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The Prisoner of the Black Sun – Josh Reynolds

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A Black Library Publication

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The Prisoner of the Black Sun

Josh Reynolds

I still endure.

I still stand.

This realm is mine.

Spiders have spun their webs across my eyes, and worms burrow in my chest. But I still live. I yet stand against my enemies. I shall always do so, for I can do naught else. My will gutters and flares, like a fire newly stoked. The Great Necromancer awakens.

I still endure.

The Three-Eyed King crushed the ranks of my servants. His daemon-blade shattered my bones, and cleaved my heart in two. My rites and magics were torn asunder, my power broken on the altar of fate. My body was left to the dust, and to the dust I returned. My soul fell shrieking into the darkness as a black comet, streaking across the underworld, and the impact of it cracked the roots of this world.

I still endure.

Nagashizzar is toppled. Its great towers and basalt pillars are dust. Where it once stood, there is now only broken earth; in the streets where a thousand warriors marched, the only sound to be heard is the wailing of jackals.

Yet I still endure.

I have pulled down the sun, cracking the seals of the underworld, and dried the seas and burned the grasses. I have humbled my enemies and cast the earth into the sky, walking to and fro in the deep places, and still I am returned.

Nagash has risen.

Something stirs in the wild places of all that which is mine. Some power, stinking of the storm, comes slinking into my demesnes. I sit upon my throne in starless Stygxx and feel it rising all about me, drawing to it that which is mine. Souls slip my grasp, spirits flee my voice. Thieves and invaders stalk my realm. They think me gone.

I still endure.

Heed me. Listen to my words, those of you who have the wit to hear. The Realm of Death is my body. Its caverns are my bones, its peaks my crown. The realm is as large as my word, as small as my wish. I bestride the seas of the east, and shatter the mountains of the west. My throne is in the north, and my shadow in the south. Wherever you so seek, I am there. Wherever you make worship, so Nagash strides.

Whosoever believes in me, whosoever follows my will, the will of Nagash, shall prosper. I have awakened, and my enemies shall know my name again. Seek out my foes, and make them yours. Seek out these thieves, and take from them as they have taken from me.

Hear me. Heed me.

Listen, and be joyful.

Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash.

Nagash has risen.

Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, gave voice to a full-throated bellow. He brought his hammer down on the crimson helm of a howling bloodreaver and the warrior fell, its skull split in two. Tarsus whirled to open the belly of a second opponent, the sword he held in his other hand slashing in a deadly arc. His weapons crackled with holy lightning as he struck out left and right, dropping foemen with every blow.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he roared.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, from the small host of Stormcasts that streamed in his wake. Liberators, Prosecutors, Judicators and Retributors – all were clad in star-forged sigmarite, and bearing weapons of the same material. Their panoply of war gleamed silver where it was not rich gold. Their shoulder guards bore their sigil – the curling white slashes of a bull’s horns – and, like their heavy shields, were of deepest regal blue. The weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire. Now, they swept them out to smash down any enemy who managed to avoid the attention of their Lord-Celestant.

He stepped over the body of a bloodreaver and looked ahead. Through the ranks of the enemy, the path they had been following since they had arrived some days previous was visible. Sigmar had cast his lightning down upon the shattered husk of a once-proud citadel, now overgrown with grey lichen and nodding, vast-rooted trees. A carpet of yellowing grass had clung to the cracked stones of the courtyard, obscuring the heaps of bones that clustered thickly throughout. The thunderous arrival of the Stormcasts in the Vale of Sorrows had set thousands of crows to flight, and a black cloud of the croaking birds had followed them ever since.

The path ahead had previously been a road, but was now mostly overgrown with the stiff, yellow grasses that seemed to cover this region. Ancient ruins and shattered hovels stretched out across the landscape to either side of the path. At one time there had been a city here. Now it was only a howling wilderness full of enemies and carrion birds.

‘Who shall win Sigmar’s favour?’ Tarsus cried, swinging his hammer over his head. He brought it down on a bloodreaver with bone-shattering force. With his sword, he chopped through the deplorable icon the blood-cultist had borne and trampled it beneath his feet.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Stormcasts around him shouted, as one.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus echoed as he whipped his sword around in a deadly pattern, splitting the gullets of the enemy who pressed close. He smashed the dying bloodreavers aside, using his greater weight to grind them under.

Tarsus’ warriors called him the Bull-Heart, a name earned at the Battle of the Cerulean Shore, when Tarsus had crashed in amongst the enemy ranks with a ferocity few could equal. It was a fitting war-name for both he and his Warrior Chamber, and they bore it with pride. Their swords were as horns, their hammers were as hooves, and they employed both against the enemies of Sigmar in equal measure.

‘Smash them,’ he bellowed. ‘Grind them under, in the name of Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’

Bodies littered his path as he drove forwards, into the very teeth of the foe. The bloodreavers were maniacs, but mortal, and none who were such could stand before Tarsus. He was a Stormcast Eternal, and in him flowed the might of Sigmar Heldenhammer. He roared and stamped, battering opponents from his path as he led the way towards the knot of heavily armoured blood warriors that formed the raging heart of the enemy battle line. The latter charged to meet him, chanting the name of the Blood God as they smashed aside their own followers in their eagerness to come to grips with the Hallowed Knights.

‘Who will be remembered?’ Tarsus cried.

‘Only the faithful,’ thundered his Stormcasts as the leading retinues of Liberators came to grips with the blood warriors. Spread out in a line, they closely followed the vanguard of Retributors and Decimators led by their Lord-Celestant.

Tarsus caught one of the blood warriors in the belly with his shoulder, and flipped the frothing berserker over his back even as he plunged on without slowing. The hammer of a Retributor from one of the retinues marching behind him slammed down, ensuring that the blood warrior remained where he’d fallen. Tarsus caught a second across the head with his hammer, and rammed his sword into the belly of a third, plunging it all the way to the hilt. His blade became lodged in the baroque plates of the blood warrior’s armour, forcing him to spend precious moments wrenching it free. Even as he did so, a saw-toothed axe crashed down on his shoulder plate.

The force of the blow drove him to one knee. A second blow clipped his head, and he teetered off balance. Brass and crimson shapes surrounded him, and axes covered in daemonic sigils chopped down. For every one he turned aside two caught him, drawing sparks from the sigmarite plates. No blow had yet pierced his armour, but it was only a matter of time.

