Contents

Cover

Sands of Blood – Josh Reynolds

About the Author

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Sands of Blood

Josh Reynolds

The dead are mine.

I rule the dead, and the soon-to-be-dead. I am the final moment given form, the terminus of all existence. And yet… souls slip my grasp, one by one. They leave only the stink of iron and lightning to mark their passing.

I see nothing. I hear nothing.

My realm is silent.

My spirit strides the night wind, hunting these stolen souls, accompanied only by wailing nighthaunts. I cross vast oceans in the blink of a mortal eye and stalk invisibly along the crooked rooftops of cavernous cities whose folk burrow down, ever down, seeking my favour. I see my legions clash again and again with those of the enemy, and where I pass, unseen, the servants of the Ruinous Powers shudder in unspoken horror. Even now, my enemies fear me. Even now, they know dread at my name.

Nagash has risen. And soon… soon, I will stride forth in all my terrible glory, to bathe this realm anew in the light of my black sun. I will burn it clean of impurities, of mistakes. But first, I must find the answer to the question which vexes me.

Who has taken what is mine?

I hunt these missing souls… I follow their trail from rime-encrusted Helspoint to the toppled towers of Morrsend; from the smog-choked jungles of the Skull Islands to the hourglass-lined streets of the City of Lost Moments; I seek and I hunt, but they rise up out of reach, swirling away like leaves caught in a cold wind.

So many souls… gone. I endure, but my strength… wanes. The dead fall and do not rise again. My will is thwarted.

This cannot be.

Nagash is inevitable. I will remake all reality in the image of my soul. And when at last I turn to look upon the desolation of all that was, and all that I have wrought, I shall call it good, and know contentment. I am the ur-death, the nightmare force at the core of all things. When the living cry out in their dreams, it is Nagash they see. I shall crush all under the rock of my unyielding will, and all will be one – Nagash. When Nagash stirs, mountains tremble and suns flicker. When Nagash reaches out to crush his enemies, it is with a million hands. When Nagash seeks out his prey, it is with a million eyes.

And yet, Nagash cannot find these thieves. And thus, he grows… weak.

I am blind. Souls flee my realm and my body withers on its basalt throne. My spirit gutters like a flame deprived of fuel. The shadows gather. Jackals claim the bones of my servants and night birds screech in my empty citadels.

I must find them.

I must know.

Nagash must not die. This cannot be.

This shall not be.

‘Retributors to the vanguard,’ Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, roared over the howl of the wind that whipped across the Blood Wastes. It whined through the crumbled remains of walls and other, less recognizable, structures which rose from the red sands below like gravestones. At the bottom of the enormous dune on which he stood, Tarsus saw the Bloodbound loping through the rising storm towards a straggling line of carts and robed figures. Howling bloodreavers sprinted ahead of more heavily armoured blood warriors, crying out the name of their foul god.

The mortals in the caravan below, blinded by the storm, had only just become aware of the doom about to fall upon them. They were dressed as pilgrims, in heavy robes, and some wore chains and funerary bells which clanged as they moved. Others wore armour over their robes, and he saw these draw weapons as the other pilgrims hurried to escape. The former were outnumbered, and the rest too slow.

‘Brave, if futile,’ Tarsus said. ‘But they will not fight alone.’

He cast a look over his shoulder at his Warrior Chamber as they took up position across the crest of the crimson dune. As he spoke, the Liberator retinues moved aside in precise formation to make way for the Retributors.

‘Who will be triumphant?’ he cried, lifting his sword and hammer high.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Retributors rumbled as one. Their heavy, ornate armour was prominently marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar, and the massive two-handed hammers they carried shimmered with electric energy. As they strode forwards at Tarsus’ command, they slammed the great weapons together, adding to the clamour of war. They were not alone in this, for the Liberators too thumped their hammers against the inside of their shields in a brutal rhythm.

‘Separate the Bloodbound from their prey, Bull-Hearts. Liberators, shield the mortals!’ Tarsus started down the dune towards the enemy, many of whom had slowed, their attention drawn by the noise rising from the Stormcasts’ ranks. He grinned fiercely beneath his war-helm. ‘Soros, you and your Retributors are with me.’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant – where you go, we follow,’ Retributor-Prime Soros bellowed, his hammer held at the ready across his chest. His brethren roared in agreement, and their hammers clashed and sparked as they followed Tarsus down the slope of the crimson dune. Overhead, a retinue of Prosecutors hurtled through the swirling wind-borne dust clouds on crackling wings. Their hammers whirled from their hands, thrown with incredible force to smash into the space between the servants of Chaos and their quarry. Sand exploded upwards, and the foremost bloodreavers stumbled back in surprise. The Prosecutors had broken the enemy’s momentum, as he had planned. Now all that was left was to gore them.

Tarsus pounded towards the milling Chaos warriors. He heard the clanging of the bells on the carts, and the screams of men, women, and dray animals as he plunged into the enemy ranks, and despatched one of the warriors with a blow from his hammer. From behind him came the snarl of lightning as the hammers of the Retributors swept down on the foe. He and his vanguard had torn a gaping wound in the horde with their attack, and its effect was immediate. As they fought, more and more bloodreavers turned away from their original quarry and doubled back towards the Stormcasts. Soon, flashes of blue lightning were streaking upwards as Tarsus’ men fell to the axes of their foes – but not many, he was glad to see. He had few enough warriors, and could ill afford to lose them.

As he cut down another bloodreaver, he saw that the Liberators had reached the struggling line of mortals and enveloped them in a protective shield wall. He spun as a roar assaulted his ears, and quickly interposed his sword, catching an axe before it reached him. His attacker was armoured in crimson and brass, and the air seemed to shimmer around him as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ stomach. Blood warrior, he thought. One of Khorne’s chosen.

Tarsus slammed his hammer down onto the spike, parrying the blow. He rammed the weapon into the Chaos champion’s chest, denting the cuirass, but the warrior only took a single step back before lunging forwards with a snarl. The champion swept his axe out in a wicked arc and Tarsus retreated, the sand shifting beneath him. His enemy followed, growling a low chant to his deity as he came. They traded blows back and forth, weapons clashing. The servants of the Blood God were renowned for their ferocity, but this one, at least, was a seasoned warrior as well, matching Tarsus blow for blow.

