IN THE WALLS OF URYX

Josh Reynolds

‘Forward, Stormcasts!’ Galerius roared, lifting his standard higher as he crushed a cackling bloodreaver’s skull with his hammer. The Knight-Vexillor led his brethren up the slope of the Tephra Crater into the enemy forces arrayed across its rim. Whole tribes of bloodreavers massed in the shadow of the Mandrake Bastion, and more warriors surged to join them through the great stone gates that marked the entrance.

Galerius laid about him with hammer and standard, driving the vanguard of the Adamantine into the very heart of the foe where the enemy chieftains and champions waited. They bellowed orders to their savage followers from within a forest of grisly banner poles topped with skulls and worse.

The Knight-Vexillor felt his heart quicken with pride as he fought. The chamber’s finest warriors surrounded him, their warblades and hammers exacting a bloody toll from the tribesmen who sought to bar them from their goal. The honour of the final thrust to win the field had fallen to Galerius and those who followed him. Liberators, Decimators and Judicators fought alongside him, carving a path for their fellow Stormcasts to follow.

‘Onward, for the glory of Sigmar, and the honour of the Adamantine,’ Galerius cried. He crushed the shoulder of a tribesman, and dispatched a second warrior with a blow to the head. He extended his standard so that all who followed him might see the crackling energies which crawled across the ornate symbols mounted there – the hammer, the shield and the stylised arc of the storm. Divine power flowed through the standard and into Galerius, filling him with strength. It reminded him of that final day in the gladitorium, when he had fought his brothers to earn the right to bear the war-banner of the Adamantine.

‘Crush them, brothers! They are but dust beneath our feet,’ he shouted.

Primitive war-horns brayed suddenly and crude chariots rumbled down the slope, pulled by things that had once been men, and crewed by howling warriors. Galerius tightened his grip on the standard and a blazing meteorite smashed into the foe. The chariots were blasted into splinters and their riders jerked and shuddered as they burned and fell smoking to the ground.

For a moment, as the echoes of the impact faded, the press of battle slackened and Galerius could see the others. Lord-Celestant Orius and Lord-Relictor Moros led the left and right flanks respectively, fighting their way up the slope. Behind them came Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, leading the Thunderhead Brotherhoods. Before them rose the Mandrake Bastion, with its strange root-like towers. They were almost at the high, heavy stone doors which led into the bastion and beyond that, the crater-city of Uryx. But it would do them no good to win the outer slope if those gates were not opened.

That honour had fallen to Kratus the Silent. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been dispatched to win control of the Mandrake Bastion, even as Galerius and the others broke the enemy on the slopes. As he struck down an axe-wielding tribesman, Galerius heard the rumble of thunder. He looked up and saw a bright, blazing light suddenly envelop the uppermost ramparts of the bastion. As the light spread, lightning speared down from the storm clouds above, striking the walls again and again.

Galerius bellowed in satisfaction as the slope trembled beneath the celestial hammer-blows.

‘Sigmar is with us, brothers – see! See his wrath and know that he has judged us worthy,’ he said, as the enemy cowered. The tribesmen were caught between the advancing Stormcasts and the light washing down from the bastion and across the outer slope of the Tephra Crater, suffusing all it touched with a cleansing blue glow.

The Knight-Vexillor knew that light, as well as he knew the one who had unleashed it from the celestial beacon he bore. Kratus the Silent had succeeded. The Mandrake Bastion belonged to the Adamantine.

Tribesmen clad in crude armour and bearing the rune of Khorne on their skin wailed in agony as the light swept over them, searing their scarred flesh. Grotesque standards and monstrous icons were set aflame and reduced to burning chunks. Brutal chieftains, conquerors and champions fell, consumed by the blue light.

Soon, the rugged slopes beneath the Mandrake Bastion were littered with a thousand crackling azure pyres, and there were no foes in sight. Galerius raised his standard and cried out in wordless triumph as the light enveloped him and filled him with a newfound strength. His warriors joined him, and the cry was carried from one retinue to the next as they gloried in the power of Sigmar.

Far above, the storm redoubled its fury, lashing the crater and everything around it as a heavy rain began to fall on Uryx.

‘Even the rains cannot clean this place,’ Orius Adamantine said. Greasy plumes of smoke rose over the sprawling tenements and claustrophobic avenues where the poor of crater-city had once lived. The buildings were constructed haphazardly, stone terraces piled one atop the next, held aloft on pillars or crudely carved wooden support beams. Thick nets of roots and branches supported sagging walls or acted as thatch for the rooftops.

Fires raged among these structures, defying the storm. The Bloodbound had set them as they entered the city through the Ashen Jungle, blocking any means of escape for the beleaguered folk of Uryx. Screams still rose from the nine hundred districts, mingling into a desolate susurrus beneath the omnipresent growl of the storm. Some brief moth-flutter of memory told the Lord-Celestant that Uryx had been home to almost a million mortal souls. He wondered how many of them yet remained.

‘A good rain washes more than the stones,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor and Galerius stood behind Orius, their armour streaked with gore. The standard of the Knight-Vexillor gleamed with barely contained celestial energies, casting long shadows across the ground as Galerius leaned against it. Lord-Castellant Gorgus sat nearby, his halberd leaning against his shoulder and his gryph-hound, Shrike, at his feet. He held his warding lantern balanced on his knee, its light washing across them.

‘Then let us hope this storm lasts,’ Tarkus said. He stood beside Gorgus. Like the others, the Knight-Heraldor’s armour was covered in blood and dust, and he held his hand out so that the rain cleansed his gauntleted fingers and forearm. It had taken them hours to fight their way through the many-chambered gatehouse of the Mandrake Bastion to the internal portcullis. All of them were tired, but in the light of Gorgus’ warding lantern, their strength was fast returning.

All around them, Stormcasts cleared the area of bodies, dragging them out of the way. He considered the enormous fortified courtyard before them carefully. A wide inner wall, smaller than the bastion, extended out, terminating in three more enormous portcullises which opened out onto city avenues. Each of the portcullises had been torn open, ripped from their frames and discarded at some point in the recent past, and the wide wall had been shattered by siege-weapons or fell sorceries.

Gorgus’ retinues were already hard at work, dragging shattered plinths and broken stones into position, creating bulwarks and chokepoints to be used defensively in case of a tactical withdrawal. A Stormcast shield wall was almost impenetrable, but solidly anchored stones were nonetheless helpful. Thanks to the fires which still raged through the city, it was nearly as bright as day, though the smoke and the rain didn’t help.

‘They mustered armies here, once. If we don’t hold this point, we’ll be under siege within a few hours.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘How soon until your repairs are complete?’

‘Not long,’ Gorgus rumbled. He stroked his gryph-hound’s feathered neck. ‘Give me an hour and I can have us entrenched. A day, we will be unassailable. We shall not be moved, if it comes to that. And those who follow us shall find a well-fortified route awaiting them.’

Orius nodded in satisfaction. Soon, Sigmar would send reinforcements. Warrior Chambers from the Celestial Warbringers waited in the Celestial Realm for their time to descend and strengthen the Adamantine’s control of Klaxus.

