Six Pillars

Josh Reynolds

Apademak the Hungry stood atop the remains of a shattered statue in the Plaza of Six Pillars, his head thrown back, and screamed. It was a sound overflowing with fury and hunger. It filled the expanse of the plaza and beyond, echoing through the rain-swept streets that curled about the Gnawing Gate and the crumbled structures that lined them, where great fires crackled and savage shapes danced. Apademak bent backwards, forcing the sound louder and louder, until his throat burned and his lungs ached.

As he screamed, he could hear the wail of horns, the bellowing of the Gnawing Gate, and the sounds of the dying, spreading out from the city around him. Those captives not meant for Pazak’s purposes, or for other labours, were left to the mercies of the Eight Tribes – those teeming hordes of savage bloodreavers who fought beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. Some, like the Skinstealers, devoured the meat of their prisoners after stripping them of flesh. Others hunted their terrified prey through the overgrown ruins for sport, or else sacrificed them to the Blood God on sacred brass anvils.

These were the tribes who would come at his call, and more besides. Though their warriors were scattered after the sack of Uryx, they would not have gone far. There was too much fun to be had in the centre of the city. Hundreds of captives to entertain them, and the palaces of the soft-skinned nobility to be pillaged and burnt. They would come, and he would lead them forth to partake of a dark feast in Khorne’s name.

Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, and a clap of thunder caused the trees to sway. The war-song of the enemy, Apademak thought. They whose blood tasted of lightning, and whose tread was thunder. He had yet to take the skull of one of the warriors Anhur called ‘Stormcasts’, and the thought only added to his anger. He had killed many, hacking them down in their gilded panoply at the Hissing Gates, but something – some force – always snatched them away before he could collect his due.

‘But I will do so today, Khorne – in your name, I shall pluck their skulls smoking from their flesh and cast them into your fires,’ he roared, and the strange sulphur-birds which nested in the yellow roots that ran through the walls of the plaza burst into the air, crowing raucously as if in reply. He watched them circle through the stinging rain, and for a moment he thought he saw another shape amongst them. A lean shape, hideously beautiful, leather wings flapping as she swooped over the faithful. His heart swelled.

‘Valkia,’ he roared. ‘Gorequeen, Jewel of Murder... hear us, oh Lady of Slaughter! Hear your sons and daughters – we will spill seas of blood in the name of he who is our father. We will offer up the lightning itself!’

The phantom faded, even as his words echoed across the street. He had seen Valkia once, at a distance. The Gorequeen had danced through the slaughter so gracefully that in that moment, Apademak had been lost. He could still feel the sweet pain of her voice as it dug its hooks deep into the meat of him, assuring him that he was hers forevermore. Whether she had heard him, whether she had truly graced him with her presence, he could not say, but a man gained nothing if he did not first try.

He heard the crash of stones and the groan of splintered wood. Over the tops of the square, vine-encrusted buildings that surrounded the plaza, he could see the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. The monstrous archway was ever hungry, and its tendrils hunted the streets as eagerly as any Bloodbound.

As he watched, the great tentacle of the gate ripped a distant aqueduct apart, and lightning flashed, again and again. The Gnawing Gate roared, as if in agony.

The enemy were coming. Vasa the Lion, exalted among deathbringers though he had been, had been unable to stop them in the courtyards of the outer city. Apademak tightened his grip on his axe, glad of its weight. It trembled in his hand, eager to sing a hymn of slaughter. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, placating the blade’s spirit with a taste of his blood. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Soon, we shall drink until our bellies burst, my friend.’

He looked out over the plaza, and across the shimmering yellow surface of the lake, where thick columns of smoke rose over Uryx. The Nine Hundred Pillars, Anhur called it, though Apademak did not know why. Anhur said many things that Apademak did not understand. He used words where an axe was needed.

That was something creatures like Anhur would never understand. They had not grown up as he had, cloaked in Khorne’s glory. Apademak had grown to manhood in the Bitter Mountains. His tribe had offered up wine-soaked gobbets of meat to the shrieking carrion-birds who brought Khorne’s words from the Brass Citadel. And the birds had carried those sweet meats to Khorne’s lips, and the Blood God had cast his blessings down, in return.