At the last moment, the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he momentarily lost his footing. He teetered, off-balance, but it was enough for his opponent. The blood warrior gave a roar and swung his axe, tearing a spray of sparks from Tarsus’ chest plate and nearly knocking him off his feet. Tarsus staggered and lost his grip on his hammer. He whipped his sword up as the axe fell, parrying a blow that would have otherwise split his helm and skull. The blood warrior wrenched his axe up in a two-handed grip, readying it for another strike.

Suddenly, Tarsus heard a keening shriek and glanced up as a black shadow fell over them. He swiftly stepped back as a monstrous shape pounced on the champion from above. The unsuspecting warrior disappeared in a spray of blood as the thing struck with the force of a meteor and smashed the Chaos champion into the shifting sands.

The golden and black monstrosity rose up from its victim with a shriek. 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 vile hunger, and it snapped its heavy jaws shut on the dead warrior’s skull. With a toss of its head, it tore something wispy and squalling from the pulped remains, and Tarsus knew it was his former opponent’s soul. With a rattling sigh, the dread abyssal sucked the whimpering spirit into its gullet. It turned its smouldering gaze on Tarsus, who shook his head.

‘He was mine, Mannfred,’ he said.

‘So he was,’ Mannfred von Carstein said as he leaned forwards in his saddle on the back of the dread abyssal. The vampire’s black, ridged armour was pitted and scored with the marks of battle, and the red cloak he wore was tattered, but Mannfred himself did not look in the least tired. He never did, no matter how fierce the fighting.

Tarsus raised his weapons warily as the creature growled and took a tentative step towards him. The vampire smiled thinly and patted his mount’s neck. ‘Ashigaroth eats only those souls I allow him to. And for the moment, that is not you.’

‘For the moment,’ Tarsus said, as he looked about. The battle was all but over. The enemy had been routed, bodies littered the sands and those who had survived the Stormcast attack were fleeing into the growing storm.

Mannfred chuckled. ‘A joke, Tarsus. We are allies, you and I. You saved my life, Stormcast, and now I have saved yours.’

‘I did not require it,’ Tarsus said. It had been many days since they had freed the vampire, and Tarsus had no cause to regret it, yet.

At least this time he did not have to summon the dead to aid us, Tarsus thought. There was something indefinably monstrous about the act of wrenching the slain from their slumber, and propelling them into battle once more. But despite his misgivings, the Lord-Celestant did not begrudge the vampire’s help – they were alone in hostile territory, and surrounded by hundreds of nomadic warbands in service to the Ruinous Powers.

Mannfred smiled. ‘Yet I gave it freely. Letting you die in such an ignominious manner would hardly serve my cause, now would it?’

Tarsus frowned. ‘Is that why you led us into this wasteland?’ he asked, gesturing to the rolling dunes which surrounded them and the high crags which marked the horizon. ‘It seems empty of anything save sand.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Mannfred threw back his head and laughed. ‘These are not sands, at least not entirely – they are blood. Reduced to powder, drained of all vitality, but blood all the same.’ He swept his arms out. ‘For a thousand years, the lands which once made up the Blood Wastes were fought over by the Duchies of Gheist, whose nobles rode great bats to war, rather than horses. But then came Nagash, and, well…’ Mannfred leaned back. ‘Here, Stormcast, is the will of Nagash made manifest. A desert of broken stones, covered in red sands and haunted by the ghosts of the slain and the great beasts they once rode to battle.’

‘We have seen no ghosts,’ Tarsus said.

‘We will,’ Mannfred said. He gestured lazily to a point over Tarsus’ shoulder. The Lord-Celestant turned and his eyes widened. He had thought the wind had been bad before, but what was now coming over the distant dunes towards them was of a far greater magnitude: a roiling wall of sand – no, blood, he reminded himself – sweeping across the landscape, blotting out the sky and stars overhead.

‘We must get the mortals to shelter,’ Tarsus said. He glanced at them, taking in their ragged robes and the carts with their clattering funerary bells. It seemed that even in the Realm of Death, faith of some sort flourished. Their dray oxen bellowed and pawed the sands nervously as the wind whipped up. He looked towards the distant crags which marked the desert’s edge. It would take days to reach them. The storm would catch up with them before then.

He looked at Mannfred. ‘There must be something nearby.’

Before Mannfred could reply, a voice spoke.

‘You saved us.’

Tarsus turned and found a number of pilgrims looking up at him in awe. The one who had spoken was an older man, leaning heavily on a staff topped by a smoking censer in the shape of an hourglass, and wearing the same dark, heavy robes as the others.

‘I am Gerot of Morrsend,’ the old man said. ‘We are grateful for your assistance, warrior. Without you, the skull-takers might have claimed us.’

‘Do not thank me yet,’ Tarsus rumbled. ‘We must still get your folk to shelter, before that storm catches up with us.’

‘There is a place – the Temple of Final Rest, in the ruins of Sepulchre,’ one of the other pilgrims, a woman, said. Tarsus looked at Mannfred, who nodded and sat upright in his saddle.

‘I know of it. One of the few remaining structures left in the region. If we move quickly, we can reach it before the storm,’ the vampire said.

‘Lead us there,’ Tarsus replied. ‘And be quick about it.’

Mannfred laughed and kicked his beast into motion. Ashigaroth took a running leap and hurtled into the air. Tarsus shouted orders to his Warrior Chamber, readying them to march. The Stormcasts snapped to attention and fell in along either side of the column of pilgrims.

Tarsus turned his attention back to the pilgrims. The one who had spoken of the temple wore a heavy, much-dented breastplate over her dark robes, with a gorget in the shape of a jawbone. Her long, black hair was tightly braided and woven about her head, and her dark skin was marked by pale scars where it was not bound in rags or hidden beneath rusty chainmail. She carried a heavy hammer in one hand, its wide head decorated with intricately carved skulls, and he had no doubt that she knew how to wield it.

‘You were heading to this… Sepulchre, then, lady…?’

