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The Bridge of Seven Sorrows – Josh Reynolds

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden’

A Black Library Publication

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The Bridge of Seven Sorrows

Josh Reynolds

The dead belong to Nagash.

Even those who flee my grasp are yet my chattel. I can feel them still.

I can feel them as they draw near.

For all that I have been searching for them, they have come to me. The dead know their master, and they come at his call. They do not belong to Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor, who almost cost the Undying King his kingdom.

None may challenge Nagash. Nagash is all. Nagash is the sun and the void. Nagash is the core of all things, and it is by his will alone that this realm is suspended. His shoulders bear the weight of the Realm of Death, and his will alone holds back the assaults of Chaos.

Nagash endures.

Nagash is inevitable.

Out of his desolation will come perfect order. By his hands shall the Corpse Geometries be aligned once more, and reality set to rights. Where Nagash stirs, Chaos recedes. I shall wreak terrible agonies upon my enemies. I shall not stay my wrath, wherever it leads, even unto the golden pillars of Azyrheim. He who takes that which is mine shall be broken on the altar of his own hubris.

I shall not be denied.

Nagash cannot be denied. He has come among you and there is no escape. When Nagash commands your surrender, his voice is legion. Where he strides, stars gutter out. Where he stands, the earth groans. With a gesture, he can dry the seas or melt the ice.

All other gods are but shadows of Nagash. Sigmar or Khorne, dark god or light, they will fall before Nagash. There will be no god but Nagash.

The sun has set forever. Nagash stands in its place. His Mortarchs return to him from their sojourns in the dark, to serve and obey as is their purpose. They are Nagash’s will made manifest, his cunning given form, his fury unleashed. All are one in Nagash.

See what I have wrought. Imagine what is yet to come. Where I pass, confusion and fear are snuffed like candle flames, for Nagash is the ur-fear. Nagash is the end of all things, and he will liberate you from your servitude.

I cannot be destroyed. The dark lord tried. He broke my bones asunder and cast my spirit into the void, but I cannot be destroyed. I cannot be stopped. I shall have vengeance on those who stood against me. Against all the thieves and the betrayers.

What has been taken shall be reclaimed. The souls of the stolen draw near, and what I cannot have, I will destroy.

In the ruins of all that is, I shall make a new order.

Such is my will.

Such is the will of Nagash.

‘Drive them back, Stormcasts,’ Tarsus said, as he swept his hammer out and smashed a bloodreaver to the ground. He parried a blow from a saw-toothed axe and drove his elbow into its wielder’s crude crimson helm, crushing it. His weapons crackled with holy lightning as he struck out left and right, dropping the enemy with every blow.

The bloodreavers were maniacs but mortal, and none of them could stand before the Lord-Celestant of the Bull-Hearts. They began to break away, falling back in confusion.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he roared, as the enemy began to retreat through the stinking fog that clung to the immense skull-cairns which dominated the plains. More than once, the clamour of battle caused one of these cairns to shed an avalanche of skulls or else collapse entirely, sending a flood of bone rattling across the ground.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply from the small host of Hallowed Knights who fought alongside him, arrayed in a battle line. Hammers rose and fell, and broken bodies were left in their wake, to lie forgotten amidst the tumult of white flowers which shrouded the ground as far as the eye could see.

‘Who shall walk at Sigmar’s right hand?’ Tarsus said, bringing his weapons together above his head. Lightning sparked between them. Many of the bloodreavers were running now, their fury fading in the face of an all-too relentless enemy.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Bull-Hearts bellowed in reply, thumping their hammers against the inside of their shields in a tribal rhythm, one that rarely failed to set the enemy ill at ease.

‘Who will stand, though the world burns?’ Tarsus cried, cutting down another bloodreaver. ‘Who will face death, with shield and hammer? Who broke the back of the foe at the Cerulean Shore?’

‘Only the faithful! Only the faithful!’ the Stormcasts shouted as they struck down their enemies. Tarsus nodded in grim satisfaction. The Bull-Hearts had fought their way over mountains and across trackless wastes, through shattered ruins and the bowels of the earth, all to reach this point. They had clashed with the servants of the Ruinous Powers again and again, but had always been triumphant in the end. As they would be now.

Not all of the bloodreavers had fled. Some flung themselves at the shield wall, as if to halt its momentum through sheer audacity. They were trampled underfoot, and the Stormcasts marched on after the others, pursuing them through the skull-cairns.

As the Stormhost passed between two great piles of bones, built amid the ruins of a pair of shattered pyramids, the slopes erupted in armoured warriors – skullreapers clad in crimson and brass. Dozens of the maddened devotees of the Blood God hurled themselves amongst the Stormcasts, leaping from the cairns to crash down through the fog and land amidst the shield wall. Those who survived the fall immediately rose and launched themselves at the closest enemy they could see. Bolts of blue light shot upwards as Stormcasts perished beneath the berserk assault. As the Stormcasts focused on this new threat, the skullreapers were joined by others of their vile kind, pouring out from between the cairns and howling out abominable hymns.

Tarsus swatted a leaping bloodreaver out of the air and chopped down a second. A moment later he staggered as a blow crashed against his back. He wheeled about to see a blood warrior lunging for him through the fog. The air seemed to shimmer around the berserker as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ face. The Lord-Celestant parried the blow at the last second, and a crackling burst of lightning swept his opponent up and sent him tumbling through the air, wreathed in smoke.

‘My thanks, Ramus,’ said Tarsus, glancing aside at the Lord-Relictor, who swung his staff out to knock a skullreaper flat.

‘Their rout was a trap,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘As he said it would be,’ Tarsus said. He caught a blow on his hammer and turned it aside. Before his attacker could recover, the Lord-Celestant removed the skullreaper’s head from his shoulders.

‘A child could have seen it,’ Ramus growled. ‘Where is he?’ His hammer thudded down, cracking the skull of a bloodreaver. Before Tarsus could reply, the cairns which rose above them began to tremble and clatter. The sound drowned out the clamour of battle, and was so pervasive that it even penetrated the mindless fury of the Bloodbound. Tarsus looked around and saw a faint purple haze rising from the piled skulls. With a rush of cold air, a pale mist began to spill down the slopes of the cairns to mingle with the fog below. It spread swiftly, threading between the legs of the combatants, obscuring everything.

‘There,’ Tarsus said, as a strange murmur, as if of a hundred voices all whispering at once, rose about the combatants. Ghostly hands rose from the fog to clutch at the Bloodbound. Weapons slashed uselessly at the grasping limbs, and cries of rage soon became screams of fear. One by one, the servants of Khorne were dragged down into the haze, which soon flushed red. Only a few avoided this fate, stumbling free of their ethereal attackers, but the Stormcasts did not let them get far.

One of the blood warriors tore his way clear of the mist and wheeled about with a wild oath, eyes blazing. Before Tarsus could move to go after him, something crashed into the side of the cairn above and then vaulted off to crush the warrior beneath it. Ashigaroth straddled its victim with a shriek, dipping its bat-like skull and snapping its heavy jaws shut on the warrior’s head, silencing his cries.

‘Well done, Mannfred. Even as we planned,’ Tarsus said to the beast’s rider.

Mannfred von Carstein leaned forward in his saddle and nodded absently. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We should not tarry here.’

‘No,’ Tarsus agreed. The vampire’s manner made him wary. Normally, Mannfred was flippant, seemingly unconcerned about the world around him. But he had grown increasingly more withdrawn the closer they had come to the cairnlands. Something worried the vampire, and that, in turn, worried Tarsus.

‘We weren’t going to,’ Ramus said. ‘It was your idea to walk into this trap in the first place, instead of simply pushing through to our goal. We lost good warriors.’