Men like Anhur sought power in battle and became lost, until Khorne found them. But Apademak had never faltered, not once. He had set his first skull atop the Blood God’s altar at the age of ten winters, and had done so faithfully for uncounted days since. Anhur knew nothing of Khorne’s truth. The Scarlet Lord was a bloodless thing, who saw no crime in retreat, victory in failure and wove schemes like a spider wove webs.

But, somehow, he had Khorne’s favour. Despite it all, he still stood, blessed and strong. Why had he been sent here? Why had he been called to serve such a creature? Apademak shuddered, suddenly gripped by an all-consuming anger. It tore through him, threatening to break his limbs and rip the muscles from his bones. He threw back his head and howled again, venting his fury at the storm clouds that gathered above.

As he screamed, his mind suddenly roiled with gory visions of the carnage to come. Apademak staggered, clutching at his head. His long fingers dug into the scarred flesh of his brow as scenes of war and death flashed across the surface of his mind. He heard the clamour of daemon-voices, and the rattle of the brass standards of Khorne. He felt the heat of the great forges of the Brass Citadel, and could taste the blood of men on his tongue.

He saw a vast shape unfold across the storm-riddled sky. A shape of brass and blood, a titan of awfulness clad in baroque armour, with a face like that of a snarling hound, only miles wide and grinning down through the rain and lightning. Khorne straddled the Tephra Crater, his feet planted on either rim, his great sword held aloft, its blade pointed down. Soon, soon, he would drive the Ender of Worlds down, and Klaxus would die. Aqshy would die. All things would die, and Apademak screamed and screamed, as vision after vision washed over him, showing him pieces of what had been and what was to come.

The echoes of his cries plunged deeper and deeper into the city, merging into a roar of summons, and those who heeded such calls came. They flowed into the plaza, howling and clashing weapons – Skinstealers, Bonegnawers, Red Blades and more besides, warriors and chieftains from the Eight Tribes. With them came a few lash-wielding bloodstokers, and a trio of his fellow slaughterpriests. They knew what his cry meant, for it was one of the most sacred of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood – it was the call to the Feast of Slaupnir.

Apademak looked down upon the gathering of warriors and growled in satisfaction. With these, he would break the Stormcasts. Even now, the main thrust of the foe drove forward, through the crooked streets and broken avenues of the outer city, towards the Gnawing Gate. Apademak intended to meet them, and fling them back. Khorne was watching him, the eyes of his patron were upon him, and he would not be found wanting.

Apademak met the eyes of the tribesmen gathered below him, and raised his axe in readiness to whip them into a frenzy. But before he could speak, the growing crowd was pierced by an armoured shape. The tribesmen drew back, muttering amongst themselves, and even the slaughterpriests knew better than to bar a skullgrinder’s path.

Volundr moved slowly, as if he were a thing of iron, rather than flesh and blood. He carried his anvil on his shoulder as he walked, and dragged his chains behind him. Men skipped back rather than be touched by those chains. He came to a halt before Apademak’s perch. The anvil thudded down from Volundr’s broad shoulder, splintering the stones. The chains in his grip clinked softly. Apademak straightened. Of all the Gorechosen, the warrior-smith was the most dangerous, besides himself. And he was stubbornly loyal to Anhur. Perhaps that was why he had come. Apademak had challenged the Scarlet Lord more than once since they had begun their march across the Tephra Crater, as was his right and duty. Was Volundr challenging him in return? The thought of it was thrilling.

‘Hungry One, I would speak with thee,’ Volundr said, his voice issuing hollowly from the fang-like mouthpiece of his crimson helm. ‘I bring you the words of our Lord Anhur.’

Apademak stopped. He looked down at the skullgrinder warily. He was taller than the war-smith, but not by much, and Volundr was twice as broad. ‘Then speak,’ he said. ‘But be quick – our enemies draw close, and my axe is thirsty.’