‘I am Aisha,’ she said, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I stand watch over our flock, on our pilgrimage to the great temple.’ She trembled as she spoke, though whether in awe of him, or something else, he could not say. He recognized her as one of the pilgrims who had sought to put up a defence against their attackers earlier. He inclined his head, one warrior to another.

‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights,’ he said, looking down at her. She was afraid, but her fear did not control her. ‘You have nothing to fear from us,’ he rumbled. ‘We will let no harm come to you.’

‘I know. That you bear that symbol says as much,’ she said, reaching out as if to touch the sigil emblazoned on his hammer. She pulled her hand back at the last moment.

Gerot cleared his throat. ‘We have heard the rumble of thunder, and seen lightning flash in the dark clouds. Travellers whispered that the storms which have wracked our lands these past months have brought with them warriors, clad in shimmering armour. We in Morrsend did not believe it.’

‘Sigmar has not deserted you,’ Tarsus said.

‘No,’ Aisha said, ‘not Sigmar.’

Before Tarsus could ask her who she meant, the old man spoke up.

‘Hush,’ Gerot said, though not sharply. ‘Forgive her, my lord. Aisha has ever spoken her mind, in all things.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Will you allow us to accompany you to this temple?’ Tarsus asked. It was not a request, though he phrased it as such. A structure such as this temple might just be one of the nine citadels they were searching for, whether Mannfred was aware of it or not. While it was his mission to find a route into the underworld, it was his duty to see that no harm came to the downtrodden.

‘We would be glad of it,’ Gerot said, with only a moment of hesitation. He bowed his head and led his people back to their carts as Tarsus made his way to the head of the column. In moments, it began to move with a clatter of bells and the crash of sigmarite. Mannfred and his dread abyssal swooped overhead, driving against the wind, followed closely by the winged Prosecutors, who would keep watch over the flanks of the column.

The landscape was as ragged as the mortals who sought to traverse it. Immense dunes of powdered blood rose up to slouch against the cracked stones of half-buried towers. As they marched, Tarsus saw what remained of an ancient guard tower, split in two with sand pouring down from its upper levels like a waterfall, or perhaps an hourglass. The strengthening wind carved the dunes into sepulchral shapes – yawning skulls and hooded figures which seemed to pursue the column from dune to crimson dune.

More than once they found themselves walking across flat stones, or in the lee of a shattered wall or through the ribcage of some long-dead titanic beast. There were many of the latter in evidence, and Tarsus thought of the great bats Mannfred had spoken of. He glimpsed fragments of bone and broken weapons scattered across the landscape, as the wind whipped the blood-sands into a frenzy. Skulls, human and otherwise, were nestled in the cracks and crevices of the tumbledown ruins they passed. They burned with an eerie purple light which cast strange shadows across their path. Worse were the uncanny shrieks which at first seemed to be merely the wind slashing through ruin and wreck, but which soon became hideously distinct.

‘This realm has been at war for centuries,’ Lord-Relictor Ramus said as he joined his Lord-Celestant at the head of the column. ‘Here lies proof of that. How often have we seen similar devastation since coming here?’ The reliquary staff he carried pulsed with a blue nimbus, which kept the worst of the wind at bay.

‘This realm is not unique in that regard,’ Tarsus said, glancing at the other Stormcast.

‘How are the mortals?’ Tarsus asked.

‘Fearful, but grateful,’ Ramus said. ‘We are being followed. The enemy were merely routed, not destroyed. They pursue us.’

‘Are they close?’

‘We outpace them for the moment. They are wary. I suspect that they too seek shelter from the coming storm. Even daemon-kissed flesh is no proof against the fury I feel in the air,’ Ramus said. ‘I can feel the dark magic which created this place rising with it. There are spirits trapped here, bound to this place of slaughter in the moment of their death. They press close about us, Tarsus, hungry for our lives and light. Look – see.’

Tarsus peered ahead, where flickering half-shapes moved through the stirring sands and ruins. His eye could not properly fix on them. They were there, but not. Men, he thought, or so they had once been.

‘I see them,’ he said. ‘We cannot stop, Ramus. The mortals will die without proper shelter, and I shall not abandon them to either the angry dead or the Bloodbound.’

‘Indeed, stopping would be a singularly foolish decision,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth dropped from the sky and landed close by.

The keening wails of unseen predators rose and fell amidst the surge of the wind and the hiss of the blood-sands, vile shrieks which chilled the blood and set the pilgrims’ animals bellowing in fear. ‘What are they?’

‘Hungry,’ Mannfred said. ‘They hunt the skies, as they did in life, when the black wind blows and old magic stirs.’

He held up a hand, and Tarsus saw that it was limned with a darkling light. ‘Behold the curse of Nagash, my friend. Where he has passed, the dead do not rest easy, and even now they hunt our foes. Luckily for us, we have found sanctuary just over the next rise. Come.’ Mannfred turned Ashigaroth about and set off without a further word.

The temple rose up from a cradle of shattered streets and half-collapsed buildings like a crown on a corpse. Its minarets were broken and its walls were sagging and derelict, but they still stood, which was more than Tarsus could say for the ruins which spread out around it.

‘A dreadful fate befell this place,’ Ramus said, as they led the column towards the scattered remnants of what had once been the city gates. ‘If Nagash could do this…’

‘Then he will be a powerful ally,’ Tarsus said. ‘I understand your worries, my friend. But we have our duty and we must see it through, to whatever end awaits us. We must trust in Sigmar. We are Stormcasts, and we can do no less. Much is demanded of those…’

‘…to whom much is given,’ Ramus replied.

Mannfred led the column swiftly through the ruins, and the Stormcasts did what they could to hurry their charges along. Eerie shadows stretched through the ruins, keeping pace with them, and the Prosecutors reported seeing enormous forms hurtling through the storm, riding the winds as they grew ever stronger.

More than once, strange, ghostly shapes coalesced from the whirling blood-sands and lunged towards the pilgrims and their protectors. The Stormcasts met these spectral assaults staunchly, and the phantoms burst into clouds of red as they were struck by sigmarite weapons or by Ramus’ lightning. Mannfred alone bore the winds without concern. His dead flesh remained untouched by either the stinging sands or the phantoms, which shied away from him like jackals avoiding the attention of a lion.