‘You would have lost more, if we hadn’t flushed all of them out,’ Mannfred said. ‘You still might, if you don’t heed my advice – look.’ The vampire gestured towards the distant cairns, where the flower-strewn ground began a steep descent towards a flat, barren plain. The fog which clung to the cairns was thinner there, allowing them to see what lay beyond. They could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying.

‘Sigmar’s oath,’ Tarsus said, as he stared at the slaughter which stretched out before him across the plain below. A massive edifice of stone and bone, wrought into a gigantic fortified gateway, dominated the face of an enormous free-standing rock outcropping, and in its shadow, battle raged. Bloodbound clashed with the followers of Nurgle, and, in the distance, standards bearing the iconography of Tzeentch rose above the fray as great hordes of warriors fought across the barren waste of the cairnlands.

‘There must be thousands of them,’ Ramus said. ‘Even we might have some difficulty fighting our way through that.’

‘It is ever the same,’ Mannfred mused. ‘Lacking other foes, the servants of the Ruinous Powers turn upon one another. They fight because they know nothing else. There are hundreds of warbands in this region. The full strength of the enemy fell here, in the final days of Nagash’s reign,’ he said. ‘They still swarm these regions, battling over the shattered husks of the black pyramids and the barrow-walls which once protected the Starless Gates.’ He pointed towards the distant edifice.

‘The Starless Gates,’ Tarsus said. ‘Then the gate to Stygxx is near.’

‘Aye,’ Mannfred said. His hand dropped to the black shard shoved through his sword-belt. The Fang of Kadon gleamed with an oily radiance that set Tarsus’ teeth on edge.

Mannfred leaned forward. ‘Luckily, we will not have to attempt to fight our way through that.’ He gestured to the carnage below.

‘We do not fear battle, vampire,’ Ramus said, harshly.

‘Nor do I, Stormcast,’ Mannfred said, his annoyance plain. ‘But sometimes I question its efficacy. No, better to avoid it – you lack the numbers to punch through, in any event. Your ranks have thinned greatly since I joined you.’

‘You mean, since we rescued you?’ Ramus said. Mannfred shot the Lord-Relictor a venomous glance.

‘Enough. We have trusted his guidance this far,’ Tarsus said. He looked at Mannfred. ‘Lead on.’

Mannfred smiled and patted Ashigaroth’s neck. ‘It would be my pleasure, my friend.’ The dread abyssal leapt into the air and swooped away, followed closely by Tarsus’ Prosecutor retinues. The Stormhost was in motion a few moments later, marching across the cairnlands. Stormcasts could move quickly despite the weight of their armour, and they ate up the distance at a steady pace as they moved through the silent pyramids of piled skulls. Tarsus set his scouts on the flank facing the Starless Gates, to keep watch on the warbands fighting there. Despite his concern, their journey along the eastern rim of the hills and slopes which marked the barren stretch was uncontested. The Chaos forces in the region were seemingly more intent on joining the battle going on before the Starless Gates.

‘Even as he said,’ Tarsus said, to Ramus, as they marched at the head of the column. ‘They’re too busy fighting one another to notice us slipping around them.’

‘Or perhaps they simply don’t care,’ Ramus said. He looked up, tracking the dread abyssal as it flew ahead of them. ‘I do not trust him, Tarsus. Despite everything, he has ever pursued his own path. He is not guiding us – he is leading us, pointing us to where he wants us to go. But why?’

‘Because he wants what we want, though I’d wager for different reasons,’ Tarsus said.

Tarsus did not doubt Mannfred’s claims that they needed the Fang, though he did doubt the vampire’s true intentions with it. It was not, he was certain, for their benefit alone. No, Mannfred was playing a deeper game. The dead could not be trusted. An oath was an oath, a promise was a promise, and the vampire had sworn to lead them to Stygxx, but it wouldn’t be the first time Mannfred von Carstein had broken his word.

Ever since their venture into the ruins of Helstone, Tarsus had been haunted by memories from his past life, the faces of men and women, fellow warriors, champions of those final days, fighting alongside him. And among their number had been the face of Mannfred von Carstein. Mannfred, who had fought alongside the heroes of Helstone until that final hour when he had fled, leaving his allies to die in hopeless battle.

Tarsus looked up, watching the dread abyssal swoop through the slate-grey sky. The sun was a distant sphere of pale light, its strength held at bay by the will of Nagash, or so Mannfred claimed. Even so, the vampire had his hood up and his cloak wrapped tight about him to protect him from the watery light.

‘Were we allies once?’ Tarsus murmured. ‘Did you truly fight alongside me then, before I was chosen by Sigmar?’

Perhaps that was why he wanted to trust the vampire. But Mannfred had betrayed him, then. If he did so again… At the thought, Tarsus’ grip on the haft of his hammer tightened. He had told Mannfred nothing of his memories. Tarsem had died on the ramparts of Helstone and Tarsus Bull-Heart had a mission to accomplish, whatever the cost.

A cry from one of the Prosecutors above caught his attention and he motioned for the column to come to a halt. They had reached the mouth of a low, winding canyon that ran like a wound through the rocky ground. Enormous, rough-hewn cliffs stained purple rose up before them, and tapered back and down.

‘There,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth landed nearby. ‘Is it not a thing of beauty?’

‘It’s a canyon,’ Tarsus said.

‘It is more than that,’ Ramus said. He raised his staff and a soft blue light washed over the ground before them, revealing where the hard ground of the cairnlands suddenly gave way to coarse amethyst sands such as Tarsus had never seen before. ‘The soil is different here. The air as well. It is as if some force dropped this canyon here.’

‘It did,’ Mannfred said. He touched the Fang as if to reassure himself that he still had it. ‘Such is the will of Nagash, that reality itself gives way to him.’

A field of shattered Chaos icons and blasted standards marked the entrance to the canyon. They stretched as far as the eye could see, as if planted by an army which had then advanced, leaving them behind upright in the purple sands. The wind rose, and the rags of tanned flesh and hanks of greying hair which hung from the standards flapped and twisted in unpleasant ways.

‘Beauty is not the word I’d use,’ Ramus said.

‘Beautiful or not, we’re going in,’ Tarsus said, motioning his warriors forward.

As the Stormcasts advanced into the canyon, Tarsus caught sight of pale things wafting amongst the icons and heard the murmur of distant voices. He caught Mannfred’s eye.

‘Not all souls are fit to be forged anew and sent fresh into the fire of war. Some… are merely grist for the mill,’ the vampire said.

‘How long have they been here?’

‘How long have the stars hung suspended in the firmament?’ Mannfred said. He drew his cloak more tightly about himself. ‘Some of us must draw forth the dead with incantations, but Nagash draws them forth merely by striding across their graves. Where he walks, the dead stir and do not slumber again.’

‘You speak as if he were a god,’ Ramus said.

‘You speak as if he were not,’ Mannfred said.

‘A god would not have been driven into the dark, to cower among tattered wraiths and fleshless courtiers,’ Ramus said.

‘No, he would merely have shuttered the gates of his realm and left his people to die at the talons and blades of his enemies,’ Mannfred said. The Lord-Relictor turned towards him, but before he could speak, Tarsus interposed himself.

‘Peace, brother. We come in the spirit of peace. Let old grudges be forgotten and new alliances forged.’ He looked at Mannfred. ‘Even as we have done.’

‘Yes, and much has it profited us both,’ Mannfred said. He turned, to look back the way they had come. ‘The sun is stronger here than elsewhere, thanks to the attention of the Dark Gods, and I would rather not brave its glare any longer than I must. Shall we go?’