‘He is displeased with you, Apademak,’ Volundr said.

‘Is he?’ Apademak said. ‘And he sends you to tell me? Why does he not come here himself, and face me as a true warrior?’

‘He has greater wars to wage. Can you feel it, Apademak? Can you feel the weight of Khorne’s gaze? It is drawn to this place, to Anhur. Khorne waits – eager and slavering – on the threshold, and it is our duty – our privilege – to thrust the gate wide,’ Volundr said.

Apademak grunted. ‘Aye, I feel it. It is ever thus. Khorne is in every splintered shield and torn limb, in every dying scream and roar of triumph. He is always with us.’ He spread his long arms and the bloodreavers roared in agreement.

‘But his eye is not on us. It is Anhur who occupies him,’ Volundr said, and the tribesmen fell silent at his words. Apademak made an impatient gesture.

‘And so? Does that mean I should slink quietly? I was already a prodigy of murder before I felt Khorne’s spark, and I have made war my lover, lord and life,’ Apademak said, arms spread. ‘The Blood God speaks through me, hell-smith. Can Anhur say the same? You forge weapons, but I am one. If you wish to challenge me, I will oblige you in your folly.’ Apademak spun his axe with ease, the corded muscles in his forearm bunching. Bloodreavers stepped back, clearing the area around Volundr. The skullgrinder laughed harshly.

‘No challenge, I assure thee, Hungry One. Merely a warning... heed me or not, as you will,’ Volundr said. ‘You are a weapon, as you say, but it is Anhur who wields you. And a weapon which turns too often in its wielder’s hands is bound for the fire and the anvil, to be reshaped into something more useful.’

Apademak threw back his head and laughed. ‘Proof enough that no man may know the will of the gods,’ he said. He tapped the side of his head and leered at Volundr. ‘Khorne’s words thrum in my brain like fresh-driven nails. Loyalty is not among them. Only blood, only skulls, only war... those are the gospels of Khorne.’

‘Indeed,’ Volundr said. ‘But war comes in many forms. It can be a thing of bloody brevity, or an eternity of slaughter. Anhur fights for the latter...’

‘The Scarlet Lord fights for himself, as we all do, skullgrinder. He is as riven with weakness as that fool, Baron Aceteryx or even Hroth Shieldbreaker. It spreads in him like a sickness. I can smell it, and soon, I shall end his suffering.’ Apademak tested the edge of his axe. A sudden urgency gripped him. Change was on the wind, and if Khorne’s gaze had been drawn here, then all the better. ‘Tell him that, if you wish. Tell him that I am ever hungry. That I see him for what he is, and I shall take his skull the moment he gives me reason, even as he has threatened to take mine.’

‘You need a reason?’

Apademak smiled. ‘The formalities must be observed, warrior-smith. I speak for Khorne. I challenge the weak in his name. I cull the unworthy.’

Volundr nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. Then, ‘You cull the weak, slaughterpriest. But never forget that it falls to me to forge the strong.’

‘Then prepare thy tools, war-smith, for the strong stand before thee,’ Apademak snarled. Anhur was afraid. Why else would he have sent Volundr, with such an overt warning? Anhur was afraid! And Apademak would show him that he was right to be so, once the Stormcasts had been driven from Uryx. He glanced up, and saw again the enormous shadow of Khorne, stretching across the curve of the sky through the riotous storm clouds.

He felt his muscles swell with fury and strength, and he lifted his axe over his head. Rain pelted his face as he roared, ‘The enemy has come, my brothers. They ride this gale, and we must meet them. Khorne hungers, my brothers... will you not feed him?’

‘Feed,’ the bloodreavers roared. The lashes of the bloodstokers sang as they whipped the tribesmen into a frenzy, and Apademak’s brethren added their own voices to his exhortations. The bloodreavers grew more frenzied by the moment, chanting Khorne’s name, and gashing their flesh with their weapons. Apademak saw Volundr moving away, across the plaza, and he grinned. Run back to your master, war-smith, he thought.