The sounds of battle echoed from the dunes beyond the ruins, and immense, soul-cutting screams echoed out over the crumbled walls and tumbled towers. The undead horrors which hunted this wasteland had found other prey.

By the time they reached what had once been the gates of the temple, the storm had grown so strong that Tarsus could barely see past his hand. The Stormcasts had been forced to surround the pilgrims and their carts. The Liberators raised their shields and faced them outwards, creating a moving enclosure of sigmarite that protected mortal flesh from the flaying winds and hungry ghosts darting out of the storm. Mannfred led them through the ruined gatehouse and towards what had once been the inner wall of the temple. There, an open archway invited entrance. As the Stormcasts and their charges approached it, the ghosts faded away, retreating back into the storm.

‘They flee,’ Ramus said.

‘No,’ Mannfred said, as he led them through the archway. ‘But they are wary of this place.’

Tarsus scanned the broken walls which protected the inner structure of the temple, but saw neither guards nor even lookouts. Where they were in one piece, the walls provided some protection from the wind, and the main bastion of the temple looked to be in relatively good shape. The Stormcasts followed the vampire into the temple courtyard, where a line of robed and cowled shapes awaited them, hands folded into their sleeves. There were at least seventy, the Lord-Celestant thought.

‘Priests,’ Tarsus murmured.

‘But why are they out here?’ Ramus said, as he and Tarsus stepped forwards through the shields of their warriors. They were accompanied by Mannfred, who had dismounted. The vampire had one hand on his sword, and he cast a warning glance at Tarsus as one of the robed figures came to meet them.

‘Welcome, wayfarers, to the bastion of Final Rest,’ the priest said solemnly, his voice carrying easily despite the roar of the storm. He spread his hands as if to indicate the pilgrims, who now clustered within the walls, their voices raised in celebration. ‘We feared that the storm would arrive before you. I am Brother Markus. I bid you welcome and ask only that you leave behind some of the happiness you bring.’

He turned towards Tarsus. The Lord-Celestant caught the flash of a yellow gaze within the shadowed folds of the hood.

‘They are vampires,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Mannfred said. He watched the priests warily. ‘But not like me. I have heard rumours, but gave them little credence.’ He shook his head. ‘Fools and mad things, hiding away in this waste since the coming of Chaos. Much hardship has befallen the Realm of Death since the day Nagash fell, and only the strong persevere.’ As he spoke, Gerot and Aisha moved slowly towards Brother Markus.

‘We bid you greetings, restful brother,’ the old man wheezed as he approached the priests. ‘We come from Morrsend to honour the old debt and deliver to you your tithe, as we swore in bygone days.’ He glanced at the Stormcasts. ‘We would not have survived the journey, were it not for these warriors.’

Brother Markus looked at Tarsus and bowed his head. ‘Then they too are welcome. Stay, and be safe from storm and phantom.’ The vampire looked up, eyes flashing. He pulled his hood back, revealing a cadaverous countenance. He had a face like a skull, his skin stretched tight, and his eyes were cavernous pits. ‘We ask only that the debt be honoured and the tithe be shared, so that we might return to our contemplation of the Corpse Geometries.’

‘As was sworn, so shall it be,’ Gerot said, his voice trembling slightly as he extended an arm. ‘Take your tithe, brother, and with thanks.’

More pilgrims stepped forwards, rolling back their sleeves to extend their arms. Markus took Gerot’s arm and his thin lips peeled back from his fangs. Tarsus, suddenly aware of what was coming, made to step forwards, but Mannfred stopped him with a look.

A moment later, Markus sank his fangs into Gerot’s arm, and the old man winced, but did not cry out. The other priests did the same with the pilgrims who had stepped forwards, until all seventy-seven of the vampires had fed. It was over in moments.

Markus sighed and scraped a loose droplet of crimson from his mouth as Aisha and others saw to their wounded companions.

‘The tithe is… acceptable, my friends,’ he said slowly. ‘And we thank you for the gift we have received. Wait out the storm’s fury, or stay as long as you wish. There is water in the temple storerooms, and what we have is yours.’

The pilgrims began to unhook their oxen and unload their carts, some carrying heavy baskets of food and other supplies up the wide steps into the temple.

‘Why give them blood?’ Tarsus asked Aisha, as she helped Gerot bandage his arm.

‘Would you prefer that they take it?’ Mannfred said, smiling unpleasantly.

Tarsus ignored him. ‘What is this tithe?’

‘Morrsend owes a debt of blood to the seventy-seven Restful Brothers, my lord,’ Gerot said. ‘In the time after the coming of Chaos, when the ground and sky were in upheaval, they defended our people from the enemies of man. They fought and bled in our name. Now, they fight no more. And so we watch over them, as they once watched over us. The dead hold their honour sacred. Can the living do any less?’

He glanced at Mannfred as he spoke. The vampire frowned and pulled his cloak tight about him before walking away to confer with Brother Markus. Gerot watched them for a moment and then said, ‘That one, however…’

‘He has fought beside us, and bravely,’ Tarsus said.

‘The dead, like the living, come in many shades,’ Gerot said. He peered at Tarsus. ‘That one bears watching, my lord.’

Tarsus began to ask what the old man meant when he heard a shout from above. ‘Bull-Heart, the enemy is at hand,’ a Prosecutor called down, as he swooped overhead. ‘I see the gleam of their blades and hear their howls, even with the storm.’

‘It appears our respite is over,’ Tarsus said. He joined Mannfred and Brother Markus.

‘Will you fight with us?’ he asked the priest.

‘We do not fight. We make war no longer,’ Brother Markus said softly.

‘Regardless, brother, war is here, and you cannot avoid it,’ Tarsus said. ‘The foe is at your gate and you must stand or be trampled beneath him.’

‘We will not fight,’ Markus said, more sternly. ‘Let him come. Our choice is made.’ His eyes flashed as he spoke, from yellow to red. Tarsus tensed, wondering if, despite his words, Markus were readying himself to attack.

Mannfred quickly stepped between them. ‘So it is, brother – but our choice is to fight. Will you deny us that?’ he said smoothly.

The other vampire hesitated. He gazed at Mannfred searchingly and Tarsus wondered what they had been speaking of, before he had interrupted them. Then, head bowed, the priest stepped back. ‘As you will.’ He turned and led the other priests away, into the temple.