They had not gone much farther into the narrow, crooked confines of the canyon, however, when they were forced to halt once more. It had narrowed to a shallow point and in front of them rank upon rank of kneeling figures waited. Dust and white blossoms blew amongst them, but the figures did not stir. They were clad in baroque armour and clutched weapons of malign manufacture in skeletal hands. Where flesh might once have been visible, there was now only scoured bone. They filled the canyon, from one wall to the other, and their number stretched back to the great, bone-coloured archway set into its back wall.

The archway itself was more disturbing than the dead who knelt before it. It was a crooked thing of wrong angles and disorientating encrustations, shaped vaguely like a hooded figure bent forward with arms outstretched. It was made from stone and bone and other macabre materials. Strange sigils gleamed from its surface, glowing with a sickly light, and their radiance made the archway appear to undulate.

‘The underworld lies through that archway,’ Mannfred said.

‘What are they?’ Tarsus asked, his voice echoing eerily in the silence.

‘The Desolated Legion,’ Mannfred said. ‘They were Bloodbound, once… champions all, and high in the Blood God’s esteem. They were the first to invade these lands, once the barrow-walls were breached, and the first to feel the unfettered fury of Nagash. Now, they are wights – a reminder of Nagash’s power, and a warning to those who would test it.’

Old bloodstains marked the purple stones of the canyon, as well as the weapons of the dead men. Tarsus knew that an ocean of blood had been spilled here, and would be again, before the war against Chaos was done.

‘How many have tried?’ he asked.

Mannfred smiled. ‘Enough to glut even the Lord of Skulls, for a time. Wherever the gate appears they seek it out and if they are unlucky enough to find it, they die in their thousands.’

‘Will we suffer the same fate, I wonder,’ Ramus said. He stepped forward. As he did so, however, a ripple of motion shivered through the ranks of the kneeling dead. Ancient armour rattled as old bones twitched and bent heads slowly rose. Weirdling lights glimmered within every helm as the cold, mindless gazes of the dead became fixed on the intruders.

‘You will let us pass,’ Mannfred intoned. He raised his hand. Cold fire flickered around his fingers as he urged Ashigaroth forward. ‘Stand aside, warriors of the Desolated Legion. Stand aside, I say!’ The armoured ranks did not move. The silence stretched for one moment, then two, and then, with a creak of rusted joints, the Desolated Legion rose as one.

‘They are not listening,’ Mannfred hissed, in disbelief.

‘Ready your shields,’ Tarsus said. ‘Hold fast, Bull-Hearts.’ With a rattle of sigmarite, the Liberator retinues locked their shields, forming a wall of gleaming azure and silver. Mannfred snarled wordlessly and thumped Ashigaroth’s flanks with his heels. As the dread abyssal leapt into the air, the first of the wights moved. Tarsus stepped forward to intercept it and the rest of the Desolated Legion shuddered into motion.

The dead thing lurched forward, its axe hissing down. Tarsus smashed the weapon aside with his hammer and rammed his sword through a gap in his opponent’s armour. The wight staggered but didn’t fall. It raised its axe again and Tarsus stepped back, jerking his sword free with a screech of abused metal as he did so.

The axe slashed out and he was forced to twist aside. It chopped down, tearing his cloak, and he snapped around, catching the wight in the back of the skull with his hammer and causing it to stumble. He hacked at its neck and his sword bit through rusty metal and into bone. The wight’s head rolled free and he drove his shoulder into its chest, knocking it off its feet.

Tarsus took in the battlefield at a glance. Mannfred was still attempting to bend the dead to his will, as Ashigaroth kept its master out of their reach. The Stormcasts were holding the enemy back, but only just. The dead knew no fear and did not hesitate. They kept coming with relentless ferocity. Worse, not all of those that fell stayed down. As he watched, a trio of blue bolts streaked skyward. Then another two. His chest tightened as he thought of the brothers he had lost since the Bull-Hearts’ arrival in the Realm of Death. There were scarcely sixty of his warriors left now. How many would survive to see the completion of their mission? He shook his head, banishing the thought. They would see Sigmar’s will done, even if only one of them survived. They were the faithful, and they would be triumphant.

A second wight charged towards him, hefting a broken sword as it came. He blocked its blow and smashed its legs out from under it, dropping it into the dust. It slithered towards him, quick as a serpent, and he stamped on its head. Even as he stepped back, it began to push itself erect. With a roar, he brought both hammer and sword down on it, splitting it in two.

Even then, it struggled to rise. Ramus drove the haft of his staff into its chest and muttered a prayer. Lightning snarled down the length of the staff and into the dead thing, reducing it to a blackened husk.

‘They are proving more resilient than we were led to believe,’ the Lord-Relictor said, casting a glance up towards Mannfred.

‘Then we shall have to do this the hard way,’ Tarsus said. ‘We need to smash ourselves a path to the Corpse Road, and we need to do it now.’ More and more of the dead marched forward, breaking into awkward runs as they drew near the Stormcasts. They fought in silence save for the rattle of armour and the rasp of weapons. Tarsus signalled the Prosecutors wheeling overhead. ‘We need breathing room – make a gap,’ he shouted, and motioned to the ground between the living and the dead.

The winged warriors swooped low over the ranks of the dead and sent their hammers whirling down. The front ranks of the Desolated Legion were hurled back, broken and smoking, as the ground was churned up and a cloud of dust thrown into the air.

‘Judicators, Liberators – fall back,’ Tarsus said, his voice ringing out through the canyon. He looked at Ramus. ‘They’re yours, Ramus. Guard our flanks. Retributors and Decimators, to the fore,’ he bellowed.

‘At your command, Bull-Heart,’ Retributor-Prime Soros said as he joined Tarsus. Both he and Gyrus, the Decimator-Prime, were covered in dust and their armour bore the signs of heavy fighting. Their retinues were holding the centre of the shield wall just behind Tarsus, holding back those wights which had managed to get past the Prosecutors.

‘The horns and the hooves, brothers,’ Tarsus said, peering towards the dust cloud thrown up by the Prosecutors’ hammers. They would need to be quick, but if they could reach the entrance to the underworld, they could reform their lines and make a fighting withdrawal.

Soros gave a harsh laugh and he and Gyrus slammed their weapons together. ‘Horns and hooves,’ Soros growled. ‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant.’ They hurried to rejoin their retinues, barking orders as they went.

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

‘Only the faithful,’ the Paladins rumbled, as one. Their heavy, ornate armour was prominently marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar, and the massive two-handed weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire. As they strode forward at Tarsus’ command, they slammed the great weapons together, adding to the clamour of war. Swiftly, the Decimators took the lead, with the Retributors spreading out as they followed behind.

Ramus led the remainder of the Stormhost behind the vanguard, the Liberators moving to the flanks and the rear, where their shields could do the most good, and the Judicator retinues moving up the centre. The latter continued to fire as they moved, peppering the wights with their boltstorm crossbows. Ramus chanted as he strode forward, calling the lightning from the sky and sending it lashing among the ranks of the dead as they drew close.

Tarsus led the Paladin brotherhoods forward, and as he picked up speed, he broke into a lumbering run. The Decimators spread out around him, making a semicircle with their Lord-Celestant at the centre. They struck the dead with a crash, great axes smashing out to chop through legs or arms even as they used their momentum to bull the wights aside or bear them under. Tarsus led by example, knocking his opponents sprawling but not slowing down to finish them off. That was for the Retributors.

From behind him came the crackle of lightning hammers as they slammed down on the fallen wights, creating a path of bones for the Stormcasts following behind. Tarsus ducked a sweeping axe blow and kicked its wielder in the chest, staggering it. He lunged forward, breaking the wight’s arm with his hammer and decapitating it with his sword. He brushed its stumbling, headless body aside as he continued to move forward.

He caught sight of Ashigaroth flying overhead. The dread abyssal swooped low and ploughed through the dead, scattering broken bones and bits of armour as it cleared a path for him. Mannfred had seemingly given up on trying to control the wights and had settled for destroying them with sword and magic.