‘Feed, brothers,’ Apademak said. ‘Eat of their hearts, brothers, so that Khorne might taste the blood. Find them, and feast.’ As he spoke, he could feel the rage that was in him stretching forth to infect those Bloodbound closest to him. The heat of his fury ignited the flames of their hunger, stirring them and burning away doubt, hesitation and fear. Feed, as I will feed upon the Scarlet Lord before this battle is done, he thought.

‘Feast,’ the tribesmen bellowed. The clash of their weapons swelled to fill the air, and Apademak swept his axe out, as if to cut through the noise. Thunder rumbled, shaking the very stones of the plaza. He heard the screech of the Gnawing Gate, and laughed.

‘Sniff them out, my brothers,’ he roared, ‘Hunt them down and fall upon them, ravenous and strong. Crack their bones and flay their hides. Pry loose their hearts, and offer them up smoking and bloody in Khorne’s name! Blood for the Blood God!’ He leapt down from his perch and struck the ground with his axe, sending up sparks.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ came the thunderous reply. Apademak howled again, and the gathered tribesmen joined their voices to his. The sound rose up and up, drowning out even the noise of the storm for a brief moment. And then, as one, the warriors of the Eight Tribes went to meet the foe.

‘What sort of folk are these, who raise up such monsters?’ Tarkus said, as he stepped over one of the grey tendrils that lay limp and shrunken in the street. Only moments earlier, the advancing Stormcasts had been forced to raise their shields against the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. But with a sudden crack of thunder, the hideous limbs had, all at once, stiffened then fallen away, as if whatever malign life force animated them had been snuffed. ‘Perhaps we should leave the Klaxians to their fate...’

‘If I thought you were serious, Tarkus, you and I would have words,’ Moros said. He and Galerius marched alongside the Knight-Heraldor at the head of the Adamantine. Behind them came the Devastation Brotherhoods – Retributors, Protectors and Decimators, marching in the shadow of those Prosecutor retinues who had not accompanied Orius. Liberators and Judicators, arrayed in Thunderhead Brotherhoods, moved alongside the Paladins with steady determination. More than once since they’d started out from the Mandrake Bastion, one or more of these brotherhoods had peeled off from the main column to confront an approaching enemy.

‘You mistake the people for their leaders,’ Moros continued. ‘The crimes of some are not the crimes of all. The common folk of Klaxus had no more say in the actions of their rulers than the people of Raxul or the citizens of the Striding Cities of the Ghyran Veldt. Our duty remains the same regardless. We will free them from tyranny, familiar or otherwise.’ He used his hammer to thrust a man-sized coil of tendril out of his path. That these tendrils were inert meant only one thing – Orius had succeeded in taking the Gnawing Gate.

And Sigmar willing, he can hold it until we arrive, the Lord-Relictor thought, as he led the warriors of his chamber on through the rubble-strewn streets of Uryx. The column Moros led marched swiftly. It was composed of the bulk of the Stormcast retinues of their chamber. The remainder followed more slowly, under the leadership of Lord-Castellant Gorgus.

It fell to Gorgus to render the plazas and courtyards they travelled through defensible for those chambers who would follow them, and aid the Adamantine in reclaiming Uryx from the Bloodbound. Uryx would become a bastion from whence the Stormcasts might march to free the remaining kingdoms of the Tephra Crater. But first, they had to free the city from the grip of the Scarlet Lord. Beneath his war-helm, Moros frowned.

The Adamantine had pursued Anhur across mountain, salt-plain and trackless waste, harrying him from the realm of the furnace kings to the Hissing Gates. They had clashed with him again and again, and every time the Scarlet Lord had chosen to flee, rather than stand and fight, as if some greater purpose than mindless carnage drove him. Despite their victories, Moros couldn’t help but feel that Anhur had drawn them knowingly to the Tephra Crater. Why else would he seemingly put his hand in such a trap?