No other chamber had come so far. Prosecutor retinues from the Stormforged and the Beast-Bane had arrived not long after the Adamantine had taken the Mandrake Bastion, to bring word that the advances of both the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had stalled. Zephacleas was still fighting his way through the lava-tubes, and Artos Stormforged had laid siege to Ytalan. Makos Wrathsworn and his chamber of Celestial Vindicators had managed to breach the steam-ramparts of Balyx, but their assault on the arboreal cities of Vaxtl had slowed as every beastherd for leagues had poured out of the jungles, eager for battle. Only the Adamantine were in a position to strike off the serpent’s head.

Without Anhur, their warlord, the enemy would crumble. Its chieftains and deathbringers would turn on one another, each seeking to take the Scarlet Lord’s place. Thus distracted, they would be easily dealt with by the Stormcasts. But first, they had to eliminate him. Even as the thought occurred to him, horns echoed up from beyond the courtyard walls.

‘Ha! Hear that? What say you, Moros?’ Gorgus said, as he unhooked an hourglass from his belt. The Lord-Castellant set it down beside him. He peered at the sand and tapped the glass. ‘I give it a few moments. No more than that.’

The Lord-Relictor leaned against his staff, and made a show of considering the avenues beyond the outer walls. ‘An hour, at least. If not sun-up.’ He glanced at the Knight-Vexillor. ‘Galerius?’

‘Less than that. I can hear their drums,’ Galerius said.

‘See? Galerius agrees with me,’ Gorgus said. He sat back, his tone one of satisfaction.

‘I do not dispute your wisdom in these matters, brother,’ Moros said, genially. ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it.’ He gestured to bodies heaped and piled about the enormous courtyard. ‘We broke them, Gorgus. We drove them back, and broke them wherever they chose to stand. It will take their remaining chieftains hours yet to whip them into a renewed frenzy. Assuming that wiser minds do not intervene.’

‘Wisdom and the Bloodbound are not words often found together,’ Tarkus said. The Knight-Heraldor looked at Orius. ‘If they’re gathering nearby, it might be wise to keep them on the defensive. I can take a few retinues and strike before they know what hit them.’

‘Come to that, we all can,’ Galerius said, pointing at the shattered portcullises. ‘Three points of egress... three of us,’ he continued.

‘Ha! A race then, brother?’ Tarkus said. Galerius laughed. Tarkus looked around. ‘First to meet the enemy wins. Who’s with me?’

‘Wins what?’ Moros asked. Orius could tell by the Lord-Relictor’s tone that he was becoming annoyed. Tarkus had that effect on his fellows. He was a great warrior, gifted in battle, but nonetheless prone to excessive exuberance. They all felt some touch of it – battle was their craft, vengeance their purpose. They were the storm made flesh and they were driven by its fury. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged to wage war in Sigmar’s name, and it was their duty and honour to do so. But even among the Stormcasts there were those who fought with a zeal that bordered on the foolhardy.

‘Glory, Lord-Relictor. Victory itself. What else is there?’ Tarkus said, seemingly baffled.

Gorgus chuckled. ‘He has a point.’

‘Please do not encourage him,’ Moros said, sternly.

‘Quiet, my brothers,’ Orius said, raising his hand for silence. ‘Quietly now. Gorgus is right. The enemy are indeed on the move, though in which direction, I cannot say...’

He got his answer a moment later, as the last member of his auxiliary command arrived. Kratus the Silent dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch before his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been keeping an eye on the city from the air. Kratus signalled sharply as he rose to his feet.

‘The enemy come,’ Orius said, nodding.

‘Not tribesmen,’ Galerius said. The Knight-Vexillor cocked his head and tightened his grip on his standard. ‘Beastkin. I can smell their stink on the breeze.’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘It seems we will not need to go out to them, brother. They come to us.’

Orius frowned. Even the Bloodbound did not willingly share their camps with the beastkin. They would have pushed them as far to the fringes of the city as possible, if not beyond, into the jungle. The sounds of the battle for the bastion would have drawn those nearby to investigate. He looked at Tarkus.

‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. Muster our brethren.’

Tarkus lifted his battle-horn and blew a long, sharp note. The signal to muster. Across the courtyard, Stormcasts ceased their labours, recovered their weapons and shields, and fell back towards the portcullis. Swiftly, Liberators took up a staggered formation, shields raised, as Judicators took up position behind them. More Stormcasts joined their brethren in gilded ranks, even as the enemy arrived in force.

Beastmen poured out of the avenues beyond the inner walls and into the huge courtyard. They were varied and monstrous: snorting gors and squealing ungors, bellowing bullgors and heavily armoured bestigors. Goatish jaws snapped and frothed as cloven hooves stamped. Barbaric standards, crafted from bone, wood and tattered flesh, rose over the horde as beastkin from different herds jostled each other for space.

As Orius watched, a massive shape thrust itself forward through the press, smashing aside or stomping on those beastmen too slow to get out of its way. He recognized it for what it was instantly – a deathbringer, one of the mortal champions of Khorne. The deathbringer bore scraps of scavenged armour strapped to his malformed frame, and a banner pole made from a gibbet cage. The cage still held a rotting body, its features contorted in hunger and fear. His head was that of a snarling, red-maned lion, though no lion had ever had horns of brass or fangs like iron nails. He reared back and swung a crude flail composed of brass chains and hooks and decorated with cracked skulls.

‘I am Vasa the Lion. I am a champion of Khorne. Hear my roar, whelps of Sigmar, and know thy doom is come!’ the deathbringer shouted out in challenge, and the beastmen followed his example.

‘Judicators to the vanguard,’ the Lord-Celestant said, ignoring the deathbringer’s ranting. He raised his hammer in command. ‘Greet them properly, my brethren. Kratus – you and your warriors will be the hammer. Strike as you see fit.’ He signalled to Moros. ‘Lord-Relictor, you shall heat the metal. Tarkus, Galerius – you two shall extract it from the fire.’

‘Pincer movement,’ Tarkus said, approvingly. ‘You honour us, Lord-Celestant.’

‘I shall take the centre of the line, with Gorgus.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘That’ll make you and I the anvil, old friend, if you’re willing.’

Gorgus snorted. ‘Someone has to do it.’ He turned and raised his halberd. ‘Liberators – form up. I want a wall of sigmarite across this courtyard. Lock shields!’

Galerius and Tarkus followed his example, bellowing orders to their own retinues. Decimators, Retributors and Protectors moved forward to join the two. They would advance from the flanks, carving through the horde flooding into the courtyard, bloodying it and forcing it to contract. Then they would retreat, drawing the beastmen after them. From behind the shield wall, the Judicators would thin out the herds even further.

In Orius’ experience, the beastkin were ferocity itself on the attack, but blunt their fangs and their courage wavered. They had no stomach for prolonged combat. They would retreat deeper into Uryx and seek to ambush any who pursued them. But the more of them they killed here, the fewer they would have to worry about later. The deathbringer might be another matter. Khorne’s champions were as deadly as a hundred lesser warriors.

‘Just like the Adamantine Mountains,’ he said, out loud. ‘Do you remember that day, brothers? The war in the Havokwild, the day our chamber earned its war-name?’

‘Aye,’ Galerius said. He set his standard. ‘We all remember that day, Lord-Celestant. The day you split the skull of the Pale King, and we cast down the ruinous standards of the beastherds.’