‘Why will they not fight?’ Tarsus demanded. ‘Are they cowards?’

‘Of a sort,’ Mannfred said. ‘Leave them be, for now. We…’ He trailed off as Aisha approached them. ‘Well, what have we here?’

Tarsus held up a hand, silencing Mannfred. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Aisha lifted her chin. ‘We wish to stand with you, to protect the brothers and our own.’

Tarsus shook his head, wondering at such loyalty. ‘You can, but inside the temple. We will hold the outside,’ he said.

‘We do not fear them,’ she said quickly, lifting her own hammer. ‘In Morrsend, we are taught that to send the enemy down into death is the greatest offering we can make.’

Tarsus inclined his head. ‘And so you shall, if we fail. For then it will fall to you to defend yourselves and this place. Fight well, Aisha of Morrsend.’ She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it, nodded and turned away, calling out to her people. The pilgrims began to file quickly into the temple and Tarsus left them to it.

‘And what of me? Shall I draw the fallen from their slumber?’ Mannfred said, smiling slightly. He stretched out a hand, as if to clutch at the sand that hissed through the air about them. ‘The air here is thick with the stuff of death, my friend. It shall be but the work of moments to bind them to my will and set them loose…’

‘No,’ Tarsus said. ‘The dead have done enough. Leave the rest to the living.’ He did not want to owe the vampire any more than he already did. The Stormcasts could win their own battles.

And you would do well to remember that, he thought, looking at Mannfred.

The vampire shrugged. ‘Very well. I will not insist.’ He bowed low. ‘Direct me, my lord. Where would you have me? On the walls? At the gate? Shall I take up shield and hammer and stand in the vanguard?’

‘You mock me,’ Tarsus said.

‘Possibly,’ Mannfred said, straightening. He set his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Ashigaroth and I shall take to the sky to do what we can, if you have no objections.’

‘Fight well, Mannfred,’ Tarsus said. He held out his hand. Though he could not bring himself to entirely trust the vampire, he could find no fault in his courage. Mannfred looked at him for a moment, and then took the proffered hand.

‘May the day bring you glory, Tarsus,’ Mannfred said. He turned and leapt into Ashigaroth’s saddle. The dread abyssal reared up, shrieking, and leapt towards the wall. It struck the stones and bounced off, climbing the wind until it was lost to sight in the howling sands. Tarsus turned his attention to the preparation of the defences.

‘Move those stones into the opening. Get the wagons turned,’ he said, directing his warriors. The pilgrims’ oxen had been herded into one of the few outbuildings that clung to the outside of the temple, out of the way, and the carts were being manhandled by Stormcasts into the many gaps in the stone walls which surrounded the temple courtyard. Other Stormcasts were completing the destruction of the fallen pillars and dragging the oblong chunks into place inside the archway. They moved quickly, and within minutes the courtyard was as defensible as they could make it.

Liberators took up positions behind the carts and along the bottom of the walls as Judicators climbed to the rickety ramparts which lined sections of the wall above. He’d ordered the Prosecutors to the minarets and dome of the temple roof, to keep an eye on the enemy’s approach. As he helped one of his warriors wedge a cart into place, a Prosecutor dropped into the courtyard and shouted, ‘Bull-Heart, they come!’

Tarsus peered out through the gap. Outside, amidst the howling winds, a tall shape had clambered to the top of the shattered gatehouse and now stood watching them. He recognized what the warrior was easily enough – a doom-handed champion of Chaos, clad in hell-forged armour, and carrying a heavy, long-hafted mace in his hands. A cloak of scabrous fur flapped about the warrior’s shoulders, and his helm was moulded in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head. He appeared unconcerned by the stinging red sands which rose and fell around him.

‘There you are,’ Tarsus said to himself. It was ever the same – the champions of the Bloodbound could not resist announcing themselves.

‘Let us in, little men,’ the Chaos champion rumbled, his impossibly deep voice echoing from within his wolf-helm and carrying easily to the ears of the defenders, despite the storm. He spread his arms, and howling bloodreavers and savage blood warriors rose from the ever-shifting blood-sands where they had crouched, waiting. ‘We but seek shelter from the storm and the night-things which harry us.’

Tarsus looked out at the foe, trying to gauge their numbers, but the growing turbulence made it difficult. He guessed that his small Stormhost was outnumbered almost three to one.

‘I am Gorewolf. I take what I wish, and none may resist me,’ the champion continued, his voice growing louder. ‘Now, I take this place in the name of Khorne!’

He lifted his great daemon-headed mace over his head. At this signal, his followers started forwards with a roar, charging pell-mell towards the crumbled walls of the monastery through the undulating curtain of red sands.

Tarsus shook his head and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the Liberator standing beside him. ‘So many soon to be dead,’ he said.

‘We shall put them to rout as before, Lord-Celestant,’ the Liberator said.

‘Aye, that we shall,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer. ‘Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ his Warrior Chamber roared in reply, as they began to beat upon their shields and stamp upon the ground.

‘Who will hold, when all others fail?’ he cried.

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Judicators – make your judgement,’ Tarsus bellowed to the retinues crouched behind the ramparts above him. Boltstorm crossbows cracked and death rippled out along the front ranks of the enemy. The fallen were trampled by those behind them, who plunged on, heedless of the casualties. ‘Liberators, hold the wall. Do not let them in. Fall back only when you must. Zarus,’ he called, as the Liberators readied themselves. Zarus, Prosecutor-Prime of the Bull-Hearts, dropped down into the courtyard from his perch on the wall.

‘Speak and I shall make it so,’ Zarus said, as he folded his crackling wings behind him and smashed a fist into his chest in salute.

‘Do you remember when we took the walls of Starhold, and what we did there?’ Tarsus said, clasping the other Stormcast by the shoulder guards. ‘When the enemy threatened to overwhelm the other Warrior Chambers, before we could come to their aid?’

Zarus laughed sharply. ‘I do!’

‘It may come to that again. It shall fall to you, as it did then, Wallbreaker,’ Tarsus said, using the other Stormcast’s war-name. He motioned to the wall. ‘Bring those ancient stones down and bury the enemy.’ He turned and gestured to Ramus.