Between the fires that raged through the surrounding jungles and the Stormcasts laying siege to the crater-kingdoms, there was no chance of Anhur escaping with anything remotely resembling an intact army. His power would be broken if he remained in Uryx. Unless he thought to defeat the Stormcasts in this maze of tangled streets, where he had failed to do so before under the open skies. Why have you come here, Scarlet Lord? Are you seeking a final confrontation... or is it something else? Moros thought. There was a smell in the air that he didn’t like – not simply the effluvium of war, but a more pervasive stink. The stench of corrupt magics. It might only be the death-rattle of Uryx, as the spells which held it intact faded, but he suspected otherwise. A voice from above drew his gaze skyward. A Prosecutor swooped low. ‘Something approaches, Lord-Relictor,’ the winged Stormcast called out.

‘Enemies,’ Tarkus said, raising his battle-horn. He blew a single note, and two retinues of Liberators moved forward smoothly, taking up position across the width of the street, their shields raised. The sound grew louder and louder, and then a number of shapes, not all of them human, burst into sight. ‘Wait – those don’t look like Bloodbound,’ the Knight-Heraldor said.

‘They’re not,’ Moros said, as the street was suddenly filled with life and noise.

In the lead were a pack of the grey, black-spotted scale-cats that prowled the upper branches of the Ashen Jungle. They screeched as they spotted the Stormcasts. One by one, the reptilian felines bounded from the ground, scrambling up onto the rooftops in an apparent effort to escape, leathery tails whipping about in fear. After them came serpents and vermin, of all shapes and sizes. Birds as well, damp-feathered and shrieking. Behind the animals came a group of fear-stricken Klaxians, clad in rags, carrying makeshift weapons or wailing children, or both. They stumbled to a halt as they realised what awaited them.

‘Stand aside – let them past,’ Moros bellowed. Sigmarite shields swung aside, and the Liberators made room for the Klaxians, who lurched forward as a path was opened. The mortals hurried through the silent ranks of the Stormcasts, glancing about in dull-eyed fear. They did not stop, or even slow, and no Stormcast sought to hinder them. Moros hoped Gorgus could take them in hand, or at least shepherd them to safety.

He turned as lightning flashed. The Prosecutors swooped and dived, hurling their hammers at whatever pursued the Klaxians. He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Lock shields – Thunderhead Brotherhoods to the fore,’ he called out. The air trembled with a measureless roar of raw sound – innumerable voices, raised in a brutal song. The ground trembled beneath his feet. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t planning on stopping.

A moment later, the first bloodreaver burst into sight, running flat out, an axe in either hand. More followed – dozens, fifty, a hundred – a savage tide of murderous fury. Moros could feel the hatred radiating outward from them, and the terrible hunger that drove them. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ he cried. Liberators braced themselves as the Judicators behind them began to fire, launching crackling bolts into the flood of flesh and crimson iron sweeping towards the Stormcasts.

The howling tribesmen hurtled forward, through the barrage of skybolts and hammers hurled from on high by the Prosecutors. They filled the avenue and trampled the wounded in their haste to reach the sigmarite shield wall. Moros could see the bulky shapes of bloodstokers in the maddened crowd, lashing the barbarians cruelly, goading them on. The first of the bloodreavers reached the shield wall and the sheer fury of their charge nearly buckled it. The Liberators stiffened, driving warblades through the gaps between shields to gut and hamstring the foe, or crushing the hands and heads of those that sought to climb over the wall with warhammers.

‘We need room to manoeuvre – Galerius, we need to push them back,’ Moros said. The Knight-Vexillor nodded and strode to join the Liberators, battle-standard raised high. ‘Tarkus–’ he began, glancing at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘I’ll take one of these side-streets. We’ll hammer ourselves a path, and flank them,’ Tarkus said, before Moros could continue. At Tarkus’ signal, the Devastation Brotherhoods moved forward. Moros made to speak, but merely nodded instead. Tarkus, for all his exuberance, knew his business. The Lord-Relictor held out his hand, and Tarkus caught it. The two Stormcasts clasped forearms as the paladins moved to join them.