‘Hold fast, Bull-Heart,’ a voice thundered.

Lightning speared down, washing over Tarsus and his attackers. He grinned fiercely as the blood warriors shuddered and jerked in the clutches of the storm. Smoke boiled from their mouths and eye sockets, and what flesh was visible beneath their armour was charred black.

Tarsus surged to his feet and caught one of the smoke-wreathed blood warriors beneath the chin with his hammer. The warrior pitched backwards and then lay still. Tarsus hacked another down and turned to greet his rescuer. ‘Nicely done, Ramus,’ he said. ‘A few more moments and I might have been sorely pressed indeed.’

‘Think on that, the next time you find yourself so eager to meet the foe that you outpace the rest of us,’ the Lord-Relictor of the Bull-Hearts said. ‘There are not so many of us that we can spare you, Tarsus.’

Like all those of his rank, Ramus of the Shadowed Soul bore weapons and armour replete with icons of faith, death and the storm. It fell to him to keep the souls of the Hallowed Knights of his Warrior Chamber from the gloom of the underworld with words and fire.

Tarsus nodded. ‘I shall. But for now – show them your power, my friend.’

Ramus raised his reliquary and murmured a soft prayer, his words lost amidst the clangour of battle. The sky overhead was already dark, and roiled and jagged as spears of lightning struck the enemy, burning them to ash or reducing them to stumbling, screaming torches. Tarsus raised his hammer, bringing his Stormcasts to a halt as the lightning continued to strike again and again, until all was silent, save for the soft crackle of flames.

‘Who will be victorious?’ Tarsus murmured, as he gently tapped his Lord-Relictor on the shoulder with his hammer.

‘Only the faithful,’ Ramus intoned, glancing at Tarsus. ‘The road ahead is clear, Lord-Celestant. We are free to continue our march.’

‘Indeed, and we shouldn’t tarry,’ Tarsus said, as he signalled for his retinues to fall into a proper marching order.

The Stormcasts swung fluidly into position with an ease born of centuries of training. Liberators moved to the fore and flanks, encircling the Judicators, while the Prosecutors swooped overhead. The retinues of the winged warriors would range ahead of the host as it marched, keeping a keen eye out for any more would-be ambushers.

Not that such a tactic had succeeded yet, and nor would it if Tarsus had anything to say about it. Had he been anything other than a Stormcast Eternal, he might have taken the continued attacks for an omen, but fear had been burned out of him long ago and left only faith in its wake. He and his warriors were heroes, their valour proven in battles all but forgotten in the haze of their Reforging. The Hallowed Knights had been the fourth Stormhost to be founded, the ranks of their Warrior Chambers filled with the faithful of the Mortal Realms. Their only commonality was that each had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle – and been heard – and that each had shed his mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause.

Tarsus could but dimly recall the days of his own mortality. He remembered the weight of his sword and armour, and the rustle of a war cloak of deepest purple. He remembered screaming himself hoarse on the stone battlements of a burning citadel as red, lean-limbed daemons scrambled up the walls and across the causeways towards him and those he led. He remembered a name – Tarsem – and a word – Helstone – and the moment a monstrous shadow had fallen across him and the air had writhed beneath the beat of great wings. Then a roar, and… nothing. Nothing until he’d awoken in Sigmaron, forged anew.

That was the way of it, and Tarsus was glad. His enemies had not changed, but now he had the power to meet them, and break them. He was Stormcast, and they would learn to fear that name, before the end. His reverie was soon broken by Ramus.

‘This is a fell place,’ Ramus said, as he and Tarsus led the host.

‘Parts of it, yes,’ Tarsus said. He thought of the things they’d seen since arriving: strange hourglass-shaped mountains that rose along the far horizon, and clumps of pale flowers that softly sighed when one walked past them.

‘A land of endings and silent decay,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘This is a place of whispers, where forgotten ghosts wander roads and paths that lead nowhere. A place where mountains crumble only to be raised anew with the sun, and birds and beasts are born and die in the same day. All is in decline here, though I know not whether it is the doing of our foes or the dread master of this realm.’ He looked at Tarsus. ‘Do you think he will listen?’

‘I do not know,’ Tarsus said. ‘Nagash betrayed Sigmar once. Mayhap he will do so again. But that is not for us to worry over… Our concern is to gain audience with him and make common cause, so that we might begin to wrest this realm from the enemy.’

‘But first we have to find him in this wilderness,’ Ramus said.

They had been searching for a way into the underworld since their arrival – one of the legendary Nine Gates into the underworld of Stygxx. The Great Necromancer had vanished, disappeared into the depths where none could find him. But Sigmar had set his scribes the centuries-long task of scouring the ancient records, compiled long before the Allpoints War, for any hint of where the Nine Gates might be. That knowledge had been passed on to the Stormcasts charged with seeking out Nagash. The Nine Gates had been housed in nine citadels, some massive and well-defended, and others so small as to be forever hidden from the eyes of the enemy. Nine Warrior Chambers had been despatched to find these structures and the gates secreted within their walls.

So far the gates had proven elusive, but Tarsus had hope; Sigmar would not have sent them to this place were victory not achievable. A gate was within reach, somewhere. And they would find it.

The trail grew rougher and steeper as the Stormcasts marched on, leaving the detritus of battle far behind them, winding through verdant fields that withered in the moonlight only to flourish once more as the sun rose, and trees that shuddered and sighed in the slightest of breezes. The sky overhead was pale and dim, even in the middle of the day, as if the sun feared to show its face in the Realm of Death. The crows were still overhead, circling and wheeling amongst the Prosecutors as they swooped above on wings of lightning.

‘Aye,’ Tarsus said. ‘And we will do so, even if we must fight our way across this land to do it.’ They had come into conflict with the deranged servants of the Ruinous Powers more than once since their arrival. The worshippers of the Blood God were as thick as fleas in the crags around them. The Realm of Death was under siege, and every peak and valley was infested with the followers of the Dark Gods. He shook his head. ‘Though I’d not turn down aid in that regard, if it were offered.’

A cry from above caught his attention, and Tarsus looked up. One of the Prosecutors swooped low and pointed towards a rocky outcrop that rose abruptly from the surrounding landscape, towering over the bare trees.