‘We drew them in,’ Tarkus said, picking up the story. ‘Drew them in and shattered them on our shields.’ He spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the ranks of the assembled Stormcasts. The recitation was not quite a song. Even so, the words hummed on the air. Warriors began to thump their weapons against their shields, the way a blacksmith might hammer a blade. Retributors heaved their hammers up and brought them down on the stones in a brutal rhythm.

‘We stood then, and they broke against us,’ Moros said, as he joined the Judicators at the front. ‘They shall break against us now.’ The Lord-Relictor held up his reliquary staff and the clouds boiled above, lightning shimmering within their depths.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Tarkus said.

‘We shall not break,’ Galerius called out, his standard held aloft.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus said, thumping the ferule of his halberd on the ground.

‘We shall not break,’ Moros cried, staff raised.

As the front ranks of the beastmen drew close, the Lord-Relictor whirled his staff about in a tight circle and slammed the end down. Orius could feel the strength of the storm flood through him as Moros spoke, drawing its fury down with his prayers. A crackling radiance danced across the war-helms and shields of the assembled Stormcasts and shrouded their weapons. A bolt of lightning speared down and struck the reliquary atop Moros’ staff. As he thrust it forward, the lightning roared forth, springing from the empty sockets of the skull mounted in the reliquary.

The lightning streaked across the plaza and tore a bloody furrow in the heaving ranks of the beastmen. Hairy bodies were flung into the air, while others crumpled, smoking. But the herds thundered on, cloven hooves rattling across the stones. Bestial horns whined, and the whole barking, squealing, bellowing mob surged over the bodies of the fallen. Behind them, the walls of the courtyard ruptured and split, as the Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers.

Moros roared out an order, and the Judicators loosed a salvo of skybolts. A second salvo followed, and then a third. But the warherds pressed forward. Rickety chariots rattled up, surging through the ranks, pulled by snorting beast-things. Lumbering bullgors smashed aside their own kin in their haste and greed. Kratus and his Prosecutors swooped low over the horde, striking at its edges, forcing the beastmen to draw together as Orius had planned. The creatures were funnelled straight towards Moros.

‘Fall back, Moros. Pull them in!’ Orius bellowed. He raised his sword and Tarkus sounded his horn in response. The Judicators began to retreat, firing as they went. The Liberator shield wall split, and the Judicators marched to the rear in good order, Moros accompanying them. As the Liberators locked shields once more, Tarkus and Galerius smashed into the enemy flanks, drawing their attentions from the retreating Judicators. Axes and hammers rose and fell, wreaking red ruin. The beastmen reeled in confusion.

Orius saw Tarkus behead a braying gor chieftain. He caught sight of Galerius’ standard, rising above the carnage as the two warriors met amidst the slaughter and fought side-by-side. The enemy’s momentum dissolved, as the horde began to collapse in on itself. The stones of the courtyard were slick with blood and gore when Tarkus sounded the withdrawal.

As swiftly as they had carved themselves a path into the belly of the beastherd, the Paladin retinues carved themselves an exit. They fought their way free with brutal speed, and the Prosecutors covered their retreat. Celestial hammers tore the ground, driving the scattered beastmen back together in a disordered mass.

Like the animals they were, the creatures knew only one response to such fury. They lunged in fits and starts, no longer a fighting force, but instead a mass of berserk animals driven past the limits of their fragile self-control. They flung themselves forward with desperate savagery, fighting not for victory now, but for survival.

The beastherd’s charge carried the foremost among them against the shield wall with a thunderous crash. Gors and ungors died, crushed between the shields of the Liberators and the bodies of those beastmen behind them, as the horde advanced unceasingly. Orius swept his hammer down. At his signal, Gorgus roared, ‘Forward!’

The Liberators began to move, shoving their foes back. Orius followed them, ready to step into place if any of his warriors should fall. The beastmen were in disarray but they were not beaten. Not yet. Howling gors hacked wildly at the Liberators as ungors sought to squirm between the locked shields, stabbing and slashing with primitive stone blades. The bodies of the fallen, the wounded and the dying were trodden into the stones.

‘We shall not break!’ Orius roared, as he led the Liberators forward. His chamber spoke with him, as one. The growl of their war-song filled the air, and the thunder rumbled as if in accompaniment. And then, there was no more time for singing. Only for war.

The stones of the Sulphur Citadel trembled and groaned. The walls and floor of the great chamber were smeared with the blood of fallen warriors. Of the eighty-eight chosen warriors who had accompanied Anhur to the citadel, only a few remained. All eighty-eight had descended into the chamber’s central crater at his command, and butchered one another without question. The flesh-shroud had soon been hidden by blood and bodies as warriors strove against one another in an orgy of violence, battling to prove their worth. Axes had bitten into exposed flesh, and swords had pierced vital organs. Where weapons failed, fists, feet and teeth had served, and as more bodies joined those of the fallen champions, the obsidian plates hanging in the air above had begun to rotate faster and faster.

It had been an hour since the last of the dying collapsed, guts leaking from between his fingers, and Anhur had called for a halt. The bodies of the fallen had been dragged from the flesh-shroud and their blood and organs smeared and scattered across the chamber by Pazak’s hulking blightkings as the survivors ascended to join Anhur above the carnage. What was left of the dead had been strung from great chains fastened to the underside of the chamber roof, so that not a drop would be wasted. Only a few had been strong enough, blessed enough, to survive the butchery, and now these stood to the side, awaiting the Scarlet Lord’s notice.

Anhur ignored them for the moment, his attention on something far greater. Axe resting in the crook of his arm, the Scarlet Lord stared up at scenes and moments visible in the cloud of blood which Pazak of the Faceted Eye had spread across the air beneath the rapidly spinning obsidian plates. Images of war rose and fell across the rippling surface of the pulsing void of blood, shredded flesh and splintered bone.

‘Glorious,’ Anhur murmured, as he watched the many kingdoms of the Igneous Delta and the Felstone Plains burn.

In the swirling cloud of blood and offal, he saw flickering images of a thousand battles being waged across the world. Warriors clad in armour of gold and turquoise clashed with Bloodbound in the Ironpassage, fighting to control a realmgate to Chamon, the Realm of Metal. Mount Infernus, the largest fire-mountain of the triple-ringed Vulcanus Range and the greatest of the slaughter-pits, was besieged by more of these armoured invaders, as was the Seared Fortress in the Helwind Dale. Everywhere Anhur looked, there was war. And he found it good. He looked at Pazak.

‘Do you think they know, my friend?’ he asked the sorcerer. ‘Do you think that they understand the depths of our gratitude for this gift?’

‘No. Even I don’t understand, and I have stood by you for a century,’ Pazak said, as he manipulated the scrying spell. ‘Khul is under siege, and the Red Pyramid with him,’ he added.

‘And the living rage has fallen. They hold the Ironpassage, the Scintillating Portal...’ Anhur laughed. ‘Well, what pleasure is there in fighting an incompetent enemy, eh? I’ve seen enough. Show me what occurs on our doorstep.’

Pazak gestured, his long fingers manipulating the air as if it were clay. The blood-cloud spasmed in response, fraying and darkening as the sorcerer forced its gaze elsewhere. Anhur saw the vast lava-tubes of Raxul, and the broken remnants of the duardin under-road. Enormous statues of glowering duardin kings gazed sightlessly down on the conflict raging at their feet. Amethyst-clad Stormcast Eternals fought against the warherds of the bray-king, and were steadily pushing the beastmen back. As he watched, the giant, stag-headed bray-king fought his way towards the leader of the Stormcasts, who met him with sword and hammer.

