first joined our forces for this mission.’

If he was hoping that some comradely small talk would thaw the Bladestorm’s icy mood, Mykos found himself disappointed. His fellow warrior simply stared at him, saying nothing. Mykos heard the approaching steps of Lord-Castellant Eldroc with something approaching relief.

‘The men are ready to move out,’ he said, limping slightly on one leg as he approached. Redbeak was at his side, blood staining his noble features, proud eyes narrowed. ‘We lost twenty-six warriors, Liberator-Prime Lucos among them.’

Thostos nodded without any sign of regret. ‘The air is fresher this way,’ he said, pointing at the northern end of the cavern, the opposite side to which they had entered. ‘It may lead to a way out of these warrens. You can feel the wind. Move the men out.’

‘You are wounded, sire,’ Eldroc said, his voice rising in concern. Mykos saw that the Lord-Castellant was right. Thostos’ arm was bleeding heavily, and he could see several small holes dotted across the Lord-Celestant’s plate where bullets had penetrated.

‘I… had not noticed,’ said Thostos quietly, staring at the blood.

Eldroc went to his Lord-Celestant’s side and bathed Thostos in the renewing glow of his warding lantern. The Bladestorm bowed his head, and the blue flame behind his eyes flickered and dimmed. Mykos thought, with no small amount of surprise, that he could hear an exhausted sigh – but the Bladestorm seemed beyond such mortal displays of fatigue. As he watched, the Lord-Celestant’s wounds closed, and sigmarite flowed across the ruptured areas of his plate armour.

Thostos nodded to his Lord-Castellant and rotated his shoulder, testing the joint and stretching his arm.

‘Move the men out,’ he said again, and the emptiness was back. He gave Mykos one last look, the briefest nod of his head, and then strode away.

The Stormcasts emerged from the stinking warrens onto a wide shelf of rock overlooking the Roaring Plains. Pale yellow grass stretched to the horizon, shifting so violently in the restless wind that it almost seemed to ripple like fire. Clouds rushed across the sky, swirling and reforming in an endless, roiling tempest. It was a foul-tempered wind. At this height, a mortal man would be at risk of being blown clean off of the mountaintop – only the Stormcasts’ weight and strength kept them rooted. A single, steep stair was cut into the edge of the platform, winding away towards the foothills below, which reached out to the grasslands in raised veins of blackened rock, ridged and twisted, almost skeletal.

‘The Roaring Plains,’ Eldroc said, stepping up to the brink of the ledge and peering down at the vista that spread below. He raised his voice as a lash of thunder broke, rolling across the sky so loudly that the mountain itself seemed to shake beneath them. ‘Seems a pleasant enough place,’ he said, with no little sarcasm.

‘Across this plain lies the Manticore Dreadhold,’ said Thostos, his voice a granite rumble. ‘We must make haste. The next stage of Sigmar’s plan cannot proceed until we secure it and hold it.’

Mykos watched the Lord-Celestant. Thostos showed no interest in the grand spectacle of the plains, nor did he make any attempt to bolster his warriors’ spirits after their struggle through the warrens. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he stared listlessly at the distant horizon as the Celestial Vindicators formed up behind him. The fervour and the anger were long gone, and in their place was stillness, but not calm. His armour and battle-mask obscured any expression, but Mykos could feel the tension in him even at this distance. He was coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest opportunity.

‘Goldfeather,’ Mykos shouted, dragging his mind back to more immediate matters. The Prosecutor-Prime dropped neatly off the rock where he had been perching, and glided down to where the Argellonites were still ranking up.

‘My Lord?’ he asked.

‘Take your swiftest men and survey the foothills and the immediate area. I want no more surprises. Anything suspicious, anything at all, and you report back to me. This land has already sent many broken brothers back to Azyr, and I do not intend to take its dangers lightly. Go.’

The Prosecutor-Prime nodded and went to gather his fellow heralds. The rest of the Argellonites and the Bladestorm had begun to filter down the winding stair, though it was so narrow that only two could walk side by side. It would take several hours to reach the foothills and redress once more into proper fighting ranks. That worried Mykos. Of the Stormcasts’ manifold virtues, stealth was not one; they were exposed here, and the skaven had amply proven the potential of a swift surprise attack.