‘Something ahead – a structure of some sort at the top,’ he cried. Tarsus waved them forwards, the winged warriors hurtling into the distance, towards the dome-roofed ruin that occupied the summit of the tor.

‘Another ruin,’ Ramus said.

‘And perhaps a way into the underworld,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer, signalling to his retinues. ‘Liberators to the flanks, shields out,’ he said, his voice carrying over the gleaming ranks of his Warrior Chamber.

Liberator retinues moved to the flanks of the formation, shields at the ready, in case there was an ambush in the offing. If it were the place they sought, it could be defended and such a place might well provide refuge for warbands like the ones that had relentlessly attacked them since their arrival. With a single gesture from Tarsus, shields raised over the heads of the Stormcasts and to the sides, transforming the Stormhost into a veritable serpent of sigmarite. Their protection allowed them to weather arrows, rocks and even sorcery as they moved. Satisfied, Tarsus swung his hammer towards the ruin.

‘Forwards,’ he bellowed.

A wide path wound around the outcrop and led to the top. Tarsus led the way, and saw that the path ahead was lined with skulls as he rounded the slope. Mounted on spikes of brass and iron, the skulls twitched and champed yellow, cracked teeth, as if in protestation of their fate. Bones were scattered below them, mixed with bits of rusty armour and broken weapons, and piled up in drifts alongside the path. Tarsus stared at the skulls, pity warring with disgust. ‘They still live,’ Tarsus murmured. ‘Even now.’

‘No, Tarsus,’ Ramus said. ‘They do not. And that is the horror of it. Nothing in this realm ever truly dies, even now,’ he said, looking at the skulls. ‘Their souls are bound here, in chains of magic of the darkest sort.’

Tarsus shook his head. ‘Keep moving,’ he called over his shoulder.

More bones awaited them at the summit of the tor. They were scattered and in piles – some whole, though most cracked and broken. Crows hopped among the heaps, cawing to one another. Everywhere dolorous icons and foul standards, marked with sigils of murder and slaughter, had been stabbed into the rocky slope. Jawbones and finger bones hung from many of these, softly clattering in the breeze.

‘We are not the first to come here,’ Ramus said.

‘No,’ Tarsus replied.

The structure crouched ahead of them, partially built into the massive fang-like crag of rock that topped the outcrop, and resembled nothing so much as a dome. Its walls curved outwards in an immense semicircle from the crag, dominating the slope below despite the ragged gaps in their length. A curved roof surmounted the walls, resting in the crook of the crag, crows circling it in great numbers. Vast symbols had been carved into the outer walls – symbols representing the sun, moon, stars and other, more esoteric shapes.

‘It’s as large as any citadel I’ve seen,’ Tarsus said. ‘Though in worse condition than most.’ Despite the state of it, he could see that it had taken great skill to shape the stone. Sundials and dry fountains decorated the courtyard, and Tarsus thought that it might once have been a beautiful place before the occurrence of whatever evil had befallen it. As Tarsus studied it, he felt a pang of something – sadness, perhaps, or the twitch of some long forgotten memory, newly stirred – and his hands tightened on his weapons.

‘I have seen this place before,’ he murmured.

‘Lord-Celestant?’ Ramus asked.

Tarsus shook his head, irritated. ‘I’m fine. This place – there is something about it.’ Overhead, the Prosecutors had dropped onto the dome, scattering the crows, who croaked in agitation. The Stormcasts moved into the ruins and through the remains of what had once been an outer wall, collapsed for many years into irregular piles of stones and shattered columns.

Tarsus left several retinues of Judicators and Liberators on guard in the courtyard and led the rest of his warriors into the ruin. More bones greeted them inside the gargantuan entrance hall: crushed, splintered and scattered about at random. The entrance itself was composed of heavy stone slabs, marked by more symbols – suns and moons, comets and falling stars, all carefully carved into the rock face.

Tarsus traced one of the latter with his fingers as he passed, wondering why it all seemed so familiar.

‘What was this place?’ he asked, as he gazed up at the faded mural that had been painted on the curve of the roof above, depicting a vast field of stars and a black-cloaked scythe-wielding figure hard at work, reaping a cosmic crop.

‘An observatory, perhaps,’ Ramus said, looking around. ‘There are places in the Nihiliad Mountains that this reminds me of. They were places of contemplation, for stargazers and sky-worshippers, maybe this is one. This outcrop is the highest point in the vale – a perfect place to watch the night sky.’

‘Perhaps, but watch it for what?’ Tarsus said. ‘The stars in this realm are all askew, and the night sky is in upheaval.’

‘It was not always so,’ Ramus said. He gestured to the strange carvings that marked the walls. Tarsus thought they resembled the star-fields depicted in the mural above. ‘I suspect that these are the patterns of the stars as they were, before the coming of Chaos.’

‘As they could be again,’ Tarsus replied. He pointed down the corridor with his hammer. ‘There. The central chamber.’ He moved through the archway at the end of the hall and into the heart of the observatory. Despite its outward facade, the observatory was, in reality, merely a single, immense room.

The central chamber was massive – easily large enough to accommodate a hundred men – with high vaulted ceilings that curved upwards to meet at a central open skylight of stone. Crows clustered about the circumference of the skylight, staring down at the Stormcasts below. A massive dais occupied the centre of the chamber, directly beneath the stone. Sloped, circular steps led upwards to an enormous wheel-like orrery, crafted from black iron and made in the shape of a sun. The orrery was larger than three men, and its colossal rings were spread outwards, so that the dull light from above streamed down through the holes in them, casting weird shadows upon the walls and floor of the chamber.

Ramus gazed at the orrery. ‘More stars,’ he said, his voice echoing through the chamber. ‘The holes in the iron correspond to the patterns on the walls. This used to be a place of study and contemplation.’ He sounded almost wistful.

‘Now it is nothing save a curiosity,’ Tarsus said, looking around.

As with the rocky slopes outside, the floor of the chamber was obscured by broken bones and scattered pieces of armour. All the walls were covered in faded murals and tenacious lichen, except one that was occupied solely by a basket-hilted sword, wedged deep into the stone. Dead clumps of the lichen marked the floor beneath the blade, and the steel had turned cracked and powdery where it had touched the stone. Something about the blade bothered him. He felt a chill, though he could not say why.

‘We should go. I was wrong, there is nothing for us here,’ he said.