‘Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Show me the rim-citadel.’

Pazak obliged, extending a hand and gesturing sharply. The blood billowed and thickened, and Anhur saw the familiar sight of the mighty basalt gates of Ytalan rising above the Great Southern Way. In the shadow of those looming gates, silver-armoured Stormcasts assaulted the undisciplined forces of the Queen of Swords. The queen herself led the defence, riding atop her scythe-wheeled chariot, leading her Brass Stampede into the ranks of the enemy.

‘Beautiful,’ Anhur said, without thinking. Part of him wished he were there – Ytalan had been his, once upon a time. His to rule, and he had done so well, for the most part. Until it, like everything else of worth, had been stripped from him. He forced down the rising anger. There would be time enough for that later. All the time in the world, he thought, glancing at the obsidian plates which still rotated above the centre of the chamber.

‘I do not see it myself,’ Pazak said. He motioned again, and the image faded and skewed, changing. ‘As you predicted, they assault the crater from every direction. The steam-ramparts of Balyx on the eastern rim have already fallen, and Sevenjaw-Jahd with them, the stupid brute.’

‘No loss there,’ Anhur said. ‘Balyx is too far away for them to reach us in time, even if they manage to fight their way through Sevenjaw’s remaining war-chiefs. And likely Vaxtl as well, for I wager old Chief Warhoof and his beastherds will make our foes pay for every bloody scrap of ground. What of the Mandrake Bastion?’ he asked.

Pazak didn’t reply. Anhur looked at the throbbing blotch of blood, and saw golden-armoured figures fighting against his forces atop the stone battlement. He laughed as he caught sight of a familiar figure, wielding hammer and sword with deadly skill. ‘The Hound of Ytalan,’ he murmured. ‘Oros, my friend, you do me such honour...’ He laughed again. ‘Look at him Pazak – look at him! He fights with the strength of a hundred lesser men.’

‘He is determined, I’ll give him that,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of that one at the Hissing Gates.’

Anhur grunted. Memories of that day came swift and savage... a golden figure, charging through the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing... a moment of recognition... He shook his head.

‘Oros of Ytalan, at my throat again,’ he said. ‘Truly, Khorne smiles upon me.’

‘Does that mean you’ll kill him this time?’ Apademak growled. As he spoke, Apademak ran a chunk of stone over the edge of his axe to sharpen it. The slaughterpriest squatted nearby, with the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen, all save for the exalted deathbringer known as Vasa. They had all heard the boom of thunder and seen the flash of lightning through the far, high windows which lined the periphery of the dome. They knew as well as he what had come sweeping down with the storm, and were impatient to face it. Vasa alone had been given the honour of first blood, while Apademak and the others had remained in the Citadel at Anhur’s command.

Vasa had earned his chance at glory – it had been his blow which had slain the grandmaster of the sulphur-knights, and won the Bloodbound the Bridge of Smoke. Anhur doubted the brute would see another dawn, but he would serve to obstruct the enemy’s advance.

If Anhur mustered his forces now, the Stormcasts would be driven back. Not easily, or soon, but it could be done. But, such would defeat the entire purpose of this enterprise. Of all his Gorechosen, only the skullgrinder, Volundr, truly understood. Anhur didn’t turn as he answered Apademak.

‘Someone will, before the end.’

‘That is not an answer, my lord,’ Apademak said. The scratch of stone on steel grew more frenzied. ‘You had a chance to take his head at the Hissing Gates, and instead you stayed your hand. Khorne does not reward mercy, my lord... only victory.’

‘Yes, but victory takes many forms,’ Anhur said, still not looking at the slaughterpriest. He could feel the heat of his Gorechosen’s anger, and it amused him. Apademak took his duties quite seriously. He could not grasp the true scope of Anhur’s ambitions, for he existed in the moment. There was no future, no past for him... only the red now. But now was not good enough for Anhur. He had not come to Klaxus merely to cast it into ruin. No, he had come to drag it back into glory, one way or another.

‘No!’ Apademak snarled. Anhur heard him rise, and he saw Pazak tense. ‘No... victory is only measured in blood and skulls, Lord Anhur, and you would do well to remember that.’

Anhur’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. He turned, and extended his axe towards Apademak. ‘Careful, Hungry One, or I’ll fill your belly with enough steel to satisfy even your cravings.’

‘Would you kill me for speaking the truth?’

‘I would kill you for any number of reasons, Apademak. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.’ Anhur swung his axe loosely and looked around. Strange shapes pushed and squirmed beneath the blood which coated the walls and floor. Half-formed daemon-shapes which thrashed like babies in their mother’s womb. And that, in truth, was what the Sulphur Citadel was to be, once the Black Rift had been opened – a womb of horrors, born of rage and slaughter. He glanced at the obsidian plates, noting how swiftly they now spun. Soon the power contained within them would grow too great to be contained and it would erupt, opening the way to Khorne’s realm.

He could almost see the wonder and glory of the Brass Citadel in his mind’s eye – a veritable mountain range of bastions, battlements and forges, iron-bound walls and moats of boiling gore, and beyond them a fractured, infinite wasteland where eternal armies waged unending war in the name of he who watched it all from his throne of skulls. Such was Khorne’s realm, and Klaxus would be the same when Anhur was finished.

But first, he had one final debt to pay.

‘Glorious,’ he murmured again. He glanced at Pazak. ‘How long?’

Pazak sighed. ‘Hard to say. There is great power here. It lies athwart innumerable realms, touching all, but open to none. And while the stones sleep, so too shall the facets. We must awaken them, and that will require sacrifices. Many sacrifices.’ He held up his withered hands. ‘Do you feel it, my lord? The air is weighed down by centuries of indolence. The stones of this place are groggy with ennui, and not yet roused to their full hunger. We must whet their appetite...’ He gestured to the bodies of Anhur’s fallen warriors. ‘This was a start, nothing more.’

‘A start,’ Anhur repeated. He grunted. ‘We have captives aplenty, even now, after Apademak’s... excesses.’ The warlord cast a disapproving glance at the slaughterpriest. ‘And the Warpfang and his verminous lot are scouring Uryx for any survivors who might have escaped.’ He frowned, as he thought of the skaven. The ratkin were untrustworthy, but they had nonetheless proven themselves useful in his assault on the Tephran crater-kingdoms. More than once, it had been the cunning of the black-furred warlord, Warpfang, which had seen enemy bastions overthrown and gates opened. If the creature had been a man, Anhur might even have offered him a place amongst his Gorechosen. He would make no more strange a champion than Pazak.

In hindsight, Anhur had to admit that sparing Pazak had been wise move. At the time, he had thought it merely a whim. The sorcerer had been a worthy foe, and his invasion of the Blister-Vents of the Alkali Basin had been entertaining, if unsuccessful. Khorne might despise sorcery, but Anhur knew that the Blood God valued victory more. And a sorcerer, in the end, was just another weapon to be aimed and let loose upon the foes of the Lord of Skulls.

Pazak made a sharp gesture. ‘No. We need a finer vintage than that. We have stirred them with the blood of warriors. Now we must awaken them with the blood of champions. Then, and only then, can they batten on the blood of the conquered.’ He looked meaningfully in the direction of the survivors of the earlier massacre. ‘It is the best way I know to reveal the skull-roads and tear the veil between this world and that of the Blood God.’