As the Argellonites began to file down the twisting steps, Eldroc came to Mykos’ side. His armour was freshly repaired, and the hint of a limp that had marked him in the warrens had disappeared. Once again he was an image of strength and implacable fortitude. Of all the Bladestorm’s warriors, Eldroc had been the most forthcoming, and Mykos was grateful for it. He liked the man’s simple honesty and level-headedness.

‘You seem troubled, my friend,’ Eldroc said.

‘It is nothing, Lord-Castellant. Merely concern that we found battle so soon. I had hoped to arrive at our destination without issue.’

‘How fine that would be,’ Eldroc chuckled. ‘In these times that would be a rare blessing, in any corner of the realms.’

He rested his halberd on his shoulder and leaned upon the haft. They were silent a moment, listening to the tramp of boots and the howling of the wind as it whipped its way through the mountain pass.

‘He can be difficult, I know,’ the Lord-Castellant said, quietly.

Mykos said nothing. It was clear that Eldroc was choosing his words carefully, and he gave the man time to gather his thoughts. It was no easy thing for a Stormcast to question a fellow warrior, let alone his leader. Absolute loyalty and brotherhood was as much a part of them as their armour, as their weapons and their fearlessness.

‘I have spoken to many of our reforged brothers,’ Eldroc sighed, ‘and the change is more marked in Thostos than in any of them. He used to be such a thoughtful man. I think that was why he was chosen to lead. We are a wrathful host, and we need such men to temper us.’

Eldroc turned to Mykos. There was a pleading edge to his voice, and Mykos realised that the Lord-Castellant had likely never spoken to another soul regarding his concerns.

‘Give him time, my lord,’ Eldroc said.

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather enjoyed the spiteful power of the winds of the Roaring Plains as they buffeted him mercilessly. It was pleasant enough to glide in the tranquil air of the Singing Gardens, or even over the celestial valleys of Erianos, but if there was one thing Goldfeather valued, it was a challenge. The wind here had no sense to it; a zephyr would drift west, allowing him to glide on its gentle arc, then a wall of force would slam him back the other direction, blasting him so hard that he dropped several yards, and spinning him so fast that he could barely control his descent.

At first it was unsettling, but he quickly found himself relishing the unforgiving nature of the place. There was a pattern to be found in the midst of the madness. He caught a rising gust and let it lift him, felt it sway and weaken, and sought a westerly gale that filled his radiant wings with air, letting it take him on a wide arc over the churning grass of the Roaring Plains. His fellow Prosecutors followed in his wake, though he noted with no surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, that they were finding the turbulent winds far trickier to deal with. Galeth and Harion had already been blown off course, despite the power of their Azyrite wings. He would have to speak to them later; he demanded a certain level of excellence from his men, after all.

He returned his gaze to the plains. It was an astonishing sight, the Prosecutor-Prime had to concede. The great grass seas stretched for miles in every direction, punctuated by jagged, twisting spears of rock and wind-scoured mesa clusters that broke through the earth’s surface, clutching at the sky. In all that space one might expect a measure of stillness, but that was not the case; everywhere Goldfeather looked, there was motion. Around the base of the rocky protrusions the grass grew longer, grasping at the escaping formations, wrapping around them in choking vine clusters. The wind shifted and pulled at these vines, tightening them like a hangman’s noose. As the shifting clouds passed overhead and darkened the plain for a moment, Goldfeather thought he saw one great claw of rock lurch, dragged down towards the earth by a thick belt of thorns that encircled it. Then sunlight speared though the clouds once more and it was still. Just a trick of the light, he supposed.

He was distracted by a low, rumbling noise that built into a roar. In the distance, the earth itself split. Dirt was kicked up as a great gouge tore across the plain, as if something monstrous was attempting to wrench itself free. No sooner had the earth ceased its writhing movement than a second rent appeared, following the path of the first. There was a tremor, signified by a series of great cracks that rippled across the ground, and then an uneasy quiet.

Soaring higher, Goldfeather saw more terrible wonders. A carpet of flesh roiled across the plain far to the Stormcasts’ left, a shifting mass of stampeding beasts so thickly packed together that he could not see the ground beneath them. They were flat-headed, quadruped grazing beasts, with mighty horns that wrapped backwards around their skulls. There were thousands… hundreds of thousands of them.