‘Tarsus, wait. Look at the orrery,’ Ramus called out. Tarsus turned towards the great dais and peered at the orrery. He blinked, startled. There was something caught in the rings. No, not caught, he realised; trapped. He hadn’t seen it before, because it had been hidden by the rings. But now, he could see it clearly.

Quickly he climbed the dais, Ramus one step behind him. ‘It’s a man,’ Tarsus said.

‘Alive?’ Ramus asked. Around the dais, the Stormcasts spread throughout the chamber. Though they were wary, they were curious about this realm and all it held. Many of them, after all, might have stood in this very chamber in centuries past. They might even have died in its defence, or in defence of any one of the great and shattered citadels thrust up from the dry sod of these lands like scattered tombstones.

‘I do not think so,’ Tarsus said, softly. The orrery moved, albeit very slowly, clicking and creaking along its runnel, and allowed the sunlight to flow through the holes in the iron. The man’s body was held aloft by brass spikes hammered through his wrists and into the curve of one of the orrery’s rings, leaving him to dangle within a makeshift cage. Dried blood coated the marble flesh of his bare arms and head, staining the ornate armour he wore on his torso and legs. Wounds marked his arms and face. His armour too was marked, and by many weapons. A tattered crimson cloak was pooled on the ground at his feet, as if it had been ripped from him and then summarily discarded. The body stank of blood and death, and the aquiline features were slack.

Something about the dead man’s face held Tarsus’ attention. It was not familiar, and yet… was. Were you there, in that final battle when I proved my worth to Sigmar? But how could that be, for that was centuries ago, the Lord-Celestant thought.

‘Help me move these rings.’ Tarsus caught hold of the outer ring and began to push it back, so that the others folded into it. The metal squealed as rusted joints and hinges were propelled into motion. ‘We must release him,’ he said, looking at Ramus. ‘Whoever he was, no man deserves such a fate.’

Ramus did not question him, and together the two Stormcast Eternals managed to move the ancient mechanism so that the body was no longer trapped out of reach.

Ramus caught hold of the dead man’s jaw and looked to Tarsus. ‘These wounds on his flesh – the followers of the Blood God are known for their brutality to those taken in battle. Perhaps he had the ill luck to be taken alive…’

‘Come… closer… and mayhap… I shall tell you.’

Tarsus drew his sword as the stink of old blood washed over them. ‘Ramus, beware,’ he said.

The body twitched in its bonds. Metal scraped metal, and the battered head rose, eyes red and alight with a terrible need. Quicker than either Stormcast could react, the thing’s feet suddenly slid up to brace against the curve of the ring, and the body lunged forwards, held in check only by its pinned wrists.

Bones popped and shifted hideously as it snapped long fangs together, just shy of Ramus’ face. The Lord-Relictor stepped back, hammer ready, as the thing thrashed wildly, biting at the air in a frenzy. Around the dais Stormcasts snapped to attention, weapons raised. A retinue of Decimators began to move towards the dais, axes ready to chop the creature apart. Tarsus waved them back.

‘Hold,’ he rumbled. ‘Stand fast.’ Whatever this thing was, he was confident that he and the Lord-Relictor would be enough to handle it.

‘Enough,’ Ramus said. His hammer snapped out, catching the thing in the stomach, and knocking it from its perch. It squalled as it fell and the spikes tore its flesh. It dangled, shuddering, then coughed and looked up.

‘Haaaa…’ The vulpine jaws sagged, and a bloody stink swept over Tarsus again. The red eyes faded to orange, then yellow, and the tension drained from the dangling shape. ‘Do… do forgive me, I am… I am not at my best,’ the thing croaked.

Tarsus extended his hammer and used it to lift the creature’s head. ‘What are you?’

Even as he asked the question, he realised that he knew the answer. Vampire. The word was jostled loose from the depths of his memory. Had he encountered such creatures before, in his previous life?

Withered lips peeled back from long fangs, and the vampire gave a rattling laugh. ‘A better question might be… what are you?’ One sunken eye narrowed. ‘I smell… storms and clean water. You are not mortal men.’

‘Not for a long time,’ Tarsus said.

‘The same might be said of me, I suppose,’ the vampire rasped.

‘What is your name?’

‘What use is a name, when one is bound thus?’ The creature twitched its thin fingers, causing the brass spikes to screech against the iron rim of the orrery. It winced, in obvious pain. ‘If you release me, perhaps I shall tell you, eh? How curious are you?’

‘Not enough to release a monster,’ Tarsus said, lowering his hammer. ‘Vampires are not to be trusted. They lie as easily as other men breathe, and treachery festers in their veins.’ Even as he spoke, he wondered where the words came from. They felt familiar on his tongue, as if he’d spoken them before. Helstone – the word floated to the surface of his mind.

‘Then kill me,’ the vampire croaked. ‘I would be free of this place one way or another.’ The creature peered at Tarsus, and then gave a harsh chuckle. ‘Unless you lack the fortitude to do so, Stormcast?’

Tarsus’ eyes narrowed. The old, faded memories receded, as suspicion flared. He traded a glance with Ramus, and then replied, ‘I thought you didn’t know what we were.’

‘Did I say that?’ the vampire said. ‘I merely asked a question. The implications thereof were of your creation.’ He showed his fangs. ‘I know what you are, well enough.’

‘Why were you here?’ Tarsus demanded. ‘Speak plainly, or I will leave you here for the carrion birds,’ he said, gesturing to the crows gathered above.

‘Implying… what? That if I answer truthfully you’ll free me?’

‘Enough of this,’ Ramus said. He looked at Tarsus. ‘We have wasted enough time here, bandying words with a talkative corpse. Let us leave this place, Bull-Heart.’ He started down the steps. Tarsus turned to follow.

‘Wait.’

Tarsus turned.

‘I was looking for something.’ The vampire grimaced. ‘A gateway into Stygxx.’ He smiled, though there was little humour in the expression. ‘I was looking for a way… home.’ His hands twitched, and the smile twisted into a snarl of pain.

‘Where is it?’ Ramus demanded.

‘Why do you care?’

‘We seek an audience with the Great Necromancer,’ Tarsus said.

The vampire blinked.

‘With Nagash?’ he hissed, in evident disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’

Tarsus frowned. ‘No. But we have a duty, and we will fulfil it or die in the attempt.’