‘Ahhh,’ Anhur murmured. He turned his attentions to the survivors. He knew them all – Yan the Foul, Grindlespine, Kung of the Long Arm, Baron Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress, Skullripper, and Redjaw the Resplendent... Monsters and madmen. Their stories, like his own, were acts of brute heroism raised dripping from the cauldron of slaughter which was Aqshy.

Yan the Foul wore a grisly mask made from the stitched flesh of Bromnir, the last duardin king of the Firewalk, and a cloak made from the beards of the fallen king’s drakeguard. Grindlespine had cracked the fire domes of the Magmatic Crescent, putting their populations to the axe – eight million skulls, shattered on the anvils of Khorne. Kung of the Long Arm, a giant of a man who bore a screeching daemon-blade crafted from the bones of his brother, had cast down the silk standards of the horse-lords of the Calderan Plains.

In contrast to the deeds of those three, Baron Aceteryx had thrown open the gates of Scorian Bastion to Anhur’s warhorde and had participated in the massacre of his own people in return for the promise of power – power which had come in the form of armour crafted from the butchered flesh and splintered bone of those he had betrayed. Unlike Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress had earned her name in the deeps of the Ashdwell, where she had led her tribesmen in the extermination of the innumerable orruks who laired there, offering up their bestial skulls to Khorne.

The last two were even more monstrous than their fellows. Skullripper, clad in piecemeal war-plate scavenged from a thousand battlefields, had led the charge at the Sun Gate into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade, and his bestial mien and size spoke of Khorne’s favour. And Redjaw... Redjaw was a monster among monsters, whose face was hidden beneath a scarlet helm wrought in the shape of a flesh hound’s muzzle, and who wore a cloak dyed in the metallic blood of the seven child-kings of Cinder.

Monsters and madmen, Anhur thought. These were the tools that Khorne allowed him, the blunt instruments by which he would carve a new order. The Blood God did not believe in easy victories. Anhur looked at Pazak.

‘I shall give you your sacrifice, sorcerer, and find three new champions in the process.’

He had entered the Tephra Crater with eight champions as was proper, but three had fallen in the battles which followed. Otalyx of Spharos had died on the Bridge of Smoke, battling the sulphur-knights of Klaxus, and both Bolgatz Bonehammer and the slaughterpriest, Grundyx Five-Scars, had fallen in the taking of the citadel. He suspected that Apademak had killed Grundyx – slaughterpriests were a competitive lot, always seeking the eye of the Blood God. He raised his voice.

‘There must be eight, else Khorne will turn his gaze from us. Eight Gorechosen, to serve at my side. So must it be, so shall it be.’

Anhur turned, facing the expectant survivors. They knew what was coming. It was a ritual older than Aqshy itself, one of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood by the first of the slaughterpriests at Khorne’s command. The rite of the Gorechosen.

‘They say,’ Anhur began, ‘that Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows. But that is not wholly true.’ He spread his arms. ‘Sometimes only the right blood will satiate him, only the worthiest skulls will please him – you know this, as well as I, my warriors. Not the blood of slaves. Worthy blood and worthy skulls.’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the waiting warriors murmured as one. Behind Anhur, Apademak struck the floor with his axe. Berstuk joined him, and Hroth, until the air quivered with the shriek of metal on stone.

‘My Gorechosen have lost their brothers,’ Anhur said, raising his voice to be heard over the clangour. ‘Even now, Vasa fights in their name, in all of our names. Who would join him in his glories? He swept his axe out, indicating Apademak and the others, as they moved to join him. ‘Three have fallen, and so three must rise. Three worthy skulls!’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the warriors chanted. ‘Blood for the Blood God.’

‘Who will stand forth? Who will walk the axe’s edge?’ Anhur thundered. ‘Eight there must be – eight to stand at my side, eight to build the skull-road, eight to kill in Khorne’s name!’ He swept his arms out, indicating the others who stood beside him. ‘Stand forth and declare thy worth. Stand forth and be judged.’

A sudden skirl interrupted whatever might have come next, and the tramp of marching feet filled the air. Anhur turned to see a column of armoured skaven marching across the chamber towards them. At Pazak’s gesture, the blightkings stepped aside. The skaven warlord, Kretch Warpfang, marched at the head of the column.

Warpfang was a burly example of his kind, bigger and stronger than most. His red war-plate had been burnished to a blinding sheen by his slaves, and his black fur groomed and stiffened by fatty unguents. In one paw, he carried a halberd. Its haft had been cut down so that it was easier to wield. In his other paw, he carried a spiked mace, its head shot through with glimmering veins of warpstone. A replacement fang made from the same had been fitted into his scarred muzzle at some point, and it glimmered strangely amid a thicket of scar tissue. ‘I bid thee greetings, most savage man-thing lord,’ Warpfang snarled as he brought his warriors to a halt a safe distance from the Bloodbound.

‘Why are you here, vermin?’ Apademak called, stepping forward. ‘You were not summoned. You dare show your muzzle here – now? You interrupt one of our most sacred rites! I should crush your cowardly skull.’

Anhur gestured and the slaughterpriest subsided, glowering at the skaven.

‘Speak, Warpfang,’ the Scarlet Lord said.

‘We bring more-many slaves, yes-yes,’ Warpfang said to Anhur, ignoring Apademak. The skaven looked around. ‘More for the slaughter, yes? As you asked.’

‘Asked?’ Anhur said. He laughed. The ratkin were, for the most part, a cowardly lot, but Warpfang showed little inclination to cower. The creature had a high opinion of himself, and Anhur often had to resist the urge to teach the skaven the meaning of humility.

‘You have brought chattel,’ he said, more loudly. The skaven cocked his head, eyes narrowed.

‘Yes-yes. Chattel. Man-things. Slaves.’

‘And is that the only reason, brave Warpfang? Is that why you have interrupted us, in this most sacred moment?’ Anhur glanced at Pazak as he spoke. It had been the sorcerer who had first made contact with the ratkin and recommended the alliance. Pazak and Warpfang knew each other of old. The sorcerer smiled thinly, and Anhur had to restrain a laugh.

‘No,’ Warpfang said. He thumped his chest-plate with his mace, unleashing a flash of green sparks. ‘Warpfang will be Gorechosen! Warpfang will kill-kill!’

‘Kill, Warpfang, kill!’ the rest of the skaven shrieked, as one. The black-furred ratmen drove the hafts of their halberds against the stone floor as they chanted, nearly drowning out the singing of Redjaw’s followers. ‘Kill, Warpfang, kill! Kill, Warpfang, kill!’

‘Arrogant vermin,’ Apademak snarled. He whirled, glaring at Anhur. ‘He makes mockery of us and of this sacred moment. But say the word, my lord, and I shall offer up his wretched heart for your pleasure.’

Anhur raised his hand, silencing the slaughterpriest. ‘Speak, my friends. What say you, my champions?’ He looked at the others. ‘Pazak? I know you encouraged him in this.’ How else would he have known what was occurring here, he thought, unless you told him. Only mortals devoted to Khorne could join the ranks of the Gorechosen, but Warpfang would be useful regardless, if he survived. And his presence would annoy Apademak no end.