‘Here, my Lord-Celestant,’ Ramus said. He stalked across the courtyard, surrounded by his Paladins. ‘We await your orders.’

‘You and your Paladins will hold the outer chambers. Protect the pilgrims. See that no harm comes to them.’ Tarsus glanced back towards the walls. ‘We shall hold here, until it is no longer tenable, then we will retreat and join you.’

‘You believe they will get in,’ Ramus said.

‘These walls are old and weak. They were not meant for war even when they were strong. Now, they are little better than cloth. Our foe fights not for victory, but for survival, and it is for survival’s sake that we must hold him at bay. When the time comes, we will retreat to the outer chambers of the temple, and you must be there to meet us. Inside the temple they will scatter into groups, looking for loot, food and slaughter, and then we shall smash them piecemeal.’

Ramus nodded and thumped the ground with the end of his reliquary staff. ‘It shall be done, Bull-Heart. This Gorewolf shall regret showing us his fangs. We shall trample this yelping pack into the dust, as they deserve.’

‘Who will be left standing?’ Tarsus said.

‘Only the faithful,’ Ramus replied, bowing his head.

‘Only the faithful, my friend. Go,’ Tarsus said, hefting his hammer. He drew his sword and went to join his men at the walls, just as the first of the enemy reached them. Axes hacked and chopped at the improvised barricades as the Liberators struck at their wielders. When a barricade fell, the Liberators were there, shields locked, to frustrate the efforts of their foes. But there were too many Bloodbound. Tarsus knew it was only a matter of time until a gap was opened in his lines.

The next moments passed in a whirlwind of clashing steel and dying screams. He saw a trio of Liberators bowled over by a wild-eyed blood warrior that charged its way through an overturned cart and fought on, despite the skybolts lodged in his torso and skull. Gripped by a murderous frenzy, he hacked and slashed at the Stormcasts until Soros brought his lightning hammer down on the Bloodbound’s head.

Tarsus killed a heavily scarred bloodreaver with a blow from his hammer, and saw more barricades shattered and broken by the berserk warriors of the Bloodbound. They were determined to gain the temple, and took no heed of their own casualties. He blocked a looping slash from a jagged blade and drove his shoulder into the chest of his attacker, crushing bone and tearing flesh. As the body fell he spun, bringing his weapons together to catch the edge of an axe as it dropped towards his head.

The blood warrior roared wordlessly as Tarsus forced him back. All around them, Stormcasts retreated, allowing the Bloodbound to enter so that the Judicators on the wall could fire on them. When he judged that the bulk of the enemy were either just inside the gaps or trying to push past those who were, Tarsus tore his hammer free of his opponent’s axe and waved it, signalling the Judicators to pull back from their positions. The blood warrior staggered forwards, off balance.

‘Wallbreaker – bring it down,’ Tarsus roared as he slammed his helm against the blood warrior’s head. His adversary reeled back, dazed, and Tarsus severed his axe-hand at the wrist. He smashed the dying warrior off his feet and sheathed his sword so that he could pull a wounded Liberator up.

‘Fall back, Bull-Hearts,’ he cried, swinging his hammer out to drive back any Bloodbound who drew too close. He saw Zarus lead his Prosecutors overhead and watched in satisfaction as they hurled their hammers at the sagging wall.

The walls came down with a roar, filling the courtyard with sand and dust. Red-armoured bodies were buried beneath the rubble, but not all of them. They charged out of the rising haze, howling like hungry beasts, with Gorewolf at their head. His great mace swung out and sent a Liberator flying backwards to land in a broken heap.

‘Back,’ Tarsus roared. ‘Back to the temple and lock shields as you go. Let no enemy pass you.’

Judicators continued to fire as they retreated along the remaining ramparts, pulling back towards the outer chamber of the temple. The Liberators gave ground grudgingly, making the enemy pay in blood for every step they took. Hammers rose and fell, and bodies littered the courtyard. Flashes of brilliant blue marked where a grievously injured Stormcast was wrenched back to Azyr, destined for Reforging.

The Stormcasts retreated up the steps of the temple, fighting the entire way. Broken bodies marked their ascent as Gorewolf’s warriors attacked again and again. Finally, they reached the great doors and were able to slam them shut, buying themselves a momentary respite.

‘Soros, lead our brothers to the rallying point,’ Tarsus said, as he retreated into the temple. The corridors were lit by weakly flickering stanchions, which glowed with an amethyst light. ‘I go to find the priests. The enemy will flood these corridors soon enough, and they need to be warned.’

‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant,’ Soros said. Tarsus nodded in satisfaction and peeled off from the group, heading down a side corridor. The temple was large, but it was mostly a series of chambers that surrounded an inner nave.

Where are you? Tarsus thought, as he hurried along the corridor. They were allies, but there was no telling how long it would last. The dead cannot be trusted. The thought was never far from his mind. Some buried lesson from his old life, come to light again. No, Mannfred could not be trusted, but they needed him. The vampire swore that he could help them find a way into the underworld. And since this did not seem to be such a gate, they still required his aid.

But while he was an untrustworthy creature, he was also as brave as any Stormcast. There was a cruel sort of courage in Mannfred von Carstein, that in more savage times might even have been called heroism. Tarsus found the enormous iron-banded double doors which led to the nave and forced them open. Beyond them was a wide chamber. The vaulted ceiling was held up by rows of stone pillars which ran the length of the massive chamber. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting long shadows across the marble floor. At the centre of the chamber, on an enormous dais covered in sigils which represented the phases of the moon and the shapes of the stars, the seventy-seven Restful Brothers knelt in neat, orderly rows, heads bowed, faces turned away from the door.

Tarsus closed the doors behind him, but the priests did not stir. Swiftly, he strode towards them, noticing as he did so the great skulls, each as wide across as a Stormcast, which hung from the ceiling.

‘Terrorgheists,’ Mannfred said, from behind him. ‘Titanic bats. Their spirits hunt with the storm.’

Tarsus turned. ‘Why are you here?’

Mannfred didn’t answer. He patted Ashigaroth’s neck as the beast trotted out from behind a pillar. Tarsus was surprised at how silently such a large creature could move. He shook his head, annoyed by the vampire’s lack of response, but there was no time to press the issue.