‘Yes, one or the other is quite likely. Both, even more so,’ the vampire said. He shook his head. ‘I was right. You are mad. Leave me, madmen. Let me rot in peace.’

‘Did you find the gate?’ Tarsus demanded.

The vampire snorted and closed his eyes. ‘No,’ the vampire said. ‘Before I could do so, I was set upon by a servant of the Blood God calling himself the Woebringer. He and that pack of beasts he calls a warband cast down my servants, and bound me here. They thought it amusing, given my nature, to imprison me inside a sun, black iron or otherwise.’

‘Why not simply kill you?’

The vampire’s smile widened. ‘How can you kill what is already dead?’ The smile faded. ‘In truth, I think they took my durability as a challenge…’

Tarsus’ eyes strayed to the many wounds that covered the vampire’s exposed flesh and the blood that stained the dais. ‘They tortured you,’ he said.

‘They are torturing me,’ the vampire hissed. ‘Every few days. The sunlight, weak as it is, and a lack of blood have kept me dangling here – a prisoner of mindless brutes. I have no doubt you’ve encountered the Woebringer’s foraging parties – he sends them out, looking for worthy prey, while the rest of the warband wanders about these hills, fighting anyone and anything they come across, including others of their ilk. When that gets boring, he comes here and carves his name on my flesh.’ The vampire grinned suddenly, and his eyes flashed with amusement. ‘In fact, he’s due any moment now, I’d say.’

The sound of horns suddenly echoed through the chamber.

‘Lord-Celestant, the enemy approaches,’ one of the Prosecutors called from the dome above.

‘How many?’ Tarsus asked. Inwardly, he cursed his inattention to priorities. He’d failed to send the Prosecutors to scout the area around them, and now the enemy was almost upon them.

‘Twice our number, easily,’ came the reply. ‘They’re climbing the eastern slope, and with war-beasts.’

‘Khorgoraths,’ the vampire hissed. ‘Ugly brutes, and hard to kill. The Woebringer quite likes his pets. Dotes on the beasts.’

‘Then we shall make ready for them. Ramus, fortify this chamber for war. It is no keep, but it must do,’ Tarsus said.

‘And what of you, Lord-Celestant?’ Ramus asked.

‘I wish to see the enemy’s strength and disposition for myself,’ Tarsus said, striding towards the largest of the gaps in the wall. As he did so, the Stormcasts he had left outside streamed into the observatory, as their training dictated. The enemy outnumbered them, and only proper discipline would ensure the Bull-Hearts’ victory.

‘Hold,’ Tarsus said, casting his voice to carry over the clatter of sigmarite plates. ‘Shields to the vanguard. Sigmar has provided the room, let us make use of it. Who will hold, when the daemon-winds rage?’

‘Only the faithful,’ his Stormcasts cried. Liberators turned and sank to one knee in the gaps until a low hedge of shields lined each one. Soon more retinues joined them, dropping the bottom rims of their shields atop those of their brethren, creating an improvised wall. Tarsus stepped forwards into an opening the Stormcasts provided for him and surveyed the approaching enemy.

‘By the Realm Celestial,’ Tarsus muttered, as he looked out over the brawling horde. Foul standards rose over seething ranks of howling barbarians and armoured blood warriors. Their numbers dwarfed the small warbands they’d encountered earlier in their travels. This was a horde, in the truest sense of the word. Worst of all were the chained monsters – the khorgoraths – that bellowed and thrashed amidst the mortal warriors, including those who prodded and whipped their charges, driving them into a frenzy.

Despite the clamour of these monstrosities, Tarsus found his eye drawn to a lean, loping shape. The creature was made not of flesh, but of dark metal and other, less identifiable things. Its bat-like features were twisted in an expression of inhuman agony, and he could see that it was held in check by brass chains and festooned with ruinous icons. A febrile steam rose from its twitching, catlike form as it stalked forwards, goaded by a number of bloodstokers who continuously slashed its flanks with barbed whips and prods.

‘What in the name of the great drake is that?’ he murmured.

‘Its name is Ashigaroth,’ the vampire called out, weakly. He had overheard him, somehow.

Tarsus glanced over his shoulder. The vampire wasn’t looking at him, but he noted something in the voice. ‘What is it?’ he asked Ramus.

‘Mine,’ the vampire hissed.

‘A dread abyssal,’ Ramus said, as he joined Tarsus at the wall. ‘They are things of darkness, bound by necromancy.’ He looked at the vampire. ‘He is no mere pilgrim.’

‘No, but I can be of service to you… Free me and I shall aid you,’ the vampire said.

‘We do not need your aid,’ Ramus began. Tarsus waved him to silence, and looked back out over the slope of the tor. The ranks of the enemy stirred, and a broad, muscular shape pushed its way through, dragging a screeching khorgorath in its wake. The warrior was no mere bloodreaver, Tarsus knew. No, he was of the elite – a champion of the Ruinous Powers. His skull was surmounted by great, curling horns and his thick chest, where the armour did not cover his flesh, was branded with the sigils of the Blood God. He carried a wide-bladed axe in his free hand, and the arm that held the monster’s chains was protected by a heavy gauntlet topped by claw-like blades.

‘I am Tarka Woebringer,’ the Chaos champion roared. ‘Exalted amongst all deathbringers, and master of a hundred beasts.’ The khorgorath whose chains he held slavered and gnashed at the air. The champion hauled back on the chains, fighting to keep the beast from breaking loose. ‘This is my place, earned with the red coin of crushed shield and splintered spear. Who are you to walk these stones without my permission?’

‘He’s a talkative one,’ Ramus said, one foot braced on the broken wall, the haft of his hammer resting across his knee.

‘The more he talks, the more time we have to make ready,’ Tarsus said.

‘I know you, for you reek of lightning, and word travels quickly on the roads of ruin,’ the Woebringer continued. ‘The Blood God will smile on me for delivering up your skulls. Aye, and the skull of my slave as well, for I’ve grown tired of cutting his ever-healing flesh.’ The khorgorath roared and shuffled forwards, dragging Tarka a few steps. The champion laughed. ‘Bloodswiller is eager to sup on your entrails, silver-skins. He and his brothers did for the vampire’s bony servants, and they’ll do for you as well – go, Bloodswiller!’ Tarka released the chains and stepped back, as the monster surged forwards.