‘Be careful, my friend. And be quick,’ Moros said. He turned. The Liberators crashed against the bloodreaver ranks, forcing them back one bloody step at a time. He counted the moments, waiting until they had gained enough space, and then gestured. ‘Take out the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

Retributors unleashed their hammers on the walls and doorways behind the shelter of the shield wall. The ancient stones cracked and fell, and where vines and roots held them suspended, the axes of the Decimators set them loose. As the paladins worked to open gaps, Judicators clambered through them and took up positions in the shattered ruins. Soon, skybolts were sizzling across the narrow avenue in a deadly crossfire, cutting down the enemy by the dozen. Galerius raised his hammer, and the Liberators halted their advance to wait, shields and weapons ready, holding the foe at bay. Judicators carrying skybolt bows and boltstorm crossbows moved forward, shielded behind the Liberators.

‘Tarkus – go,’ Moros said, motioning sharply to the Knight-Heraldor. Tarkus saluted and led his warriors through one of the newly-gutted structures. A moment later, Moros heard the sound of lightning hammers shattering stone. ‘Keep pace, whatever else. Do not let your bows grow cold for an instant, brothers,’ the Lord-Relictor said to the Judicators as he passed through their ranks. ‘Show them the storm in all its fury, and do not falter. Protectors, with me!’

Moros moved towards the enemy, his Protectors close beside him, their stormstrike glaives extended. He signalled to Galerius as he moved past. ‘Galerius – lead them forward on my command. We will be the point of the spear, and you the haft,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We cannot stop for anything.’

‘Even death shall not slow me, Lord-Relictor,’ Galerius said. ‘Not while I bear our standard. Where you lead, we shall follow, even unto the fire.’

‘Hardly the fire, Galerius. Just to the next plaza, I think,’ Moros said. He could hear the winding blast of Tarkus’ battle-horn, somewhere beyond the sagging structures and splayed branches of the trees that grew amongst them. The Knight-Heraldor was on the move, and Moros was determined to keep the enemy unaware of that fact for as long as possible. He took a breath and cleared his mind of all save the sacred lightning. It was no simple feat. It required concentration to stir the divine tempest. And only those possessed of faith undying could direct the thundering aetheric energies that Sigmar had bestowed upon them. Only those like Moros Calverius.

He concentrated, focusing on the soft sound of the rain, the distant growl of the thunder, and heard the voice of Sigmar, speaking to him through the storm. The air swirled and the rain hissed as it felt the touch of lightning. He expelled the breath he’d been holding and swung his reliquary forward, unleashing the elemental fury that boiled within him. ‘Forward – for Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial!’ Moros roared, as his lightning scythed through the ranks of the tribesmen. ‘Press forward, sons of Sigmar, and let no foe stay thy path.’

A bloodreaver, skin charred and smoking, staggered towards him, laughing wildly. Moros crushed the dying warrior’s skull and cursed as more bloodreavers charged towards him. They fell, struck down by the glaives of his bodyguards. Galerius shouted an order, and the shield wall began to move forward once more in the Lord-Relictor’s wake.

Soon, the stones of the street and buildings were slick with gore. The Bloodbound did not slow their assault, even as they died in droves. It was as if every cursed tribe in the city were trying to get at them. Warriors leapt from the rooftops, trying to bypass the shield wall. They fell, plucked from the air by the bolts of the Judicators or the hammers of the Prosecutors.

Moros drove the enemy before him, scouring them with lightning, and reducing many to ashes. He crushed skulls and shattered limbs with every strike of his hammer. His Protectors fought alongside him, and with them he carved a bleeding wedge in the enemy, blunting their momentum. Galerius kept the shield wall steady, so that those foemen who got past the Lord-Relictor found no refuge. The Stormcasts stamped over the bodies of the fallen, grinding them into the stones as they moved forward with relentless precision.

Soon, the avenue widened into an enormous plaza, lined with shattered pillars and toppled statues. The barbaric standards of at least five tribes of bloodreavers rose above the seething mass of tribesmen as they stampeded over rubble and around fallen walls. They flooded the plaza, coming from all directions, driven beyond reason.