‘The enemy will soon breach the inner chambers of the temple. We must get the brothers to safety,’ Tarsus said, starting towards the steps. Mannfred slid in front of him.

‘They are safe enough. And they will not go with you, in any event.’

‘They must, or they will die,’ Tarsus said as he pushed Mannfred aside.

‘Then they will die, Tarsus,’ he said. ‘Maybe that is what they want…’

‘Do you not recall the torments the Bloodbound inflicted upon you? Would you wish the same on them?’ Tarsus asked. ‘I know vampires are not as men, but even you cannot be so callous as to condemn your own kind to–’

Mannfred gave a bark of laughter. ‘My own kind? Do not insult me, Stormcast,’ he hissed. ‘I am better than these wretches. In my veins flows the blood of kings. I do not crouch in the dark, forgotten and forgetting.’

‘Then show me,’ Tarsus said. ‘Show me how I might convince them to save themselves, O son of kings. Show them how to fight as you do.’

Mannfred’s face twisted and his mouth moved silently. Then, with a growl, he stepped back. ‘It is too late. Our enemy is here. I hear his bestial tread, coming closer. Gird yourself, Tarsus. You wish to save them? Then we must fight. And let not one enemy past you.’

Mannfred raised his sword and turned towards the great doors to the chamber as they were smashed off their hinges. A horde of Bloodbound poured in, Gorewolf at their head.

‘Death! Death and ruin, for the Lord of Skulls,’ Gorewolf howled. His warriors plunged past him, chanting the Blood God’s name. The chamber echoed with their cries and the sounds of the battle outside as the Stormcasts clashed with the enemy in the corridors of the temple.

Tarsus brought his weapons together and stepped forwards, Mannfred by his side.

‘What is it you Stormcasts say at moments such as this? Some pithy mantra, regarding faith,’ the vampire asked, as he gestured to Ashigaroth, pacing nearby.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus said.

‘That’s the one,’ Mannfred murmured. ‘How droll.’ He extended his sword towards the enemy. ‘Only the faithful, then.’

With a duellist’s grace, he sprang and cut down the first of the bloodreavers to reach them. Then, with a powerful leap, he was once more on Ashigaroth’s back and swooping towards the Bloodbound. Tarsus was only a half-step behind them, sword and hammer sweeping out in crackling arcs to knock his foes from their feet.

As he fought, Tarsus saw Gorewolf barrel towards the kneeling priests, cracking the marble floor with every step. He raised his mace high and roared. Tarsus lunged forwards to intercept the Chaos champion. He heard Mannfred call out behind him but he did not slow. His sword slashed out and a blood warrior fell, headless. His hammer cracked the skull of a second, and then he collided with Gorewolf, driving the surprised champion back into one of the pillars.

The haft of Gorewolf’s mace crashed down, and Tarsus staggered back. The mace swept out, nearly taking his head off. As he stepped back, he saw a group of Stormcasts, led by Soros, rushing through the doors to fall upon the Bloodbound. The Retributor-Prime roared and flattened a bloodreaver with a single blow from his hammer.

‘Soros,’ he cried, ‘protect the priests!’

Gorewolf howled and surged towards him. They traded blows back and forth between the pillars. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mannfred fighting alongside Soros. Dark energies ripped from the vampire’s hands as he unleashed killing spells, and Ashigaroth tore the life from those opponents who got too close. Mannfred fought ferociously, but even so, a trio of warriors slid past him and charged towards Tarsus and Gorewolf. Tarsus lunged forwards and shoved his enemy off balance into a pillar, and whirled to face this new threat.

The first bloodreaver went down beneath his hammer then the second fell to his sword. The last came at him in a rush, howling out his dark god’s name. His blade skittered across Tarsus’ chest plate. The Lord-Celestant parried a second blow, smashing the warrior’s arm with his hammer in the process. He stepped forwards and drove his sword up into the bloodreaver’s stomach, picking the barbarian up off of his feet. Tarsus pivoted and hurled the body off his blade even as Gorewolf surged towards him, mace raised. They crashed together, weapons locked.

As he strained against Gorewolf, Tarsus caught a glimpse of the priests. They were no longer kneeling in a line. Instead, a number of them were clustered about the twitching body of the man he had just killed, their heads lowered like hogs at the trough. The others pushed and shoved at one another as if trying to get close, hissing and snarling. Suddenly, one reared up, head thrown back to reveal the blood which coated its face and robes. The vampire screamed as if in pain, and his cry was taken up by the others as all seventy-seven of them began to writhe and twitch abominably.

Limbs swelled and twisted with a sound like snapping branches, and human flesh grew thin and tore away to reveal bulky, bestial bodies. Twisted, bat-like faces, smeared with blood, swung towards Tarsus and his foe. Mad, bulging eyes fixed on them, and dark muzzles peeled back from yellow fangs. Varghulf, Tarsus thought suddenly, the word rising to the surface of his memory as the heaving, hairy shapes sprang forwards on bent wing-stumps and jointed legs.

Tarsus reacted quickly. He shoved Gorewolf back, towards the approaching monsters. Two of the beasts leapt onto the champion, bearing him to the ground. The Chaos champion managed to knock one sprawling with his mace, even as the other buried its great fangs in his throat, savaging him. Gorewolf’s cries were cut short as one of the seventy-seven brothers tore out his jugular, painting a nearby pillar with his blood. His struggles faded and his mace clattered to the floor.

Several varghulfs pursued Tarsus as the rest stampeded towards the doors and the warriors still locked in combat there. He darted behind a pillar as they came at him in a rush. One struck the pillar and swung around it, its claws tearing chunks out of the stone as it scrambled down towards him, jaws snapping. A second leapt to the pillar opposite, cutting off his escape route. Tarsus whirled as a third smashed into him, knocking him off his feet. It tore his sword from his hand as they slid backwards in a tangle. It ducked forwards, jaws wide, and he forced the haft of his hammer between its teeth. He could hear the screams of the Bloodbound and the cries of his Stormcasts as the other varghulfs fell upon the combatants, roaring and shrieking.