The Prosecutor-Prime dropped closer and saw another flock of creatures, scaled and lizard-like, but with brightly coloured feathers across their wings and hindquarters. Each was bigger than a man, almost the same size as a Stormcast, and as Evios watched they rolled and dived into the stampede, nipping at the flanks of the beasts and trying to drive them into one another. As he watched, one of the larger avians succeeded in tripping an unfortunate creature; there was a horrific avalanche of hooves and screaming flesh, and a great chunk of the onrushing tide collapsed in on itself. Nothing could survive such carnage and Evios watched, impressed despite himself at the winged creatures’ ingenuity, as a mountain of crushed beasts piled up, ground to pieces under the sheer weight of the onrushing mass. They would eat well once the stampede had passed on.

One of the avian creatures noticed his presence and began to shriek, and Goldfeather decided it was time to move on. He signalled his retinue, and as one they peeled away from the massacre.

He dropped again and found another gust of wind, and let it sweep him back to the south, towards the Stormcast position. The Prosecutor-Prime had almost satisfied himself that he had a clear reading on the region when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Heading in a lateral direction towards the foothills that the Stormcasts were heading to, he saw a number of specks. He signalled his men to follow and soared towards the movement.

As he swept closer, he saw that a large mob of creatures was pursuing a smaller, scattered band across the plain. The pursuers numbered a couple of hundred, perhaps, and their size, lumbering gait and bulky, crudely grafted armour marked them out as orruks.

Prosecutor Omeris finally caught up with him. ‘They head towards our brothers,’ he said, straining to be heard above the howl of the wind. ‘We should head back to inform the Lord-Celestants.’

‘Orruks,’ spat Goldfeather. ‘Low-minded filth, the lot of them.’

‘They almost have their prey,’ said Omeris.

‘Hardly surprising,’ Goldfeather replied. ‘The cursed brutes can run for hours when their blood is up.’

His gaze fell upon the fleeing band. They were scrawny and battered, and they wore ragged scraps of leather not much more refined than that of the primitive savages chasing them, but there was no mistaking it.

They were human.

The Stormcasts wound their way through the bluffs, alert at every howl, every creak of earth. Eldroc marched at the head of the column, a few paces behind Thostos. He watched his lord stride onwards, heedless of the noises around them. Eldroc, and all of his brothers in the Celestial Vindicators, had seen their families and friends slaughtered by the vile hordes of Chaos. As the blades finally came for them too, they had bellowed their defiance to the skies, and prayed to mighty Sigmar for the chance to wreak their vengeance upon the hated minions of the Dark Gods. This oath had been offered willingly, and any price had been a price worth paying.

And yet, looking at what had become of his Lord-Celestant, Eldroc was filled with doubt. The man was hollow, an unfeeling shell filled with nothing but an insatiable need to exact his vengeance. Gone was the thoughtful, righteous man that Eldroc had battled and trained with for so many years leading up to the great venture into the realms. They had talked together once, sharing dreams of a new era of hope and glory for the scions of Sigmar, both knowing that they would never get to experience that peace for themselves. They had accepted that truth gladly, but it was one thing to welcome an inevitable, honourable death, and another to die eternally, each fresh Reforging bringing a symphony of agonies, further draining and weakening the soul.

And what else did the Stormcasts risk, every time they went to war for the God-King? The truth only Sigmar knew. Each warrior came back altered in his own way. There was a Liberator in the Bladestorm who returned unable to remember any of his former friends, but able, with perfect clarity, to recall hundreds of ancient sonnets in some archaic language that could barely be deciphered. Others remembered only fragments of their former lives, as though they were seeing them through the eyes of another person.

Eldroc himself had felt the agony of Reforging. Yet somehow he had emerged without the traumas that his friends and brothers had suffered. His memories had faded, yes, like a rich tapestry left in the blazing sun, but deep down he knew himself; he remembered the man he had been and what he fought for.

There was guilt, too, when he looked upon the haunted visage of his Lord-Celestant, the broken shell that Thostos had become. Why had he not suffered as brutally as his friend? This terrified him more than any malady or sickness of the mind. A gnawing thought echoed inside Eldroc’s head: he had not yet discovered just what he had sacrificed – when he did, would it make what Thostos had gone through seem minor?