‘He’s an ambitious little maniac,’ the sorcerer said, with a shrug. ‘Crazy even by skaven standards. He’ll make a fine champion if he survives.’ He looked at Anhur. ‘Grandfather Nurgle long ago made common cause with the children of the Horned Rat, and it has ever been to our benefit. Would you turn down a weapon because it does not look as you wish?’

‘I agree. Let him fight. His blood will grease the wheels of some worthier champion’s victory,’ Berstuk said, thumping the stones with the haft of his bone portal. The scar-faced bloodsecrator laughed. ‘Besides, I never grow tired of their squeals.’

‘He makes for eight,’ Hroth said, testing the edge of one of his axes with his thumb. The deathbringer gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘An auspicious sign, whatever else, my lord. I agree with my brothers – let him fight.’

‘The Lord of Skulls has a million beasts, but precious few beast-masters. All who think themselves worthy must have a chance to prove it,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He cannot stand as Gorechosen, but if he lives... he is worthy to serve.’

‘But he is nothing – he is a mere pest!’ Apademak sputtered, glaring at the skullgrinder. He looked at Anhur. ‘He does not even follow the Eightfold Path...’

‘Even vermin can kill,’ Pazak interjected. ‘And is that not the only worship Khorne demands? I do not follow your path, yet here I am, at the Scarlet Lord’s right hand, not one of his Gorechosen, but a weapon nonetheless.’

Apademak flushed and opened his mouth to retort, but Anhur cut him off with a curt gesture. ‘Quiet. The Eight are mine to choose, how I wish. The rat shall fight. If Warpfang wins, he may not be Gorechosen, but he will join you at my side, and be welcome. War is the great leveller, Apademak. It raises up and casts down, in equal measure. All who serve it are welcome at my side in this undertaking.’ He hefted his axe. ‘Fight,’ he said, as he brought his axe down and embedded it in the stones at his feet. ‘Fight and die for the glory of Khorne!’

For a moment, the only sound was the echo of Anhur’s cry. Then Phastet stepped forward lightly, her sword springing into her hand as she moved. In the same, smooth motion, she slashed out, opening Yan’s throat to the bone with the serrated blade. She whirled around him as he staggered forward and brought her sword down between his shoulders, driving him to his knees. The huntress continued to hack at him as he slumped, her eyes alight with feral joy.

‘A true daughter of Khorne,’ Volundr murmured.

As if Phastet’s sudden assault had been a signal, Skullripper gave a guttural howl and charged Kung. The two warriors began to trade heavy blows, even as Baron Aceteryx, ever the opportunist, circled them, a flail of brass and iron swinging from one hand and a basket-hilted sword in the other.

‘What odds do you lay, Shieldbreaker?’ Berstuk growled, watching the duel intently. ‘The Skullripper or Kung?’

‘Kung,’ Hroth said, scratching his chin with the edge of his axe. ‘He fought beside me at Oruxx... But then, the Baron is quick. Khorne may favour him, even as he favours Grindlespine.’ The warrior in question was advancing on Warpfang. Horny growths of bone and red scale covered Grindlespine, and he wore little armour. Antlers sprouted from seeping wounds in his head and he’d chewed his own lips to ragged tatters, exposing blackened fangs. He hefted a two-handed sword and stamped forward, swinging it about his malformed head.

Warpfang lunged forward, ducking beneath Grindlespine’s blade as it looped out. The skaven rolled to his feet and his halberd chopped into the back of the aspiring champion’s leg. Grindlespine howled and sank down to one knee. Warpfang bounded to his feet and spun, his mace crashing into the back of the hobbled warrior’s skull. The skaven was already moving as Grindlespine pitched forward.

Pazak whooped, earning him a glare from Apademak. Warpfang leapt onto Kung’s back, using his halberd as an anchor. The blade sank into Kung’s shoulder-plate and the giant roared and staggered as he tried to dislodge the skaven. Skullripper tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Baron Aceteryx sprang forward and drove his basket-hilted blade through a gap in the brute’s armour.

Skullripper stumbled and whirled, swiping at the Baron even as Phastet darted towards him, her saw-edged sword chopping down on his arm. Skullripper gave a keening wail and spun to face her. Aceteryx came at him again, smashing his flail down on Skullripper’s head. The brute sank down as the two warriors struck him again and again. Kung staggered towards them, still clawing at Warpfang, who clung stubbornly to his perch.

‘Three down,’ Anhur said. His pulse quickened as the scent of newly-spilled blood filled the air and the others had begun to chant, reciting the eight hundred and eighty-eight names of the Lord of Skulls as they clashed their weapons and stamped their feet.

Pazak silently pointed at the obsidian plates spinning above the fight. They had begun to glow softly and the blood was running freely across the stones of the chamber.

‘They awaken, my lord,’ the sorcerer murmured. Anhur laughed.

In the crater, Kung backhanded Aceteryx and knocked him sprawling. Redjaw whirled forward, his spear darting out, snake-quick, to pierce Kung’s eye. The screeching axe made a sound like a sob as it tumbled from its wielder’s hand and fell to the ground. Kung leaned forward, held upright by Redjaw, until the champion stepped aside and tore the spear free with a single motion.

‘Four down,’ Apademak said, gleefully. ‘Redjaw has it!’

‘Not if the vermin has anything to say about it,’ Hroth said, slapping the slaughterpriest on the shoulder. Apademak turned and glared angrily at him, but said nothing.

Warpfang rode the body to the ground, and then leapt at Redjaw. They moved back and forth, almost faster than the eye could follow, weapons clashing again and again. Warpfang nimbly avoided every thrust, even as Redjaw blocked every riposte. As they moved about, trading blows, Phastet crept towards Aceteryx. The Baron rose unsteadily to his feet and the huntress’ too-wide mouth split in an ear-to-ear grin, revealing shark-like teeth. She lunged and the Baron turned, but not quickly enough.

Her jagged blade shattered as it crunched down on Aceteryx’s helm, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee. Phastet gave him no chance to recover – she jerked a short-hafted orruk axe from her belt and prepared to strike. But before she could, Anhur roared, ‘Enough!’

Panting, Warpfang stepped back and Redjaw lowered his spear. Baron Aceteryx clambered to his feet. Phastet had claimed Kung’s axe for her own and murmured quietly to it as she joined the others. The warriors looked up at the Scarlet Lord expectantly, to where he and his Gorechosen watched from the top of the small crater. Anhur spread his arms.

‘Enough. You have won. Three to replace the fallen, and one more besides.’

He tore his axe free of the stones and raised it over his head. ‘Blood for the Blood God. Blood and skulls for Khorne!’ The newly-made Gorechosen echoed his cry, raising their weapons. Even Warpfang and his skaven joined in, screeching wordlessly.

Satisfied, Anhur lowered his axe. ‘Victory, at the cost of pain. Suffering is our toll, to walk the skull-road.’ He looked at Pazak. ‘Is it enough?’

‘It’s a start,’ the sorcerer said. ‘This place has slumbered for centuries... even before the coming of the Ruinous Powers. It will take more blood – seas of it, to open the way. We must baptise this place in the blood of its people.’

Anhur nodded slowly. Is it all that you hoped it would be, Anhur of Ytalan? The voice rose up out of the dark of him, prying and digging at his certainties. Will you save your people by slaughtering them? Will you save the kingdom by destroying it? The warlord snarled and shook his head. The voice faded and he looked down at his axe, seeking strength. He traced the rune of Khorne, carved into the flat of the blade, and growled. ‘So be it.’ He turned to Warpfang. ‘More slaves. More slaves, more blood, more skulls. The way must be opened, whatever else. We have come too far to falter now.’