Neither lightning nor sigmarite deterred the foe, but the Stormcasts continued to advance. To stop was to risk being overwhelmed. As the shield wall forced its way into the plaza, the retinues behind fought their way forward. The shield wall stretched further out, until almost every Liberator retinue had taken his place in the battle-line. Behind them, Decimators and Retributors fought to keep the flanks free of enemies. Prosecutors swooped overhead, trying to shatter the entrances to the plaza and cut off the flow of tribesmen.

Moros snarled in fury as a nearby Liberator fell, his skull split by an axe, and his body dissolving in a burst of lightning. The weapon’s wielder was a giant of a warrior, long of limb and heavy with muscle. Slaughterpriest, Moros thought. The slaughterpriest was covered in scars, his flesh branded with the rune of Khorne. Great horns of bone stretched from the back of his head, curling over his broad shoulders. As the Lord-Relictor watched, the giant drove his axe into a Liberator’s shield hard enough to crumple it. The Liberator staggered, and the warrior caught his head in one big hand. Veins bulged and muscles swelled in the giant’s arm as, impossibly, the sigmarite war-helm began to buckle and crack. Then Galerius was there, his hammer smashing down on the giant’s arm with bone-crunching force.

Moros lost sight of the Knight-Vexillor as a barbed lash hissed out and caught him around the wrist. Surprised, he dropped his warhammer. A burly bloodstoker chortled as he stabbed at Moros with his rusty blade. The blade shattered as it struck Moros’ armour, and the Lord-Relictor allowed himself a moment to relish the look on the brute’s face, just before he punched him. The bloodstoker staggered back. Moros whirled his reliquary staff about and slammed the weighted haft into the Bloodbound’s stomach. As his opponent stumbled back, Moros snatched up his fallen hammer and swept it across the bloodstoker’s head, crushing it.

He heard a cry and spun to see Galerius stagger, one hand clamped to his shoulder. The slaughterpriest reared back and kicked the Knight-Vexillor in the chest, knocking him back against the shield wall. ‘Is that it,’ the slaughterpriest roared, as he avoided an off-balance blow from Galerius. ‘Is that the best you can do, lightning-rider?’

Moros slammed his staff down and a bolt of crackling lightning punched the slaughterpriest backwards to bowl over a group of bloodreavers. For a moment, the clamour of battle faded, as Moros and his warriors moved towards the downed warrior. The slaughterpriest heaved himself to his feet, in a cloud of smoke. ‘Who dares strike Apademak?’ he screamed. His flesh was raw and puckered where the lightning had struck him, and smoke rose from his body. He lashed out in a frenzy, killing tribesmen as they raced past him. ‘You,’ he snarled, pointing at Moros. ‘I’ll eat your heart,’ the slaughterpriest roared, bounding through the press of battle, his axe raised. The wicked blade swept out, and caught a Protector in the shoulder.

The Stormcast staggered, and tried to bring his glaive about, but he was too slow. The axe bit down again and again, until even sturdy sigmarite was forced to give way. The Protector fell, body evaporating in a haze of blue lightning. The slaughterpriest howled in fury, and whirled, backhanding another of Moros’ bodyguards off his feet.

Moros lunged forward, and drove the haft of his reliquary staff into the Bloodbound’s unarmoured torso. Bones cracked, and the slaughterpriest staggered back a half-step, his howl choked off in a strangled grunt. His eyes bulged and he stomped forward, axe whirling. Moros backed away, watching his opponent warily. The slaughterpriest was larger, with a longer reach, but like most Bloodbound he was a sloppy fighter. A brawler, rather than a trained warrior.

They came together again, trading blows. Then, perhaps one as strong as this doesn’t need training, Moros thought, as they circled one another. The slaughterpriest’s energy was inexhaustible. He fought as if his foul god were whispering in his ear, spurring him on. The battle flowed around them. Moros could spare little attention for anything save his duel.