Absolute loyalty and devotion to his God-King ran through Eldroc like a rich vein through unyielding stone, but still he could not set aside his misgivings. Nor could he sleep at night.

The beating of wings stirred him from his dark thoughts. The Argellonites’ Prosecutor-Prime had returned, arriving some way ahead of his fellow scouts. He dropped nimbly from the sky, landing before Lord-Celestant Argellon with ease.

‘My lord,’ he said, his voice tight and urgent. ‘A mob of orruks is heading towards us, pursuing a band of mortals.’

Mykos visibly tensed. ‘Have they fallen? Do they bear the mark of the Dark Gods?’

The Prosecutor-Prime considered this a moment, and shrugged. ‘They are savage-looking, wrapped in animal skins like primitive brutes,’ he replied, and Eldroc could hear the disdain in his words, ‘but I saw none of the wretched symbols or marks of Chaos. I cannot say for certain, though I do know they will not make it much further before they tire and the orruks run them down.’

‘How many orruks?’ said Thostos, and Goldfeather gave a start at the Lord-Celestant’s sudden presence.

‘Roughly two hundred,’ he replied.

Mykos exchanged a look with Thostos. ‘We do not need a fight with the orruks,’ he said. ‘Our mission will be difficult enough already without their interference. Yet these mortals may be able to provide us with valuable information regarding this region. We should show our strength.’

The Bladestorm stared at Mykos for a long time, then gave an almost imperceptible nod and turned to survey their current position. They were coming to the mouth of the foothills, and the terrain was sloping down to meet the plains. It was still rough ground, jagged, heat-baked and dry, but it formed a natural defensive position against an infantry assault. The embankments that channelled them were roughly the height of two Stormcasts, and the ground between was narrow enough for two-score warriors to hold the line without threat of being outflanked. Some thousand yards or so ahead, the rocky earth sloped down one final time, and beyond that Thostos could see a glimpse of open ground.

‘Retributor-Prime Hyphon,’ he shouted, ‘summon your warriors. Lord-Celestant Argellon, we will take a hundred men and make haste for the ridge ahead of our main force.’

Liberators dashed to the summit of the ridge, forming into lines and smashing their colossal shields down into the dirt to form an impenetrable ring of steel. Behind them the Judicators judged their range and held their bows taut and ready as the orruks rumbled closer. It was easy to hear them now, hooting and hollering their bestial war cries as they drove themselves ever harder, desperate to catch the fleeing mortals.

Staggering with the half-drunk sway of exhausted prey, the beleaguered humans spotted the formation of Stormcasts and stopped still. Several dropped to their knees, exhausted.

‘Move your idle backsides,’ roared Goldfeather, hovering above the ragged band. He scanned the group to indentify the leader and settled on a wiry female who was down on one knee, a curved blade in her hand. She seemed to be the one the others looked to.

He swooped down to meet her. ‘Get your people behind those shields, or we’ll leave you to the greenskins,’ he said.

The mortals’ nervous eyes flicked towards the woman, who stared up at the Prosecutor-Prime with a familiarity and lack of fear that made him feel surprisingly uncomfortable. He was used to little more than servile deference from mortals. Finally, she nodded, put two calloused fingers between her lips and gave a sharp whistle, clearly deciding that a slim chance of survival was better than the certainty of death. Summoning up one last reserve of energy, the mortals dragged themselves forwards, scrambling up the shallow incline towards the Stormcasts’ shield wall, which opened to let them through. As they passed, the Celestial Vindicators slid back into position expertly.

‘They’re a ragged lot,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon as the humans passed. Mykos could hardly disagree.

They were wiry and weathered, with a leanness to their frame that suggested many nights had gone by without a decent meal. Ritual scars and red-ink tattoos covered their sun-browned skin; they wore little armour besides thin hide shirts and breeches, and leather wrappings on their feet and hands. The tall, raven-haired warrior who led them in had her hair bound up on one side with leather scraps and shaved clean on the other. As her party staggered past, her eyes locked with those of the Lord-Celestant. They were cold, grey and hard – a hunter’s eyes, a wolf’s eyes. She showed no fear, and no surprise or awe that he could discern. These are killers, Mykos thought. He signalled Liberator-Prime Julon, who nodded and began to secure the mortals, stripping any weapons they carried and examining them for any overt signs of corruption.