Slowly but surely they reached the back of the canyon, where the archway rose.

‘Shields to the rear,’ Tarsus called out. Liberator retinues fell back, forming up into a semicircle about the space before the archway. Hammers slammed down from above with meteoric force as the Prosecutors swooped overhead, holding the dead back while their brothers fell into formation.

Ramus stood just behind the Liberators, his hammer across his shoulder.

‘Hold fast, sons of Sigmar,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘The dead are strong, but sigmarite is stronger.’ His voice echoed from the canyon walls.

Tarsus drove his head into a wight’s grinning skull, dropping it to its knees. He finished the job as it tried to stand.

‘Gyrus, Soros, lead your warriors through the archway. Mannfred – go with them,’ he said, over his shoulder. As the vampire led the Paladin brotherhoods into the underworld, Tarsus signalled to the Judicator retinues.

‘Fall back through the archway. Cover our retreat, brothers,’ he shouted. The Judicators reacted instantly, following the others, loosing their crackling bolts as they went. The Prosecutors were next, hurtling through the archway. The shield wall steadily contracted as Liberators fell to the enemy, or were pulled from the line by Ramus and sent towards safety. Soon, only half a dozen Stormcasts were left before the twisted shape of the massive bone-coloured archway, including Tarsus and the Lord-Relictor.

‘Back, Ramus,’ Tarsus said, as they drew close to the canyon wall. ‘I will hold the line until you and the others are through.’ He brought his weapons together, crushing the skull of another wight. He hurled the twitching cadaver aside and parried an axe blow that might have split his helm. He steadily backed towards the archway as he fought, leaving a trail of broken bones and crawling corpses in his wake. Only when the last Stormcast was past the arch did he turn and hurl himself through.

Tarsus crashed to the stone and staggered up, into the steadying hands of his warriors. He turned, ready to continue the fight. The Desolated Legion did not seem inclined to follow. The wights stared through the archway at the Stormcasts, eyes flickering with witch-light. Then, as one, they turned and began to trudge away.

‘The archway is the limit of their malice,’ Mannfred said. ‘They could not pass it in life, and they are barred in death. Such are the caprices of Nagash.’

Tarsus looked around. Barely half of his force had made it to safety. Thanks to the glow from Ramus’ staff, he could see that they stood in a pillared vestibule of stone. Strange carvings adorned the walls and the flagstones beneath his feet were worn smooth as if by the tread of many feet.

‘How many more traps await us?’ he asked, looking at Mannfred. His voice echoed strangely in the vaulted space. He thought it changed subtly as it bounced from stone to stone, leaving him with the eerie feeling that he was somehow being mocked.

Mannfred shook his head. ‘Who can say? Nagash is mad, and fearful in his madness. He stations guards to watch other guards, and then forgets them for centuries at a time. There may be an army in these catacombs, or nothing at all, save the bats.’ He stroked his chin in thought. ‘The true danger is in the catacombs themselves. There are many routes to the heart of Stygxx, all with their own perils.’

‘We take the most direct route,’ Tarsus said. ‘We are few enough in number as it is and I would lose no more warriors stumbling about in the dark.’

‘The direct route is the most dangerous. There more than anywhere else there will be eyes upon us,’ Mannfred said.

‘Good. The sooner we are confronted by the Undying King or one of his servants, the more likely we are to accomplish our mission.’ Tarsus pointed forwards. ‘Lead on.’

‘As you will,’ Mannfred said, after a moment of hesitation. He turned Ashigaroth about and the dread abyssal loped away, the Stormcasts following behind.

The path by which Mannfred led them was one of twists and turns. More than once he stopped and they were forced to crouch in silence, waiting for the vampire to prod Ashigaroth into motion again.

Tarsus heard faint whispers of sound, like leaves caught in a wind, as they trudged through the dark. What might have been a bat’s wings brushed against his helm. At one point, they were forced to stop as a herd of skeletal horses, their bones gleaming with cold fire, galloped silently through the tunnel ahead, vanishing into the stone. Another time, Mannfred rode ahead to parley with a silent, hooded figure, who dissolved into mist and shadows as the Stormcasts approached.

Other, larger things moved in the dark around them, slithering through side tunnels and causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet. Nagash might have laid claim to the underworld, but there were more things crawling in its depths than the dead. Everywhere Tarsus looked he saw strange sigils carved on the walls and floor and wondered what horrors they had been placed there to ward against.

At last they emerged from the cramped tunnels and out into a huge cavern, which was bisected by a wide gorge. Ancient columns lined the walls of the cavern. Most of these were broken, as were the statues which stood atop them. A wide stone bridge stretched across the gorge. Mannfred gestured towards it.

‘Behold… the Bridge of Seven Sorrows,’ he said. ‘Once, the legions of the underworld marched across it, to do battle with their enemies, in the days before the coming of Nagash. Now, the great manses of the Amethyst Princes lie in ruins, and their armies belong to Nagash, body and soul.’

The vast span of stone was crudely carved, as if by unskilled hands. But it looked sturdy nonetheless, and it was wide enough for the Stormhost to march across ten abreast. Great railings marked at intervals by high plinths lined its edges. Large stone bowls topped most of them, containing purple crystals which flickered softly with a hazy radiance, casting a pale light over the bridge and the gorge beneath.

Seven of the plinths, however, were occupied by tall statues – women, clad in robes and ceremonial armour with weapons in hand, their bodies contorted in agonised poses as if each had been captured in the moment before death. They were at once regal and nightmarish, their tormented expressions seeming to shift and change in the flickering light of the crystals.

‘Those statues…’ Tarsus began.

Mannfred interrupted him with a shake of his head. ‘Not statues. No, my friend, those are nothing less than the remains of seven queens of the Skull Isles, who were betrothed to Nagash in times long past. They traded their freedom for the lives of their people.’ Mannfred chuckled. ‘A bad bargain, in the end. They were left here in the dark and the Skull Isles burned regardless, at Nagash’s command.’

‘More and more, I come to doubt the wisdom of our task,’ Ramus said. ‘What sort of being is this, to whom we intend to offer alliance?’

‘I warned you,’ Mannfred said. Ramus looked at him, but said nothing.

‘It is not for us to say what is wise and what is not, my friend,’ Tarsus said, looking at the bridge. ‘It is Sigmar’s will that we are here, and Sigmar’s will that we seek audience with Nagash. Much is demanded of those to whom much is given, and we shall not be found wanting.’ He extended his hammer. ‘Lead on, Mannfred.’

‘As you wish,’ Mannfred said. Ashigaroth leapt into the air with a great cry and the vanguard of the Stormhost followed in the dread abyssal’s wake.

Tarsus and Ramus marched at the front, and the cavern echoed with the crash of boots on stone.

‘What lies below us?’ the Lord-Celestant asked.

‘The deep caverns, through which runs the black blood of the underworld,’ Mannfred said, glancing down at him. He trailed off and shook himself. ‘Or so it is said,’ he added. ‘In any event, our destination lies not down, but across.’ He pointed to the other side of the gorge, where an enormous stone archway rose. The archway was covered in carved sigils, and heaps of dust and bone lay before it. ‘That is where we must go to see through our cause… past the Lichegate, and along the dirge-road, into the heart of Stygxx.’

Tarsus glanced at Ramus, who nodded slightly. The Lord-Relictor was ready, whatever came next.

‘Your cause, you mean,’ he said, pointing towards Mannfred. ‘Expedience made me hold my tongue before, but now, before we go any further, I would have the truth… Why help us? Not merely for gratitude’s sake, I think.’

‘Mannfred von Carstein does not know the meaning of that word, I fear,’ a harsh, sepulchral voice said. ‘Or if he does, he has never shown it.’