He lifted his axe, and felt a savage joy fill him, driving back his doubts. ‘I will drown Klaxus in the blood of its people, if that is what it takes,’ he bellowed, and his Gorechosen roared out their agreement.

As they did so, the Scarlet Lord heard again the rumble of distant thunder and smiled.

‘Now... now we come to it at last, Oros, my friend,’ he murmured. The enemy had come, as he had known they would. ‘Now, we will see.’

Now, the true battle for Klaxus could begin.

The Adamantine shield wall pressed on, killing as they marched. Orius led them forward, striking down snarling beasts with every blow. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, winding above the clangour of battle, but he had lost sight of the others in the advance. Every so often, the sky lit up with lightning, as Moros called down the storm, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. The Scarlet Lord had hundreds of herds of beastmen in his army, and it seemed as if many of them were here, now, trying to slaughter his warriors.

Suddenly, an all-too familiar flail of skulls swept down from out of the press, smashing an unlucky Liberator to the ground. Beastmen fell upon the warrior and hairy hands dragged him struggling into the depths of the horde. Even as Orius stepped up to take his place, a bolt of blue lightning streaked upwards, signalling the fallen warrior’s return to Azyr. Anger thrummed through the Lord-Celestant as he moved to confront the creature called Vasa.

The monstrous deathbringer, his gibbet-banner clattering, loomed over Orius. Red eyes bulged and slaver dripped from his muzzle as he bellowed wordlessly in challenge. He swung his flail down, and Orius slashed out with his runeblade, chopping through the chains. The deathbringer stumbled back, stamping clumsily on a squealing ungor. He tossed the ruined weapon aside with a bellicose snarl and reached for Orius, clawed fingers wide.

‘I will crush your skull, and offer up the fragments to Khorne!’ the brute roared.

The Lord-Celestant stepped forward quickly, avoiding Vasa’s grasp. He drove his hammer up, into the leonine warrior’s jaw. Bone crunched and the deathbringer staggered, eyes rolling wildly. Before his opponent could recover, Orius opened Vasa’s stomach with a single slash of his runeblade. The giant champion sank down with a morose grunt, claws clasped to his gut. As he sought to rise, Orius split his skull.

‘He can have yours instead,’ he said, watching as his foe twitched his last. He looked up, and saw that the shield wall had pressed forward without him. The Stormcasts had driven the foe before them, sweeping them back out of the courtyard. And with the fall of the monstrous deathbringer, their will to fight had seemingly evaporated.

‘They’re on the run,’ Tarkus said, as he trotted towards Orius. He looked none the worse for wear, despite the gore which streaked his armour. At the other end of the courtyard, the Stormcasts had driven the remnants of the warherd back, against the outer walls. Orius judged that only the swiftest would manage to escape into Uryx. Judicator retinues moved to man the broken walls and Prosecutors kept watch from the air, just in case the remaining beastkin regrouped more quickly than expected. The Knight-Heraldor kicked a goatish head aside as he joined Orius. ‘Now’s the time to advance, if we’re going to do it.’

‘Indeed,’ Orius said. ‘The Prosecutors will collapse as much of the city to either side of us as they can and block it off from any advance once they regroup. That will keep our foes off our flanks as we press forward.’ The Lord-Celestant looked at Kratus, who had joined them, wings folded behind his back.

The Knight-Azyros nodded and signalled to one of the Prosecutor retinues circling overhead. They swooped towards him and he motioned sharply. The Prosecutor-Prime of the retinue raised one of his hammers in salute. Orius watched the interaction curiously. In all the years he had known the Knight-Azyros, Kratus had never spoken, for reasons known only to himself and Sigmar. Nonetheless, he made himself understood. The warriors of the Adamantine had learned to read volumes from the Silent One’s simplest gesture. As the Prosecutors swooped off, the sound of collapsing stone and cracking wood rose up from the city below, momentarily drowning out all other sounds.

The noise rose up, throbbing on the air, as Orius, joined by the rest of his auxiliary commanders, climbed onto the courtyard walls. It pulsed for several moments, beating against their ears like a monstrous heartbeat.

‘The fire,’ Galerius began, as the echoes faded. Moros shook his head.

‘The jungle,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly. ‘I can feel it. Something has provoked it. It is unfettered, for the first time in millennia. It is... hungry and eager.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Soon it will devour the city and everything in it. The magic of the priest-kings... it held this city together. Now they’re dead, and the city dies with them.’ He hesitated. ‘Furthermore, something grows in the rot. I can feel it. A war-wind blows, my Lord-Celestant. Our enemy came here for a dread reason, I think.’

‘Whatever it is, we must move quickly. The inner gates will need to be opened if we are to win our way into the city proper,’ Orius said as he peered out across the terraces and plazas of the outer city. The jungle encroached here more than elsewhere. It always had, something told him. A jagged splinter of memory thrust its way upward, pricking him. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the rasp of the hot wind across stones and bark.

He saw a face, heard a familiar laugh. A man he had fought under, whom he had called friend. A man he had followed from the basalt crags of Ytalan, through the Ashen Jungles, in the name of justice. What happened to you... to us? he wondered. The question held him tight. It refused to release him, no matter how he tried to thrust it back into the shadows of memory. Orius could see more faces: allies, friends, brothers. There had been unrest in Klaxus, after the war with Raxul. Pogroms and bodies stacked in the streets. The priest-kings had called them home, but Anhur had not marched on their behalf – no, the Prince of Ytalan had been determined to topple the old, corrupt regime. To replace it with something better.

In this dying city, we sought a reason to live, he thought, without knowing why. He bent over the ramparts, the ancient stones crumbling beneath his palms. ‘But we found only death,’ he muttered, as the memories receded, taking the shadows of the past with them. Where are you, Anhur? Where are you, traitor?

‘My lord,’ Moros said, softly.

Orius straightened. He looked out over the city, wondering, and he found his gaze drawn to the distant shape of a citadel composed of yellow stone, rising from the pale, steaming waters of the sulphurous lake which nestled in the crook of the crater’s curve. The city spread out around the lake in all directions. The priest-kings had ruled Klaxus from that foul place, and that, he knew, was where his enemy would be.

‘There,’ he said, with iron certainty. ‘That’s where he is. That’s where whatever he’s planning will take place.’

Moros followed his gesture. ‘What is that? A temple?’

‘Of a sort. The Sulphur Citadel,’ Orius said, slowly, drawing the name from the ashes of his mortal memories. ‘The last redoubt of the priest-kings. And the first. It is – was – said that Uryx sprouted from the citadel, growing up around it. It is a palace, a fortress, a temple, surrounded on all sides by sulphurous waters that boil and churn.’

‘There is a bridge?’ Gorgus asked.

‘The Bridge of Smoke,’ Orius said. ‘A thing of sorcery, like so much of this city.’

Moros shook his head. ‘It won’t be easy. We’ve half a city between us and it, and by what we’ve seen so far, the bulk of our foe’s forces have occupied Klaxus. He’ll be calling in every chieftain and would-be champion out of the jungles, even as we advance.’