The orruks howled, denied of their prey, and thundered forwards into a wide, loose semicircle some twenty yards ahead of the Stormcasts. They grunted and snarled, spat and snorted, but for now they seemed curious enough not to hurl themselves into the Stormcast line. Shoving his fellows out of his way, a hulking specimen stomped forward, lazily scratching his thick neck, a wicked-looking greataxe held loosely at his side. Several burly warriors followed him, each bearing a smeared, red claw mark upon their black-iron breastplates.

‘What now?’ asked Goldfeather, gently dropping to the ground beside his Lord-Celestant, a stormcall javelin held at the ready in one gauntleted fist.

‘Now we parlay,’ said Mykos grimly, looking to his fellow Lord-Celestant, who was gazing at the orruks dispassionately. Thostos said nothing, though his weapons were drawn and held in steady hands. ‘Humanity has known a common purpose with the orruks before. Perhaps we can avoid a skirmish that will gain us nothing.’

He signalled to Axilon, and the Knight-Heraldor nodded and selected five broad-shouldered and eager Retributors. If this did come to blows, he wanted the orruks down and dying as soon as possible. Together, the retinue stepped out from the shield wall.

Mykos held Mercutia, and the wondrous grandblade caught the sun, sending a ripple of light over his armour. He motioned his men to halt and strode forwards, sword raised high. The orruks watched, their ape-like brows furrowed. With elaborate slowness, the Lord-Celestant made a show of lowering the weapon, sliding it securely into the scabbard at his thigh.

The orruks looked to their leader, inching forwards slowly. He held out a meaty palm to stop them, and raised his own weapon. Tongue protruding in mock concentration, he lifted the greataxe and slotted its haft through an imaginary scabbard. His warriors guffawed idiotically. He smirked, and barked something indecipherable at his warriors. Eight came forward, while the others loomed menacingly in the background.

‘That, I think, is as close as we’re likely to get to a formal truce,’ said Eldroc from the shield wall.

‘Follow me,’ said Mykos. ‘And keep your hand near your blade.’

Mykos and Eldroc led the way, armour gleaming bright turquoise in the midday sun, in stark contrast to the dull, crude metal scraps and chains that the orruks had wrapped around themselves. Thostos walked behind them, his eyes locked on the warband’s leader. The orruks snickered and hollered amongst themselves in their crude tongue, and one began a mock drumbeat upon its chest plate. Its fellows roared with laughter at this lack-witted attempt at humour.

Behind his battle-mask, Mykos couldn’t help but sneer. Orruks. It never failed to amaze him how such a savage, dull, self-destructive race could be so resilient. They possessed no honour, no discipline or ambition beyond finding their next brawl, and yet the foul creatures propagated in every corner of the realms. One of the first tasks of the Stormcast Eternals, after their forging in the halls of Azyr, had been to clear the wilds of the Celestial Realm free of orruks. They had torn down the creatures’ crude icons and the totems erected to their bestial gods, and put the beasts to the sword. The greenskins had fought savagely – orruks always did – but against the plated fist of Sigmar’s avenging warriors, their only fate was death. Mykos remembered those battles with little fondness. It had been a grim task, valourless butchery that was necessary before the Stormcasts took their war to the true enemy.

Despite his disdain, Mykos could not help but note the difference between these hulking creatures and the wretched, feral scraps that they had ground underboot in Azyr. Their armour, for one. These orruks had bound themselves in thick plates of black iron, with wicked armour spikes upon the joints. Whereas the sigmarite armour of the Stormhosts was sculpted to artisanal perfection, the orruks’ plate was worn, scratched and dented, and daubed haphazardly with slashes of red paint, forming fangs and jaws on greaves and vambraces. The quality was crude, and the effect should have been ludicrous, but on the heavily muscled, scarred forms of the orruks, it instead spoke of blunt efficiency, of the race’s atavistic, uncultured love of war.

They were bigger, too, broader and more heavily muscled, and marked from head to toe with scars, burns and all the other trophies that battle bestowed upon a warrior’s skin. Most wore pot helms decorated with horns or more wicked spikes, though others went bareheaded. The leader, an anvil-jawed monster with a wicked scar that cut an angry red line across his porcine right eye as it travelled down to his jaw, was as tall as the Stormcasts. He leered at the Celestial Vindicators and swaggered forwards to meet them. His warriors spread out in a semicircle around him, hands resting on jagged axes and spiked mauls. Mykos felt his hand drift down to Mercutia, who yearned to break free of her scabbard. There was a pregnant silence, broken only by the howling wind, and then the orruk leader spoke.