Mannfred whirled, his lips peeling back from his fangs in a feral snarl.

‘Arkhan,’ he hissed. He drew his sword. ‘Where are you, liche?’

‘Where I have always been. By Nagash’s side. As you should have been.’ The sound of iron striking stone carried across the gorge as a thin, robed shape stepped into the amethyst light of the crystals. ‘Have you come to throw yourself on his mercy, vampire?’

‘Nagash has no mercy,’ Mannfred spat.

‘No. He does not,’ Arkhan the Black said. The liche was tall and his bones were encased in ridged armour of archaic design and ragged robes, which rustled softly. He wore an ornate headdress and carried a long staff, around the tip of which strange black flames pulsed. Behind him stalked a dread abyssal, its horned skull lit by an internal fire. It screeched out a challenge and Ashigaroth replied in kind. Arkhan set his staff and rested one palm on the hilt of the tomb-blade sheathed at his side.

He gazed at the ranks of Stormcasts and inclined his head. ‘You have brought allies, I see. How… unexpected.’

‘Save your mockery,’ Mannfred said. ‘Stand aside. I would see Nagash.’

‘No. No, I do not think I will do that. Nagash himself sent me here to turn back those who dare invade his realm. That includes you, schemer.’

Tarsus stepped forward. ‘We do not come seeking battle. We wish merely to request an audience with the Undying King. We bring word from–’

‘Sigmar,’ Arkhan said.

Tarsus hesitated, surprised. ‘Yes.’

‘Nagash has no wish to hear the lies of Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor…’ Arkhan said, without apparent rancour.

‘Be silent and step aside, you withered husk,’ Mannfred spat. ‘This is not Nagash’s will – it is nothing but spite! You have always feared me, feared that the Undying King might favour my counsel over yours…’

‘No,’ Arkhan said. ‘I do not fear, for it has long since been burned out of me. I know only duty. The Undying King raised me up, and I shall serve him all my days. But you…’ He pointed at Mannfred. ‘Fear has always been your weakness, Mannfred. It has killed all that you might have been, and all that you were destined to be. You were one of his Mortarchs, highest of the high. Now you are nothing more than a cur, snarling for scraps.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Away with you, cur. Go, and never return.’

‘It seems we have chosen a poor guide if he cannot even get us past the door,’ Ramus said. Mannfred whirled, a snarl on his face and his fist raised. Ramus raised his staff warily, and the vampire growled and turned back.

‘No, Arkhan!’ Mannfred shouted. ‘No, you will give way or I shall peel whatever passes for your soul from your fleshless frame and feed it to Ashigaroth.’

Arkhan looked at Mannfred for a moment, and then at Tarsus. ‘Go back, sons of Sigmar. Go back, and I will not be forced to kill you.’

‘We cannot,’ Tarsus said. ‘We have our duty and we will fulfil it or die in the attempt.’

Arkhan was silent for long moments, his eerie gaze fixed on Tarsus. Then he nodded. ‘So be it. Hold fast to your duty, as I shall to mine.’ He raised his staff. ‘Awaken, O sorrowful ones – awaken, you brides of death. Awaken.’

A sound like cracking ice filled the cavern. Tarsus looked up and saw that one of the seven queens was looking down at him, chunks of stone falling from her face and form. Her ravaged features suddenly twisted into an expression of utter loathing and her mouth opened. A wild, keening wail emerged. The sound struck Tarsus like a hammer blow and he staggered back.

‘Banshees,’ he cried, but too late, as the seven ghostly women leapt from their perches, weapons in hand. They streaked through the air over the Stormcasts, shrieking and wailing.

Tarsus’ sword chopped through one of the banshees as it flew past, meeting no resistance. The dead woman bent forward with serpentine grace, her screams tearing at his mind and soul. Everywhere he looked, Stormcasts fell to their knees, clutching at their heads or clawing at the ground as the banshees tore the life from them with unceasing wails. A sword, rust-edged and age-pitted, chopped down at his head. He jerked aside and the banshee hurtled away, still screaming.

A second sped towards him, her ancient spear drawing sparks from his shoulder plate even as the force of the blow spun him around. A third stalked along the centre of the bridge, head thrown back, mouth wide in a cry that sent another six Stormcasts into death.

‘Mannfred,’ Tarsus snarled. ‘Do something!’

‘I am,’ Mannfred growled in response. ‘I intend to kill Arkhan. He’s more dangerous than any wailing ghost.’ Ashigaroth galloped forward, surging through one of the banshees as it attempted to interpose itself.

‘I welcome your attempt, vampire,’ Arkhan said. He climbed atop his own steed, drawing his sword as he did so. ‘Another chance to feel alive.’ He extended his blade. ‘Step forward, and you will find that your greatest folly is thinking that you could ever beat me.’

The two dead men and their monstrous steeds came together with a crash. Mannfred fought savagely, with less grace than ferocity. Arkhan, in contrast, fought with a precision that was almost impossible to credit. He parried every blow, and his own slid past Mannfred’s defences with ease, eliciting increasingly frustrated snarls from the vampire. The dread abyssals tore at one another, rolling through the air over the bridge even as their riders traded blows.

Tarsus cursed and slashed at a banshee as it flew past, wailing. His warriors were dying and there was little he could do.

‘Ramus – call down the lightning,’ he roared. The Lord-Relictor thrust his staff forward, driving one of the creatures back, and glanced at him.

‘As you command,’ Ramus said. He caught his staff in both hands and drove the haft down. As it connected with the stones, the reliquary mounted on it burst into blazing blue light. Energy snarled about it and seared the nearest of the howling banshees as if she were a being of flesh, rather than spirit. But the lightning did not stop there. Instead, it leapt from warhammer and axe-blade, dancing across the weapons and armour of the remaining Stormcasts, including Tarsus’ own. He clashed hammer and sword together, and as he pulled them apart, a crackling web of lightning stretched between them.

‘Strike now, Stormcasts, and strike true. Strike!’ Ramus thundered.

Tarsus did so. His hammer crunched down on a banshee’s arm and her shriek changed, becoming a cry of pain. Head throbbing with the reverberations of that cry, he swept his sword through her neck, silencing her screams. Across the bridge, his surviving warriors followed suit, lashing out with lightning-infused weapons to bring down their ethereal attackers. As the last of the banshees came apart in tatters of fog and rotting silk, Tarsus hurried towards the centre of the bridge where Mannfred still clashed with Arkhan.

The dread abyssals still fought in the air, but their riders had fallen from their saddles. Now liche and vampire continued their duel on foot. Mannfred’s flesh was aflame with sorcerous fire, as were Arkhan’s robes. They had locked blades and now strained against one another, neither willing to retreat. Arkhan spoke an incantation and the air shuddered. Mannfred was knocked back, his armour crumpling from an unseen impact.

Tarsus sprang to the bridge’s railing as Mannfred staggered back, and leapt down, his sword streaking towards Arkhan’s skull. The liche whirled about, parrying the blow. He thrust a skeletal claw forward, but Tarsus was quicker. His hammer slammed down on Arkhan’s hand, and as the liche reeled, Tarsus bulled into him, carrying him backwards into a pillar. Arkhan drove him back with a wild slash, but before he could recover, Mannfred’s blade chopped down, severing Arkhan’s sword hand at the wrist. Even as his hand fell, however, Arkhan gestured, and his sword leapt into his remaining claw.

The liche lurched around, ready to continue the fight, and Mannfred hacked through his shoulder and into his sternum. He hefted his rival and slung him away. Arkhan crashed down on the other side of the bridge, where he lay unmoving.

‘Stay down, liche,’ Mannfred spat, as he swatted at the flames which still clung to his flesh and armour. ‘Once more, I have proven myself your superior. Why Nagash chose you as his right hand is a mystery.’