‘Then we must be quick.’ Orius looked at the others. ‘This isn’t the Hot Gates. There’s nowhere for him to run now. Even if he retreats back across the crater, towards Ytalan or Raxul, he will have to face us. If he does not smash us, we will smash him.’ He pointed. ‘We must make for the Gnawing Gate.’

The others followed his gesture. He heard Tarkus curse softly. He didn’t fault the Knight-Heraldor. The hideous gate loomed above the labyrinthine streets of the outer city, its grey bulk crouched amidst a web of inner ramparts and aqueducts.

The Gnawing Gate, like the Mandrake Bastion or the Street of Vines, was a legacy of the priest-kings of old. And who knows what other horrors they’ve concocted since, he thought.

‘The old men say it was once a beast, hungry and foul,’ he said. He shook himself. ‘Or they used to, long ago. But from there we can march straight to the Bridge of Smoke and on to the citadel. If Sigmar is with us, we can clear the bridge before it too succumbs.’

‘I can–’ Tarkus began, but Orius cut him off.

‘No. I will do it,’ the Lord-Celestant said. ‘I know the way. We will take the Water Road.’ He extended his hammer toward the distant length of the ancient aqueducts which ran from the Mandrake Bastion, down across the courtyard wall and into the city, over the tops of the jungle trees and buildings. ‘It’s the most direct route, and the path of least resistance. I’d be surprised if the Bloodbound even knew what the aqueducts are.’

‘Anhur might,’ Moros said. ‘He’s cagey, that one.’

Orius looked at him. The Lord-Relictor’s gaze was unreadable. Orius suspected that Moros knew of the memories which afflicted him, but the Lord-Relictor had never said anything. All Stormcasts knew the pain of half-remembered moments and unrecognisable faces. He nodded slowly.

‘He might well. But I do not think he will care.’

Moros cocked his head. ‘As you say, Lord-Celestant.’

Satisfied, Orius looked at the others. ‘Kratus will accompany me. Tarkus – you, Moros and Galerius will help Gorgus establish a strongpoint here and then press forward to meet me at the Gnawing Gate. Drive the enemy before you as we did on the outer slopes of the crater.’ He looked up, at the roiling clouds. ‘Soon, Sigmar will send the other chambers to reinforce us. We must see that their path is clear.’

He extended his sword, letting the rain sluice what blood remained from the blade. ‘We are the killing stroke, the final thrust, and we shall do as we have been forged to do. For Sigmar.’ He raised the now-clean blade over his head.

‘For Sigmar,’ the others said, in unison.

‘You have your orders. Sigmar willing, I shall see you all soon. Kratus, attend me.’ Orius sheathed his sword and strode along the wall, Kratus following soundlessly. As he went, he sent runners to muster those retinues who would accompany him. Soon, fifty Stormcasts had assembled on the wall near the closest of the aqueducts. They were a mix of Liberators and Judicators, with a large contingent of Retributors. Three retinues of Prosecutors circled them overhead. When the Stormcasts had gathered, Orius explained his plan to Kratus.

‘You will take wing, my brother,’ Orius said. ‘Hunt the skies with your warriors, see what there is to see and report back to me. Once we reach the Gnawing Gate, your speed will be to our advantage. We must hold it, whatever else happens.’

Kratus nodded. Orius clasped his shoulders. ‘Be wary and do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. Our only advantage is that they do not yet know our numbers. We must keep them guessing until our brethren arrive to bolster our ranks.’

Kratus stepped back and saluted, smashing his fist against his chest. Orius raised his hand in farewell as the Knight-Azyros leapt into the air, followed by his Prosecutors. He watched them spiral upwards into the dark sky, until only the faintest gleam of their wings was visible.

Orius looked up at the roiling clouds. He could still recall the sense-shattering moment that he had been plucked from the point of his death and taken to Sigmaron, amongst the stars. In a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, he had traded death for life, and mortal failure for a higher cause. Great and perilous trials had followed, as he was forged anew and made more than the man he had been. His mettle had been tested time and again within the Forge Eternal, until at last, Orius Adamantine had stepped from the ashes of Oros of Ytalan.

He led his warriors towards the entrance to the covered aqueducts. The tunnels had been built to carry water from the upper reaches of the crater-city to the lower, and circular cupped grates marked the entirety of their vast length. They were said to have been shaped by duardin artisans at the behest of the priest-kings of old, when the first foundations of Uryx, and Klaxus, were laid, and such was the obvious skill of their construction that Orius could readily believe it.

The aqueducts stretched from the Mandrake Bastion throughout the city, and from them one could reach almost any point. They were covered by roofs of brick and knotted roots, with wide holes at intervals which allowed in the rain. Great networks of vines stretched up from the ground and clung to their length, spreading between the hundreds of support pillars like vast spider webs. The great iron grates were the only way to enter them.

Orius slammed his hammer against the ancient grating and smashed it loose from its frame. It splashed down, the echoes of its fall galloping down into the depths of the aqueduct. The aqueducts were called the Water Road for good reason. They had never run dry in all the centuries of their existence. Even in the hottest seasons, lukewarm water had run down the pillars to rain upon the poor who had waited eagerly below.

He could feel the splash of that water, the relief it brought to be clean, if only for a few moments. Orius closed his eyes briefly. Voices he had not heard in a century called out to him, from the depths of his recollection. Faces, indistinct yet familiar, rose and fell before he could fully see them. A lifetime of memories, ever just out of his reach.

Come, Hound of Ytalan, a voice had said, between the ringing of axe-strokes. Anhur’s voice, rising above the roar of the geysers at the Hot Gates. The name meant something, stirred some ancient ember of mortal pride, but Orius could not say why. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. This was not the first time he had waged war in the streets of Uryx, but it would be the last. Whatever had gone before, whatever had happened to Oros of Ytalan, none of that mattered. The past had been burnt from him by Sigmar’s lightning. He was Stormcast now, purged of weakness, forged in aetheric fire. Only the present mattered. Only the future.

The Lord-Celestant stepped into the tunnel. It stank of mildewed stone and rotting plant matter. Rain sluiced down through the holes. It was barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to travel three abreast. Orius lifted his weapons and carefully dragged the blade of his sword across the face of his hammer. His hammer trembled in his hand, and a soft, vigorous light rose from the runes and sigils carved into it. The light washed down the length of the aqueduct, illuminating every dangling vine and revealing the ancient tiles which decorated the underside of the roof. Strange shapes – vermin, perhaps – scampered away from the light, retreating deeper into the aqueduct.

The Lord-Celestant turned to his warriors. They waited, silent and gleaming, each of them a hero forged in tragedy and fire. Bound together by the will of Sigmar, and sent forth to free the Mortal Realms from the clutches of abomination. Kingdoms like Klaxus. He wondered if he had fought beside any of them before, in forgotten days. How many of you fell here with me, the first time? How many will fall now?

Orius pushed the thought aside. Death was not an end. Not for them. They would fight until the eight realms cracked asunder, until the stars were snuffed, until all hope was lost and beyond. They were Stormcast Eternals, and they were Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest.

‘Follow me. We march for the Gnawing Gate,’ he said.

And then, with a clatter of sigmarite, Orius Adamantine led his warriors into the dark.

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written The End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.

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

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Black Rift of Klaxus: In the Walls of Uryx © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2015. The Black Rift of Klaxus: In the Walls of Uryx, 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: 978-1-78251-702-3

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