‘Ain’t seen yore kind before,’ he rumbled in a crude tongue that the Stormcasts could understand, licking his lips like a starving man presented with a bountiful feast. ‘Very shiny, ain’t ya?’

His warband rumbled with amusement, their leader gave a broken-toothed grin, and Mykos resisted a strong urge to slice his head off. Eldroc stepped forward.

‘We are the Celestial Vindicators, the blessed swords of Sigmar,’ he said in his deep, resonant voice. ‘We have no quarrel with you or your kind, but these humans are now under our guard.’

‘’Sat right?’ the orruk growled, scratching one filthy ear with a yellow-taloned finger. ‘Here,’ he turned to his warriors, cocking his great head, ‘who ’sis land belong to, boyz?’

‘Ironjawz!’ they roared as one.

‘An’ who says what goes around ’ere?’

‘Drekka! Drekka! Drekka!’

The orruk leaned in conspiratorially. ‘There’s that then,’ he chuckled. ‘Reckon I won’t take no orders from some tinpot git dropped outta the sky. We’ll be taking those humies, and they’ll go right t–’

A sword whipped through the air and buried itself between the orruk leader’s eyes.

The momentum of the throw hurled the creature back into the orruk standing behind him, knocking both to the ground with a clatter. Mykos turned and saw Thostos drawing his warhammer, an empty scabbard at his side.

Silence. A sharp peal of astonished laughter came from Goldfeather. Then the orruks charged.

Roaring more with eager battle-lust than any feelings of betrayal at their leader’s death, the orruks poured forwards. The Retributors met them, hammers drawn and swinging. The close quarters robbed the majority of the momentum from the charge, but Mykos saw Stormcasts go down under the greenskins’ boots and blades, trampled and broken. As a bellowing orruk wielding two axes charged him down, he drew his sword, spun to the side and let his momentum add power to a lateral swing. Mercutia sliced straight through the creature’s torso, opening its belly horizontally, spilling its innards to gush over Mykos’ boots. The dying orruk attempted a wild swing at the Lord-Celestant, but he avoided it easily and put his boot in its chest, sending it crashing backwards to land in a crumpled heap.

By now the front ranks of the larger orruk mob had reached the fray, though Mykos could also hear the stomping of heavy boots and the battle-hymns of the faithful as the Liberator shield wall abandoned its defensive position and rushed forwards to protect its leaders.

Eldroc had set his halberd, and Mykos saw him skewer an orruk though the shoulder blades, twist his weapon and send the creature spinning to the floor. Another charged him from the side, and the Lord-Castellant retracted the halberd and thrust again, driving its heavy spike deep into the beast’s gut. It squealed in fury and hurled its axe in a last desperate act of spite. It sailed past Eldroc, staving in the chest armour of an unfortunate Stormcast, who collapsed immobile on the ground. Redbeak snarled and hurled himself at the dying orruk, tearing out its throat and ending its defiance.

The ridge ran red with blood, orruk and Stormcast, but the impact of the orruk leader’s death had swayed the momentum in favour of the Celestial Vindicators. Without his bellows and beatings, whatever strange, mob mentality bound the orruk band together in battle was shattered by the rage of the Stormcast Eternals. They were simply too strong and too skilled for the artless form of warfare that the orruks favoured. Liberator shields intercepted axe blows, then were shifted to one side for a killing thrust of a sword, or the crushing blow of a warhammer. Retributors swept their heavy hammers from side to side, breaking bones and smashing skulls to pieces.

Thostos was a blur of turquoise fury at the heart of the melee. He had replaced his thrown sword with a gladius, holding the short blade in a reverse grip and using it to stab and drag the nearest greenskins towards him, where he bludgeoned them to the ground with his warhammer.

It quickly became a slaughtering field. Not a single orruk left the ridge alive.

The runeblade was still lodged in the foul creature’s idiotic smirk. Thostos put his foot on the dead orruk’s forehead and wrenched his weapon loose. It came free with a spurt of gore, yellowed teeth splinters and torn flesh.