It was not alone in its mad charge across the broken courtyard that separated the Stormcasts from their foes. From behind the Woebringer, several more of the beasts plunged past, freed from their chains by Tarka’s oncoming warriors. The khorgoraths bounded through the rubble, covering the distance more swiftly than any man or Stormcast. Tarsus’ Prosecutors hurtled down, hammers whirling from their hands to strike with meteoric force. One of the khorgoraths stumbled and fell, its crimson flesh puckered by smoking impact craters.

‘Shields up,’ Tarsus roared, as the first of the monsters thundered towards the gaps in the observatory wall, smashing aside a sundial in its haste.

Liberators were thrown back as the khorgorath barrelled into them. Hammers thudded into its flesh, and warblades bit at its flanks, but it refused to fall. The shield wall disintegrated into flying bodies as the rest of the monsters tore at their foes.

‘Ramus,’ Tarsus said.

‘At your command, Lord-Celestant,’ Ramus cried, as he thrust his reliquary forwards. Lightning crackled about the standard, and then sprang forth in a blinding flash to strike the beast in the chest. The khorgorath stiffened and shrieked.

‘Judicators,’ Tarsus roared. Boltstorm crossbows hummed, and explosive bolts peppered the monster, dropping it to its knees. Liberators swarmed over it, hammers rising and falling in deadly rhythm. Tarsus looked around. Two more of the beasts were locked in combat with the Decimator and Retributor retinues just inside the chamber, and a third was still outside of the observatory, swiping blindly at the swooping forms of the Prosecutors who were holding its attention. But the last, the beast the Woebringer had named Bloodswiller, was charging across the observatory floor towards Ramus, whose attention was on the creatures fighting his Decimator bodyguards.

Tarsus moved to intercept the beast. Hearing the monster’s approach, Ramus turned, but not quickly enough. Bloodswiller’s talons smashed down, knocking the Stormcast Eternal from his feet, his reliquary clattering from his grip. Ramus rolled aside as the khorgorath stomped down, but even as he came to his feet, hammer raised, the monster caught him and lifted him up.

‘Unhand him, beast,’ Tarsus snarled, as he reached them.

His hammer crashed against Bloodswiller’s back, but before he could strike a second blow, the creature backhanded him hard enough to rattle his armour. He was sent flying backwards and crashed down on the dais, cracking the stone. As a Decimator tried to hack through the wrist of the claw holding Ramus, Bloodswiller screeched and tore an unlucky Stormcast apart. It slung the Lord-Relictor down, battering him against the floor and wall.

Ramus’ struggles grew weaker, and none of the nearby warriors could land a telling blow against the frenzied beast to free him. Blue bursts of lightning, spearing upwards towards the heavens, attested to the fate of those who tried. The monster was faster than it looked, and stronger than its kindred.

Tarsus pulled himself to his feet, and readied himself to lunge back into the fray.

‘I can save him,’ he heard someone say. He looked up to see the unsmiling vampire gazing down at him from where he hung.

‘I am faster than you, even now, and stronger,’ the vampire said. ‘You will not get close to it before it kills either you or your friend. More, I owe that particular beast for the blow that landed me here, in such a humiliating state. I can save him, Stormcast – free me. Or die. It matters not to me.’

Tarsus did not hesitate. He spun and brought his sword down, slicing through the rings of the orrery. It toppled forwards, and as it did so Tarsus dropped his weapons and caught it with a grunt of effort. Swiftly, he wrenched the brass spikes free of the vampire’s flesh, and the creature fell to the dais in a crouch as Tarsus chucked the orrery aside. The vampire glanced up at him. Then, with an eyeblink, he was suddenly at the far wall where the sword Tarsus had seen earlier was embedded.

As swift as lightning, the vampire tore the blade free of the wall and sprang towards Bloodswiller. The great crimson brute roared and swung a thickly muscled arm, but the vampire dodged the blow, and, with two hands, drove his blade down into the flesh between the beast’s shoulder and neck. The sword’s blade flared with unholy power, and a crimson steam spurted from the wound. The khorgorath shrieked and flailed, trying to fling the vampire loose. It dropped Ramus and Tarsus charged forwards, weapons at the ready.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, fools?’ the vampire snarled. ‘Help me kill this thing.’

Tarsus lunged forwards. His hammer crashed against one of the Bloodswiller’s bone-studded knees, splintering it. The beast shrilled and sank down, still clawing futilely at the vampire, who held tight to his perch on its shoulder. The vampire hissed and gave the hilt of his sword a vicious twist. Then he tore it free in a welter of gore and leapt away. The khorgorath fell forwards, its talons gouging the ancient marble floor of the observatory. ‘Now, Stormcast – strike now!’ the vampire said.

Tarsus drove his hammer down on the exposed crown of the Bloodswiller’s skull, cracking it. Ramus, having regained his feet and his hammer, joined him. Together, they struck it again and again, until black ichor spilled across the floor, and the beast fell still. Tarsus looked around – the other khorgoraths had met similar fates, brought down by the weapons and divine fury of the Stormcasts. Already, his warriors were reorganising their lines, and readying themselves for whatever might come next. He looked at the vampire, who said, ‘What now?’

‘Now? Now we finish this.’ Tarsus turned towards the gap and extended his sword towards the distant shape of the Woebringer. ‘Is that the best you can muster?’ he shouted, clashing his weapons. ‘We are still here. Who will stand?’ he bellowed.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Hallowed Knights roared in response. Hammers crashed against shields. ‘Only the faithful!’

Tarka threw back his head and screamed in rage. The Woebringer sliced the air with his axe and his warriors surged forwards – a snarling horde, clad in the colours of blood and brass – bloodreavers, blood warriors and worse things bounding in the wake of the mortals.

Tarsus stepped back from the gap. ‘Stand fast, Bull-Hearts,’ he said. ‘We have won a short reprieve, but they come again, in strength. Judicators, thin their ranks. Fall back when they reach the gaps. It’ll be close work then. Hammer and shield work, eh, my friends?’ he said, swatting a nearby Liberator’s shield with the flat of his sword. ‘Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply. Tarsus nodded.

‘Only the faithful,’ he said firmly. ‘Stand fast, and fight as if Sigmar himself were watching. Or as if Ramus were watching, for he’s closer.’