‘Mayhap he prizes loyalty over power,’ Arkhan said. He lifted his sword and set it point first into the ground. His dread abyssal crouched nearby, as if awaiting orders. ‘Maybe you have grown stronger in your exile. Or maybe this was never about winning…’

Mannfred’s eyes widened.

‘What are you…?’ he trailed off, and cocked his head.

‘What is it?’ Tarsus asked.

‘I– something. What is that? Some new ploy, Arkhan?’

Arkhan the Black gave a raspy chuckle. ‘No ploy, Mannfred. He merely wished to see if you had learned any new tricks in the wild.’

Mannfred looked at Tarsus. ‘We must retreat… Fall back to some more defensible position.’ He clutched at his head suddenly and gave a hiss of pain. Tarsus made to help him, but Mannfred slapped his hand aside. ‘We must go!’

‘Too late, vampire,’ Arkhan said as he dragged himself to his feet. ‘Too late to run, too late to do anything but regret all that might have been. Death is not a thing to be played with. And now he comes for you.’

‘No,’ Mannfred said. He took a step back, still clutching at his head.

‘Yes.’

The word reverberated through the cavern, shaking the bats above and the monsters below from their slumber. The sound of it was a wound on the skin of reality, throbbing painfully. The crystals which lit the gorge dimmed, and Tarsus felt an ache build in his head. ‘What is that?’ he demanded.

‘Nagash,’ Mannfred said, backing away. ‘Nagash is coming.’

‘No, little prince. Nagash is here!’ A pale mist, struck through with glimmering veins of amethyst light, flooded across the ground, roiling and expanding as it approached the bridge. ‘Nagash is always here. Nagash is everywhere. This realm is his and he is the realm. He is in the air and the water, in the blood and marrow. Nagash is all, and all are Nagash.’

The mist swelled, enveloping the broken form of Arkhan before washing past him and coalescing into a towering, nightmare figure. A skeletal giant, clad in dark armour, surrounded by a flickering corona which changed hues, ever-shifting from green to black to purple and back again with painful rapidity. Nine heavy tomes floated around him, tethered by thick chains, their pages flapping with a sound like the snapping of jaws. Moaning spirits swirled about him, blending together and breaking apart in a woeful dance of agony.

The wide skull, lit by its own internal flame, gazed down at Tarsus and his warriors, and the blazing orbs that danced in its cavernous sockets brightened briefly as they lit on Tarsus. Then the rictus grin turned to Mannfred. ‘You have called, my child, and I have come. Speak, exile. Speak, traitor.’

Mannfred looked at Tarsus, and then took a hesitant step forward. ‘O Undying King, I have come to throw myself at your feet. I have learned humility in my time in the wilderness, and would beg thy forgiveness for past trespasses.’

Nagash said nothing. Mannfred licked his lips and drew the Fang of Kadon from within his cloak.

‘A gift, great Nagash,’ he cried, proffering the artefact. ‘A gift for you, a symbol of my fealty, of my loyalty…’ He trailed off as a crackling rasp, like the shattering of ice floes or the crunching of bones, filled the air.

‘A bauble. One that I could have reclaimed at any time. You think to buy my forgiveness, Mortarch. But Nagash does not forgive. Nagash is death, and death is without mercy, honour or pity.’ One great claw reached out and Mannfred gazed at it like a bird might stare at an approaching serpent. Tarsus stepped forward, caught the back of his cloak and jerked the vampire back, out of reach. Nagash paused, looking at the Lord-Celestant.

‘You stink of the raging storm.’

‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights,’ he said. ‘I have come to–’

‘Sigmar sent him,’ Mannfred said, suddenly. He shoved away from Tarsus. ‘The lord of lightning mocks you, O mighty Nagash! He plucks souls from your realm, and sends them back to you as emissaries.’ He sank to one knee. ‘And I have led them to you, that you might do with them as pleases you, as a sign of my adoration.’

Tarsus stared at the vampire in consternation. The dead cannot be trusted, he thought. He turned back, to see Nagash staring down at him.

The Undying King was silent for long moments. Then, with a sigh like the creaking of a coffin lid, he said, ‘At last.’

‘Great Nagash, I have come…’ he began.

‘You have come as a thief. You have come in the company of a traitor. You have come to die.’

Tarsus felt a chill and lifted his weapons. Nagash flicked a finger and a coruscating bolt of black force slammed into his chest, pitching him into the air and over the heads of his remaining Stormcasts. He struck the bridge with a loud clang and skidded backwards in a spray of sparks until he struck a plinth. Pain enveloped him for long moments. He couldn’t move or speak. He could barely breathe. All he could do was watch as Ramus led the last of their Warrior Chamber in battle against the Undying King.

Warriors fell at Nagash’s merest gesture, their bodies wreathed in black flames or amethyst light. The souls which swirled about the Great Necromancer launched themselves at the Stormcasts, tearing spirit from flesh wherever they passed. But no blue light shone and no bolts of crackling lightning streaked upwards from the fallen. Something was preventing their escape. Tarsus shuddered and tried to pull himself up. Nagash was not simply killing them, he was capturing their spirits somehow, preventing them from returning to the soul-forges.

Soon, only a scattered few remained, and Ramus himself. Lightning splashed across Nagash as harmlessly as water. The Undying King motioned and a Liberator fell, enveloped in flames. Ramus dropped his staff and lunged forward, hammer clutched in both hands. His first blow made Nagash take a step back. His second thudded into a waiting palm, and Nagash’s hand closed about the hammer’s head. The blessed sigmarite flared once and then came apart as if it were nothing more than sand. Ramus staggered back and Nagash caught him up, enveloping his head in one metal talon.

He jerked the Lord-Relictor into the air. He turned to swat a Liberator into the side of the bridge hard enough to shatter the stone railing, and sent the Stormcast into the abyss below. The remainder fought on, but to no avail. Nagash was no mortal enemy or daemonic servant. He was death itself, and wherever his gaze fell, Stormcasts died.

‘You still live.’

Blearily, Tarsus looked up, as Mannfred dropped from Ashigaroth’s back to crouch beside him.

‘Can you stand?’ the vampire asked.

‘Why help me?’ Tarsus groaned. Past Mannfred, he saw a retinue of Judicators torn apart by Nagash’s dark magic. The last of the Prosecutors fell, lightning wings dimming. A Retributor staggered back, clawing at his helm as a dark mist engulfed him. His warriors were dying, and he was helpless to aid them.

‘Why, he asks,’ Mannfred said, helping him to sit up. ‘You freed me, Tarsus. You trusted me, though every instinct must have told you that I was not to be trusted.’ Mannfred hesitated. ‘You… remind me of someone. From another time. Another man who fought beside me and trusted me, though he knew better. For his sake, I will see you to safety. And then my debt to you – to him – is paid.’

‘Go,’ Tarsus said, as he pushed himself to his feet.

‘What?’

‘Go, Mannfred. No more is required of you. Your debt is paid,’ Tarsus said as he retrieved his hammer. His sword was gone, likely lost to the gorge. He heard Ramus cry out, and the roar of lightning. Mannfred stepped in front of him.

‘This is madness!’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Nagash has what he wants. You’ve tried to deliver your message. I still have the Fang – we can escape. I will take you anywhere you wish to go, back to Azyr, even, but let us go now.’

Tarsus pushed Mannfred aside with his hammer. ‘There is nowhere to go. I am Stormcast and my duty is clear. Nagash must be made to see reason. He traps the souls of my brothers, and I cannot allow that.’

‘You cannot stop him. Nagash cannot be defeated, not here in this place of power,’ Mannfred snarled. He grabbed Tarsus’ arm. Tarsus shrugged him off and turned.