He heard boots thumping towards him on the hard earth. Two pairs, one fast and angry, one slower, more tentative.

‘What in the name of Sigmar was that, Bladestorm?’ barked Mykos Argellon, loud enough to draw the stares of several Stormcasts who had been dispensing Sigmar’s mercy to any injured orruks. ‘We were at parlay. They did not threaten us.’

‘They have killed children of Sigmar,’ Thostos said. ‘That is reason enough for them to die.’

‘They are cruel, unthinking savages, but they are not our enemy here. Sigmar gave us this righteous purpose, and you would risk it all to sate your bloodlust,’ Mykos spat. ‘We could have avoided all of this. Men have died for nothing.’

Thostos rolled the orruk over with his boot. ‘Look at this one,’ he said, his voice betraying not a hint of tension. ‘He decorates his flesh with trophies. Human bones, hands, ears. He keeps a tally upon his armour, see?’

It was true. The dead orruk’s chain hauberk was heavy with knucklebones, stolen jewels and other trinkets, all recognisably of human origin. Thostos reached down to snatch a trophy from the brute’s belt. It was a gauntlet of spiked black iron, and upon the palm there was the eight-pointed star of the eternal enemy. Eldroc cursed, and Thostos threw the gauntlet for Mykos to catch.

‘Have you ever known orruks so bold?’ he asked. ‘Look at their armour, their weapons. Hardly the sticks and stones that the greenskin rabble brought to bear on us in the Amaris Foothills. These are stronger, more vital. They are blooded and battle-hardened. They have met the forces of the Dark Gods in battle and triumphed.’

‘They did not attack us,’ insisted Mykos, ‘not until you gave them reason to. This is not the first time your reckless fury has cost us lives.’

‘Their curiosity was all that stayed their blades, and that would have lasted scant moments longer. Your indecision would have endangered us, and so I acted in your stead.’

Mykos started forward, but Eldroc placed himself between the two Lord-Celestants and slammed his halberd down into the earth.

‘Enough,’ Eldroc hissed. ‘The men are watching. Remember yourselves.’

Mykos glanced back. Thostos’ men stood there, staring impassively. His own warriors were looking at each other in uneasy confusion. He could not see his warriors’ faces beneath their battle-masks, but he could sense their tension, and he cursed himself for losing control.

Thostos sheathed his weapons.

‘You are right, brother,’ he said, staring at the hewn corpse of the orruk leader. ‘They are not our enemy here.’

He turned back to look at Mykos, who returned his blue-flame gaze without flinching, no matter that he felt that familiar ache of discomfort.

‘But they are never allies,’ Thostos growled. ‘Sigmar’s light has been gone from this place for too long, and these savages have grown bold in its absence. We will meet them in battle again, do not doubt.’ He stalked away.

Mykos Argellon had never felt true anger at a fellow Stormcast before. He tried to calm his breathing and centre his humours, but all he could feel was a white-hot fury and an aching sense of betrayal. How could he command this expedition alongside a man who trusted only in his lust for battle? Thostos could not be reasoned with, and his recklessness had already cost them lives that they could ill afford with such a lengthy, dangerous quest ahead of them. His anger was so keenly focussed that he barely noticed Lord-Castellant Eldroc was still standing beside him, until he sensed that the man was about to speak.

‘Say nothing, brother,’ Mykos warned. ‘I do not wish to hear it. Do not tell me that he needs time, or tell me of how he has suffered. Tell it to the Stormcasts who fell here, when they make their own return from the forge.’

He turned to Eldroc, daring him to say a word in his lord’s defence. To his credit the warrior did not avoid the Lord-Celestant’s wrathful gaze. Neither did he speak. Instead, he simply gave a sad nod and strode off after the Bladestorm, leaving the lord of the Argellonites standing on his own on the blood-soaked ridge, amongst the dead.

About The Author

Matt Westbrook is one of Black Library’s newest authors. ‘Vengeance Eternal’ is his first Age of Sigmar story, and the first part of The Realmgate Wars: Bladestorm. He lives and works in Nottingham.

The storm breaks as the Stormcast Eternals go into battle for the first time. Read the first book set in the Age of Sigmar.

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.

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ISBN: 978-1-78251-964-5

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(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.