The air throbbed with the hum of boltstorm crossbows firing and men screaming. Tarsus glanced quickly towards the gaps in the wall where the Judicators had formed two firing ranks: one kneeling, one standing. Together they fired into the disorganised mass of foes climbing towards them. The Prosecutors harried the enemy as they charged, adding to the tally claimed by the Judicators. They had earned a few moments of peace before the battle would be well and truly joined. Nevertheless the enemy pressed on, and soon they would be spilling into the observatory.

Tarsus caught Ramus staring at the vampire. ‘You do not trust him.’

‘You said it yourself – he cannot be trusted.’

‘He saved you,’ Tarsus said.

‘He saved himself. My fate was incidental,’ Ramus countered.

‘Indeed it was,’ the vampire said, striding towards them. ‘But, for the moment, our paths align. They have my beast. I would have him back. He is… precious to me.’

Tarsus nodded. ‘So be it. But if you turn on us, know that it will be my hand that strikes you down.’ He raised his hammer for emphasis. The vampire smirked.

‘Duly noted,’ he said, as he laid his sword across his shoulder.

There was a clatter of sigmarite as the Judicators fell back, and the Liberator retinues moved to take their place in the vanguard. ‘Shields up,’ Tarsus said, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. Shields rose, and then slammed together, rim to rim, forming a wall of steel.

‘Hold the line,’ Tarsus continued. He tightened his grip on the hafts of his weapons. ‘Move on my order.’

‘Where do you wish me to go?’ the vampire said, bowing shallowly. ‘Shall I take my place in line and fight alongside your warriors?’

‘Fight as it pleases you,’ Tarsus said, watching the approach of the enemy. ‘You are no longer a prisoner.’ He glanced at the vampire. ‘You are free.’

The vampire blinked. Then, he inclined his head. ‘As you say.’ He turned towards the broken wall as the howls of the blood-worshippers filled the air. The first bloodreaver burst through the gap at a run – an axe in either hand – and more followed. Soon a wave of murderous fury swept towards the waiting Liberators, who continued their war-rhythm, waiting for their Lord-Celestant’s order.

Tarsus stepped off the dais, arms spread and weapons ready. ‘Hold, Bull-Hearts. Hold,’ he rumbled. ‘Ramus, call the storm.’

Ramus lifted his reliquary and slammed the haft down so that the sound quavered through the air like the peal of a bell. Outside the observatory, a heavy rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled, and the blood-worshippers still outside screamed as crackling streamers of lightning slashed through their ranks, speeding along armour and edges of weapons to lance into branded flesh. Men died in droves, cooked in their armour, or else set aflame as they ran. Confusion swept throughout the enemy.

‘Lower your horns,’ Tarsus roared, pushing through the ranks to the front. Liberators bent, their shields thrust to the fore and hammers held low. ‘And… forwards.’ As one, the Liberator retinues began to march on. Tarsus led the way, picking up speed with every step. His warriors kept pace and, with a thunderous crash, the shield wall met the front rank of the bloodreavers. Shields locked as the Liberators pushed against the enemy, driving them back. Tarsus fought at the fore, making room for his warriors to move forwards with every blow.

More enemy warriors continued to press through the gaps, even as the front ranks were forced back. Frenzied blood warriors tore through their own fellows as the crush of battle intensified. The Liberators fought efficiently, using their foe’s numbers against them. Hammers cracked against knees and shot forwards to crush chests. In other such encounters, it had been enough. The Stormcasts were as relentless in their own way as the servants of the Blood God were in theirs, and when they marched no enemy could stand against them.

But soon, numbers began to tell against discipline. Howling blood warriors hooked shields and arms with their axes, dragging the Stormcasts into the depths of the mob and ripping them asunder in explosions of blue light. The hulking shapes of khorgoraths lurked outside the observatory and tore at the remaining walls in a frenzy, trying to widen the gaps. Debris sifted down from above as cracks raced across the roof and walls of the structure. A section collapsed with a roar, crushing Stormcasts and bloodreavers alike.

‘Fall back,’ Tarsus shouted as he blocked an axe blow. ‘Tighten the line and fall back from the walls.’

Those Liberators who could began to back away, shields still locked. Others could not break away from their opponents and were swiftly surrounded and brought low. More explosions of searing blue light streaked skywards, and Tarsus cursed. He looked around, watching Ramus organise the Retributors and Decimators for a counter-charge.

It wasn’t going to be enough. They were outnumbered ten to one and the enemy wasn’t afraid of death. They didn’t care if they were crushed, mangled or pierced. They kept coming regardless. He needed a new strategy.

‘Lock shields,’ he cried, setting his feet. Around him, Liberator retinues stopped their retreat and did as he ordered, forming up around the wide steps of the dais. ‘We hold here. Not one step farther.’

As he spoke, the Prosecutors hurtled into the chamber, striking like lightning and retreating swiftly, trying to take some of the pressure off their comrades. Celestial hammers crashed into the closely packed mobs of bloodreavers, hurling broken bodies into the air. But the remainder pressed on. Tarsus waved the Judicators forwards. Several of the retinues had made the dais defensible, moving the heavy bookshelves and stone biers into place like barricades. Those who were not firing from behind their improvised ramparts moved quickly to take up position behind the Liberators.

Lightning flickered across the ranks of the enemy, blinding and burning them. A section of the shield wall opened, and Ramus led his Paladin brotherhoods forwards. The great two-handed axes of the Decimators chopped through crimson armour with ease, as the lightning hammers of the Retributors smashed the strongest Chaos champions from their feet. But the enemy pressed close about them, and even the heavily armoured Paladins could not stand alone against such a tide. Still too many of them, he thought. He’d hoped the observatory would provide some defence against numbers, but it wasn’t enough.

Over the heads of his warriors and the heaving ranks of the enemy, Tarsus saw the Woebringer fighting his way through his own followers, dragging the creature the vampire had named Ashigaroth in his wake and striking down anyone too slow to get out of his way. The dread abyssal came unwillingly, continuously fighting its chains.

As Tarsus took a step towards them, he caught sight of the vampire crouched atop the shattered dome of the observatory with arms spread and body angled so that he leaned over the chamber below. A guttural chant rose from his lips as he threw back his head. The dread abyssal began to buck and scream in its bindings. The bloodstoker struck the creature with his lash again and again, but the beast only grew more agitated. A weird purple light played across the piles of bones scattered on the floor and in the corners of the great chamber. They began to shiver and rustle, and Tarsus felt his hair stand on end.