The varghulf on top of him jerked back and forth, trying to wrench his weapon from his grip. Its wing-stumps battered at him, but he refused to let go, knowing that to do so was to die. Then, suddenly, its snout was pried back, away from him. Mannfred crouched atop its back, one hand clutching its upper jaw and his other wrapped in its shaggy mane. The varghulf reared up, screeching, as Mannfred lost his footing and tumbled to the floor. Tarsus drove his hammer into the creature’s throat, knocking it back. Mannfred scrambled to his feet, hands crackling with cold fire. He spat a guttural invocation and the varghulf shrilled as black flames suddenly sprouted from its hairy form. It staggered away from them, howling in pain.

Another lunged for him from between two pillars, but was knocked sprawling by Ashigaroth. The dread abyssal hissed in warning, as it crouched protectively near its master.

‘Back,’ Mannfred snarled, hands raised towards the varghulfs. ‘Back, you wretches, or else I shall teach you the true meaning of torment.’ He glared at the other varghulfs, who stared back at them with glittering eyes. ‘I am Mannfred von Carstein, and I will not be prey for blood-mad beasts.’

Slowly, reluctantly, the beasts slunk away. Tarsus turned, watching them as they moved for the shattered doors, wailing like lost souls. The others joined them, leaving the savaged bodies of the Bloodbound where they lay and the remaining Stormcasts where they stood. In a frenzied mass, the varghulfs exploded out into the temple, the echoes of their cries trailing after them. Soros stepped forwards and raised his hammer in salute. Tarsus returned the gesture and turned back to Mannfred.

‘I tried to warn you,’ Mannfred said harshly. ‘It’s the blood – they cannot risk the taste of blood. It drives them into a frenzy. That is why they came here. To hide away from battle, and the slaughter that comes with it.’

‘They are cursed,’ Tarsus said.

‘They are weak,’ Mannfred spat. ‘Unable to control themselves and thus of no use to anyone. They are beasts.’

‘Even so, we should go and make sure that they are no threat to the rest of my warriors or our charges,’ Tarsus said. He retrieved his sword and they made their way back out into the temple corridors, followed by Soros and the others.

Bloodbound bodies marked the path taken by the varghulfs. When they came to the entryway, they were met by Ramus and his vanguard.

The Lord-Relictor gestured with his staff towards the storm-wracked courtyard. ‘I saw.’ Before Tarsus could speak, he went on. ‘They pursued a number of our foes out into the storm. They did not seem eager to match claws with our shield wall,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

‘Not when there’s easier prey about,’ Mannfred said. He peered out into the storm. ‘They will glut themselves on the enemy and perish in the storm, or the sun that comes after. And even if they do not, we will be gone by the time they return. We must go. Now.’

Tarsus shook his head. ‘We will stay until the storm has passed. The people here are under our protection and they will not survive either the storm or those beasts should they return looking for easier prey.’

Mannfred looked as if he wanted to argue, but said nothing. He swept his cloak about him and stalked back down the corridor, leaving Tarsus and the other Stormcasts in silence.

It took a night and a day for the storm to die down. All signs of battle in the courtyard had been buried beneath the sand and dust. The seventy-seven Restful Brothers had not come back, either in one form or another, for which Tarsus was grateful. As the weak sun faded to dusk, the Stormcasts readied themselves to depart.

‘What will you do now?’ Tarsus asked, as he stood on the steps of the temple. His Stormhost was already on the march, heading west towards the mountains.

Aisha shrugged. ‘We came to serve the brethren for as long as they require, until they go back to their contemplations. And so we shall, when they return.’

‘If they return,’ Tarsus said.

‘They always do,’ Aisha replied, with a sad smile. ‘It is our duty to care for them, as best we can, so long as they allow. The dead hold their honour sacred.’

‘Can the living do any less?’ Tarsus asked. He extended his hand. Hesitantly, Aisha took it, clasping his forearm. ‘Much is demanded, of those to whom much is given,’ he said. ‘That is our saying, but I think it holds true for you as well, Aisha of Morrsend. Hold fast to your duty, and may Sigmar hear your prayers when the song of swords is begun.’

‘May a good death be yours, Tarsus of the Hallowed Knights,’ Aisha said. She released her hand and turned to rejoin her people, hammer across her shoulder.

‘So worthy,’ Mannfred said. ‘Such devotion, such dedication, to creatures who deserve neither.’ He spoke absently, as if thinking of something else entirely.

Tarsus examined the vampire where he sat atop his monstrous steed, casually stripping the flesh from a bloodreaver’s severed head. Mannfred had one leg thrown over Ashigaroth’s neck and was leaning back in his saddle, the very image of insouciance. It was a good performance, but the Stormcast could see the tension beneath the mask. Mannfred was eager to be away. Tarsus decided to take that as a good sign. He strode towards the vampire.

‘I did not thank you earlier.’

Mannfred did not look up from the bloody skull he’d been idly carving crooked sigils into, but he said, ‘Nor did you have to. I owe you a debt, Stormcast. We travel the same road and for the moment, our causes align.’

‘And what is your cause, Mannfred?’ Tarsus said. ‘You never said why you were in the temple. What were you looking for?’

Mannfred looked at him. ‘A sign, my friend. A sign that I am on the right path.’

‘And did you find it?’ Tarsus asked.

‘Yes,’ Mannfred said. He kicked Ashigaroth’s flanks, and the beast rose to its feet. ‘Yes, I believe I did,’ he called down, as the dread abyssal flung itself into the sky.

Tarsus watched the vampire swoop over the heads of his Stormcast, Gerot’s words echoing in his head. The dead, like the living, come in many shades, he thought. And that one bears watching…

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and the audio dramas Blackshields: The False War and Blackshields: The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes 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 drama Master of the Hunt. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden and Nagash: The Undying King. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

During the greatest battles of the War for Life, the Stormcast Eternals suffered a great tragedy: the Hallowed Knights Lord-Castellant Lorus Grymn was lost to the Realm of Chaos. Now his fellow Steel Souls venture into the domain of Nurgle himself in search of their lost comrade…

A Black Library Publication

First published 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 James Ryman.

Sands of Blood © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Sands of Blood, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-974-4

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(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.