‘You did not always believe that to be so, Mannfred. Else why would you be here now? Why would you have stood with me in Helstone’s final hours?’

Mannfred stepped back, eyes widening. ‘What?’

‘Run, Mannfred. Run as you did then, when fire rained down and the earth trembled in sorrow. Take your freedom and run. I will hold Nagash’s attention for as long as I can.’ Tarsus gestured back the way they had come. ‘But go now.’ Tarsus laughed softly. ‘Unless you intend to stand with Tarsem of Helstone once more.’

‘Tarsem…?’ Mannfred said, peering at him. ‘What are you?’

‘I am Stormcast,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer in salute and turned. Mannfred did not follow him, as the Lord-Celestant began to run. He heard Ashigaroth shriek, as Mannfred coaxed the beast into the air, but he did not look back.

Memories of his past, of his final mortal moments, rose wild within him. Fire and shadow, the clash of steel and the pain of a mortal blow. Mannfred had fought beside him then, his reasons his own, but then, as now, he had fled when hope was lost. Such was his nature, and Tarsus did not fault him for it. The dead could not be trusted, after all.

It didn’t matter. Even then, he’d known that Mannfred had his own destiny. Helstone had been Tarsem’s. And the Bridge of Seven Sorrows was Tarsus’. However fast he fled, however far he ran, fate would catch up with Mannfred von Carstein in the end.

Nagash still held Ramus. The Lord-Relictor struggled against the titanic liche’s grip, but could not break free. As Tarsus drew close, Nagash seared the life from the last of the Retributors with a bolt of sorcerous fire. He closed his eyes.

‘Only the faithful,’ he said, to himself. Then, more loudly, ‘Nagash – release him.’ Tarsus stalked towards the towering figure as he spoke, weapon in hand.

Nagash looked at Tarsus, and then down at Ramus. The Lord-Relictor clawed at Nagash’s hand, beating on it with useless fists.

‘Yes, I will release him,’ Nagash intoned. Purple light flared and the Lord-Relictor went limp, smoke rising from the joints of his armour. Nagash examined him for a moment, and then tossed him aside. He looked at Tarsus.

‘You do not flee.’

‘I – we – came to bring you a message. And I will deliver it, whatever the consequences,’ Tarsus said. ‘Sigmar would have words with you. He wishes to speak of the past and the future. Of what has been done, and the work yet to do.’ He strode forward as he spoke. He heard the voices of the dead, calling to him out of the dim reaches of his past, calling to the man he had been. Calling out for Tarsem. He saw faces, the champions of the final days, walking alongside him as he stepped over the bodies of his fellow Stormcasts. He could see blue strands of lightning struggling within the fallen Bull-Hearts. The souls of his warriors yearned to return to Azyr, but Nagash had ensnared them.

As he watched, he saw a spark of blue bulge upwards from Ramus’ smoking form, fighting to be free. Nagash gestured sharply and the Lord-Relictor’s spirit thrashed, as if in agony. Another body began to dissolve into motes of azure lightning, and Nagash swept a talon out, forcing the body to cohere once more.

‘You will not escape me, little souls. I am the master here, not Sigmar.’

No, you are not. Not as much as you pretend, Tarsus thought. If he could distract Nagash, the spirits of his fallen brethren might yet be able to escape the Realm of Death. If nothing else, some of them might be returned to Sigmaron, where they could tell Sigmar of all that they had learned. But first, he had to distract a creature whose power rivalled that of the God-King himself. It was a slim hope, but he held firm to it.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,’ he murmured as he began to run.

Nagash leaned towards Tarsus as he drew close, terrible energies coalescing about his claw. ‘I care not what Sigmar wants. I will hurl him from his throne, as surely as I will cast down the Dark Gods. I am Nagash! None may make demands of me.’

Tarsus caught hold of the hem of his cloak and twisted about, letting it flare out around him. The enchantment within its weave was unleashed, and phantasmal hammers hurtled forward to strike the looming shape of Nagash in a flash of lightning.

A bellow of surprise shook the cavern and nearly knocked Tarsus from his feet. Stalactites fell from the ceiling to crash into the bridge, filling the air with splinters of rock. Shattered columns tumbled from their pedestals to break apart and shake the floor, throwing clouds of dust into the air.

For a moment, he thought it hadn’t been enough. Then, the first explosion of blue light streaked upwards, to vanish into the darkness above. More followed, one after the other, until the whole cavern burned with the light of the Hallowed Knights’ passing.

‘No!’

A massive claw, sealed in black iron, erupted from the dust and slammed Tarsus from his feet. He hit the ground hard enough to crack the stone. He shoved himself to his hands and feet, trying to suck air into his bruised lungs. Nagash strode out of the dust, even as the blue glow faded. ‘They were mine!’

‘They are Sigmar’s,’ Tarsus said hoarsely, as he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly. Something was broken within him, and every intake of breath sent a pulse of agony through him. ‘And they will be forged anew, by his hand.’

‘Then I will kill them again.’

‘Perhaps, but not today,’ Tarsus said, as he lifted his hammer. ‘Who will be victorious?’

Nagash cocked his head.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus said, as he stepped up onto one of the fallen columns and leapt, hammer raised. Nagash swept out a hand, filling the air with amethyst light.

And Tarsus Bull-Heart was no more.

You are mine.

Take consolation in the fact of your insignificance. Your soul struggles yet, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. But Nagash is no spider.

He is your master, Tarsem of Helstone. He is your master, Tarsus Bull-Heart. Whatever name the thief Sigmar has cloaked you with, you are still mine.

I will pluck you apart, strand by strand, and dig from you the secrets you keep. You will scream, but you shall not find respite in oblivion.

Not until Nagash knows all.

I will know how Sigmar has done this, how he has stolen what is mine.

And when my curiosity is satisfied, I shall rise from my throne and shake off the dust of ages. I shall stride forth like a conqueror of old and shatter the shields of my enemies. I shall pull down their towers and tear their beating hearts from their chests. I shall find the treacherous princeling wherever he has fled and chain him to my throne. None may defy Nagash and escape retribution.

My loyal Mortarchs gather in the dark places, readying my nine hundred and ninety-nine legions for the war to come. Soon, they shall march at my command, to once more impose my will upon all that is, and all that shall be. I shall not be denied. I shall not be thwarted. All shall kneel before Nagash. All shall bow. Even those who cast off my protection and flee into the wilderness. Even the God-King, on his throne.

The only reason you exist is to serve my will.

Nagash is all things. All are one in Nagash.

I am the dark at the end of everything.

The end of all things, made real.

I am Nagash.

I HAVE RISEN.

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and two audio dramas featuring the Blackshields: The False War and The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels Primogenitor and Clonelord. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, 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.

An extract from Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden.

The sigmarite runeblade gleamed in the soft glow of infinity, as it etched complex patterns upon the air. Wherever the blade passed, light followed. The light, that of ancient stars and newborn suns, glimmered briefly but brightly before fading away. There was a lesson in that, the blade’s wielder mused, as he swept the sword around in a curving slash. But then, lessons were all around, for the attentive student.

And Gardus of the Steel Soul was nothing if not attentive. The Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights was clad only in a simple blue tunic, marked with the sign of the twin-tailed comet. His limbs were bare of all save sweat and scars, and his white hair was cropped short. His armour, gleaming silver and crafted of the same holy metal as his runeblade, lay nearby, alongside his tempestos hammer, stacked neatly against one of the long marble benches that lined the walls, biding its time. Soon, he would once again don the panoply of war, and the man would be subsumed beneath the warrior. But for now, he was simply a man, hard at his labours, joyful and content.