‘Stop him,’ Tarka howled, motioning towards the vampire with his axe as he stepped into the observatory, hauling Ashigaroth after him by its chains. The bloodstoker followed him and struck the dread abyssal again before smashing off the chains that bound it, gesturing at the vampire with his blade. But rather than lunging immediately towards its former master, the creature twisted about and snapped its ebony jaws shut on the bloodstoker’s head. Tarka lashed out at Ashigaroth with his axe, and the monster struck at him with its talons, scraping his armour and knocking him back a step as it bounded over him and towards a nearby Stormcast. The latter was crushed to the ground, his body evaporating into blue light. The dread abyssal screeched and flung itself into the melee, ravaging all those it could reach, without distinction. Blood warrior and Stormcasts alike fell to its frenzy.

Tarsus charged towards the Woebringer, bulling aside any bloodreaver foolish enough to get in his way. Behind him, he heard the vampire’s chant growing louder, but the Woebringer was his only concern. Even as Tarsus closed with his foe, the Chaos champion staggered to his feet and sent his axe slicing out. Hammer, sword and axe clashed in a whirring dance of death as the Bull-Heart and the Woebringer traded blows.

‘I will take your armour and mount it upon my lodge-pole, warrior. Your skull will be my drinking cup, and your weapons I will give to my slaves,’ the Woebringer growled, as the clawed gauntlet he wore tore Tarsus’ warcloak. ‘After I am finished with you, I shall peel the flesh from the bones of a dead man, and wear it as my cloak!’ He sliced at Tarsus’ gut.

‘Are you here to talk, or to fight?’ Tarsus said, as he avoided the blow. His hammer thudded down, cracking the red armour that covered Tarka’s shoulder. The Chaos champion howled and reversed his axe, digging it upwards in a mighty blow. Tarsus stepped back, but not quickly enough, as the edge of the axe drew a spray of sparks from his chest plate and sent him staggering back. The Woebringer crashed into him, driving an elbow into the side of the Lord-Celestant’s head. His opponent was strong, stronger than any Tarsus had yet faced.

Tarsus fell, and only narrowly managed to avoid his opponent’s axe as it crashed down where his head had been. Before the Woebringer could launch another blow, however, a broken sword crashed against him. Tarsus looked up and saw the fleshless limbs of several skeletons gathered about him protectively. The undead warriors attacked the Woebringer, jabbing at him with splintered spears and hacking with blunt, chipped swords. More clung to him, grabbing his arms or the great horns that topped his bestial head. He roared wordlessly, lashing out to shatter a skeleton. The dead thing fell, but crawled back towards him.

Khorgoraths screamed in agony as they were swarmed by skeletons and dragged down through sheer weight of numbers. The dead rose up amidst the press of the melee and fell upon the Woebringer’s warriors with silent savagery, cutting them down even as they fought the Stormcasts. Everywhere, the silent legions hurled themselves into the fray, compelled by the vampire’s will and sorcery.

Tarsus got to his feet as the Woebringer whirled towards him, bleeding from a dozen wounds, but showing no signs of weakness.

‘I defeated the dead before, and I will do so again. But first, I will take your skull, silver-skin,’ the Chaos leader shrieked as he charged towards Tarsus, smashing aside the skeletons in his path. Tarsus raised his hammer, ready to meet his foe’s charge, when a black shadow spread over them both.

The Woebringer looked up. Tarsus took advantage of his opponent’s distraction and caught the Woebringer with a blow that rocked him off his feet. As he fell, the dread abyssal dropped out of the air and onto the Chaos champion with a cry. The vampire sat astride the creature, and laughed as Ashigaroth’s claws tore the life from the fallen warrior. As the creature tore at the body, the vampire looked down at Tarsus.

‘I do apologise, my friend, but… debts of blood were owed to both Ashigaroth and myself,’ he said. He smiled thinly.

Tarsus shook his head and looked around. The battle was over. And now, the living and the dead stared at each other warily across the bodies of their common foe. He looked up at the vampire.

‘You have my thanks,’ Tarsus said, careful to keep his weapons lowered, reminding himself that the dead could not be trusted. The vampire chuckled, as if reading his thoughts.

‘Mannfred,’ the vampire said. ‘I am Mannfred.’

‘Mannfred, then,’ Tarsus said. He hesitated, then extended his hand. Mannfred stared at it for a moment, as if puzzled, then he clasped Tarsus’ forearm. ‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of these warriors.’

‘And I am Mannfred von Carstein, Count of the Hanging Wood,’ Mannfred said, bowing deeply. As he straightened, he said, ‘Do you still wish to find a way into the underworld, friend Tarsus?’

‘Then you did find a gate here,’ Tarsus said.

‘No,’ Mannfred said. His smile widened. ‘Not here.’ He slid from the back of his monstrous steed. ‘But I know of one, and can lead you there.’

‘Why?’

‘Call it a debt of honour,’ Mannfred said. ‘I owe you, for freeing me, Tarsus of the Stormcasts.’ He paused, as if thinking, before adding, ‘Perhaps for more than just that.’ He extended his hand. ‘And as you’ve seen, I pay my debts.’

Tarsus hesitated. He looked up, into Mannfred’s unblinking yellow eyes, judging. Somehow, he felt as if he had lived through this before, and wondered if it had turned out for the best then. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

But he had a mission to complete. And live or die, he would see it done.

Tarsus clasped Mannfred’s hand.

‘Lead on then, Mannfred von Carstein. Where you go, the Stormcasts will follow.’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, the Warhammer 40,000 novels Lukas the Trickster, Fabius Bile: Primogenitor, Fabius Bile: Clonelord and Deathstorm, and the novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio dramas Blackshields: The False War and Master of the Hunt. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he has written the novels Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Nagash: The Undying King, Fury of Gork, Black Rift and Skaven Pestilens. He has also written many stories set in the Warhammer Old World, including the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen. He lives and works in Sheffield.

Brokrin Ullissonn, a down on his luck duardin captain, has a change in fortunes when he finds an untapped source of aether-gold – but is the danger that awaits him and his crew worth the prize, or are they doomed to further failure?

A Black Library Publication

First published in as an audio drama in Great Britain in 2015.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Jon Cave.

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ISBN: 978-1-78572-936-2

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