Through the soles of his feet, Gardus could feel the omnipresent rumble of the storms that raged eternally over the aetherdomes of the Sigmarabulum. Overhead, the High Star Sigendil gleamed, an eternal beacon in the black seas of infinity that stretched outwards around the celestial ramparts of Sigmaron. This place had ever called to him, stirring something inside. It was where he felt the most at ease, on the edge of all that was.

The weight of the blade in his hand was a comfort. The pull of his muscles, the growing ache from his exertions. The sweat in his eyes. All of it served to ground him. To anchor him to this place, this moment. There was peace here, for a time. A purity of purpose, simple and uncomplicated. He turned, letting the hilt of the runeblade slide through calloused palms. The mystic steel was an extension of his arm, of his soul.

As he moved, his flesh began to shimmer with an eerie radiance, like sunlight across new-fallen snow. It shone from every pore, filling the air. The light welled up, only to then fade away as he instinctively mustered his will and forced it back down inside himself. He slid forwards, moving gracefully despite his size. With god-given strength came elegance as well. Such were the gifts of Sigmar. But they did not come without a price.

There was always a price. Both physical and otherwise. At times, Gardus felt as if he were a broken vessel, badly repaired, and all that he had been was leaking away. Perhaps that was the origin of the light he had just banished – perhaps it was his soul, seeking escape. The thought unsettled him.

Sometimes, his mind thrummed with fragments – snatches of conversations he could not recall having, faces without names and names without faces. Embers of old emotion flared to new life, before guttering away once more. The ghosts of those he’d known – those he’d failed. Those he’d killed.

He felt phantom heat wash over him. Heard the pad of feet over marble floors, and the guttural howls of the Skin Eaters. His skin prickled as the howls grew louder. The candlesticks were heavy in his hands. The doors of the hospice burst inwards and…

He breathed out. His grip on his runeblade tightened, and he drew strength from the steel, surety from its purpose. Not a candlestick, this. He turned, slicing the air, letting the weight of the blade do the work, as he’d been taught. Banishing the Skin Eaters back to oblivion. But they had not come alone.

A hand, vast and reeking of rot, reached for him. He jerked back, sword slicing up. He heard the rumble of daemonic laughter as the image wavered and dispersed. Another broken memory, though he could put a name to this one – Bolathrax.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,’ he said, forcing the memory down. Bolathrax was gone. Cast back into the void by Alarielle. He repeated the words. The mantra had a calming effect on his troubled mind. His voice echoed across the platform, its echoes merging with the roar of the storm, even as the reflection of his blade merged with the glow of the stars above. He slowed his movements, falling into a more elegant rhythm. His runeblade moved lazily, with less precision, as he let his muscles relax and his attention wander away from old hurts.

Here, on the precipice of the Sigmarabulum, he was as close as any save the gods could come to the celestial canvas. It was a sea of colour and light, impossibly vast and terrible in its cosmic ferocity. Stars pinwheeled through the fraying strands of pulsing nebulas, and immense coronas flashed in the deep. And, nestled within its tides, the still-beating heart of a broken world. He looked up.

Mallus. The world-that-was. The last breath of all that had come before. A fragment of forgotten grandeur, casting strange shadows over the vast forges, armouries and soul-mills of Sigmaron. The broken world was at once a reminder and a promise for all those who dwelled in Sigmaron.

Gardus turned away, unable to bear the weight of the sight for very long. In any event, he needed no reminding of what was at stake; he would keep his promise, whatever the cost.

He was a Stormcast Eternal, and he could do no less. The embodiment of the tempest, forged anew to wage war in Sigmar’s name. To fight and die, and fight again, until either ultimate victory was achieved, or the foundations of all that was at last crumbled. The thought brought him little pleasure. Victory was not certain, and sometimes the price seemed more than he could bear. He pushed the thought aside, and concentrated only on the runeblade in his hand, and the light of the stars as they played across its edge. Like the weapon he had been forged for a purpose, and he would fulfil it.

He fell into a defensive stance, rolling his wrists, letting the runeblade rise. As he brought it down a moment later, he moved, stepping to his left. Like the storm, it was best to always be in motion. Lessons learned in Ghyran, the Realm of Life, had taught him that standing still often led to being overwhelmed. A warrior must be fluid, like water, else he would inevitably be worn down, as happened to even the tallest mountains.

He paused, sword raised, sensing a new presence just behind him.

‘You employ that blade of yours the way an artist employs his brush, Steel Soul.’

Gardus turned, lowering his sword as he did so. ‘And your voice carries even over the roar of the storm eternal, Beast-Bane. We all have our talents.’

Zephacleas Beast-Bane laughed boisterously. The Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars did everything boisterously, much to the chagrin of some. ‘Too true,’ Zephacleas said as he came forwards, grinning. ‘When I heard you were back, I decided to come and pay my respects. It has been too long since last we spoke.’ They clasped forearms.

He was bigger than Gardus, big even for a Stormcast Eternal, and brutal-looking despite his cheerful demeanour. In his mortal life, the man who would become Zephacleas had been a barbarian chieftain of the Ghurlands, a brawling, bellowing giant of a man. Apotheosis had refined him somewhat, but the veneer of civilization was a thin one. And, indeed, thinner now than it had been the last time they’d met.

He had his helmet tucked under one arm, leaving his head bare. His hair was long and bound in thick braids, as was his beard. His battered features would never be handsome, but his eyes gleamed with merriment, and his smile was genuine, despite the gaps in his teeth.

Like his face, his bruise-coloured war-plate was scarred by hard use. Its gilded edges were faded and dull, and the plates were now marked by savage adornments. Fangs and claws taken from the slain bodies of monstrous beasts rattled against the holy sigils of Azyr. The skull of an orruk had been mounted on one of his shoulder-plates, the thick bone etched with primitive runes.

Gardus gestured to it. ‘That’s new.’

‘This? This is Drokka.’ Zephacleas knocked on the skull with his knuckles. ‘Was Drokka, I should say. A gift from the Fist of Gork himself.’

‘I heard you’d been sent to parley with the orruks. I’m glad to see you made friends.’ Gardus laid the flat of his sword over his shoulder. ‘I was worried they might take offence to you and send you back in pieces.’

‘You just have to know how to talk to them.’ Zephacleas motioned to Gardus’ hair. ‘Gone shock-headed, have we? Last time I saw you, it was black.’

Gardus reached up and ran a hand through his hair. ‘The Athelwyrd,’ he said simply.

Zephacleas’ smile faded. He knew what Gardus was referring to. They’d fought side by side in the hidden vale, in defence of Alarielle, the Queen of the Radiant Woods, embodiment of Ghyran, the Realm of Life. And during that battle, Gardus had… died.

‘That’d do it, I suppose.’ Zephacleas peered at Gardus, as if searching his face for something. ‘Do you… remember any of it? After, I mean.’

Gardus frowned. Bits and pieces of the last scattered moments rose to the surface of his mind – he smelled the foetid stench of the Great Unclean One as it scooped him up, rotting fingers tightening painfully about his battered form. He felt his bones crack and burst as the daemon sought to wring the life from him. And he felt again the pain as a bolt of searing lightning carried him from the killing grounds, and back to the celestine vaults of Sigmaron. There, formless and broken, he had been forged anew by the hand of the God-King himself, and made fit for duty once more.

Hammer stroke after hammer stroke had shaped the shards of his soul. Each blow, a tempest, drawing forth memory and instinct from what remained. Who he had been was the fire used to fuel his rebirth. Was he even the same being who had undergone those tribulations that still haunted his dreams, or was he but the barest memory of that warrior, recast and given the same name? A memory of a memory, clothed in borrowed flesh.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain as an audio drama in 2015, and then in the Realmgate Wars anthology Mortarch of Night in 2016.
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 Helge C. Balzer.

The Bridge of Seven Sorrows © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. The Bridge of Seven Sorrows, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-78030-917-0

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