The slaughterpriest surged forward suddenly, and slammed into Moros, knocking him from his feet. The Lord-Relictor rolled aside as the axe slammed down, nearly chopping into his chest. He shoved himself upright, narrowly catching a second blow on his staff. For a moment, the tableau held. But inch by inch, he felt himself being pushed back.

Then the air was split by the monsoon roar of a sigmarite battle-horn, crying out like the voice of the God-King himself. The booming wall of sound reverberated through the plaza, drowning out the clangour of battle. It was so powerful that several of the broken walls that lined the plaza exploded outwards, filling the air with shards of stone and a billowing cloud of dust. A chunk of wall, as large as three men, slammed into the slaughterpriest, tearing him away from Moros and burying him beneath an avalanche of rubble.

Moros turned from his fallen foe. Most of the bloodreavers closest to the explosion were ripped from their feet by the tumbling stones. Those who remained standing were cut down moments later by the axes of the Decimators who charged out of the breach. Tarkus led the charge, his sigmarite broadsword bisecting an unlucky bloodreaver who tried to bar his path. The Knight-Heraldor raised his horn in greeting, as he and his warriors swept towards the rest of the chamber. ‘I see you started without us, Lord-Relictor. For shame,’ Tarkus called.

‘You are here now. And there are foes aplenty,’ Moros shouted back. He looked around for Galerius, and caught sight of the wounded Knight-Vexillor being helped behind the shield wall by a Liberator. Relieved, Moros turned back to the battle. With his Protectors following close behind, he began to fight his way towards the newcomers.

‘Ha! Truly, I was forged for moments such as this,’ Tarkus roared, as Moros joined him. His broadsword swept out in a wide arc and chopped through a bloodreaver’s midsection. Flesh and bone parted and Tarkus reversed the arc of the swing with a speed that Moros found almost impossible to follow. The hilt of the blade rolled in the Knight-Heraldor’s grip as he pivoted and brought the wide blade down on a second bloodreaver, removing the savage warrior’s arm at the shoulder-joint. Tarkus stepped aside as the bloodreaver toppled, and interposed his sword between Moros’ head and the axe of another burly warrior.

‘Any time you’d like to step back, Lord-Relictor,’ Tarkus said, as the bloodreaver strained against him. The berserker snarled in frustration and made to drive his blade into Tarkus’ side. Moros whipped his staff up and thrust it past Tarkus. He drove the weighted ferrule into the Bloodbound’s chest, cracking bone. As the warrior staggered, Tarkus jerked his sword free and brought it down on the berserker’s helm, splitting both it and the skull beneath.

‘The day I step back is the day I am bound for reforging, Knight-Heraldor,’ Moros said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Though you have my thanks for your timely arrival.’

The bloodreavers were falling back, streaming away from their foes, their will to fight momentarily broken. The shock of Tarkus’ arrival had shattered whatever spell had gripped them, replacing frenzy with fear. They’ll regroup soon enough, Moros thought, as he signalled for his retinue to reform, but we will be ready for them.

‘Where howl the enemies of Sigmar, so too shall I be, to silence them,’ Tarkus said. He planted his sword point-first in the broken ground and leaned on the hilt. He raised his battle-horn and blew a single, powerful note. It hung on the air for a moment, causing the very stones to vibrate. Soon, the tramp of marching feet reached Moros’ ears, and more Stormcasts streamed into the square, reinforcing the shield wall. ‘Galerius?’ Tarkus asked, as he lowered his horn.

‘Hurt, but unbroken,’ Moros said. He would tend to the Knight-Vexillor as soon as he was able, and any other wounded as well. He looked around, searching for the slaughterpriest. The brute needed finishing off, if possible. He was too dangerous to leave running loose. But it was a futile effort – the plaza was covered in a shroud of broken bodies and rubble. If the creature still lived, he was buried beneath stone and corpses. ‘We need to keep moving. Gorgus will have to deal with the remnants of our foes, when they regroup. We...’ he trailed off, as something caught his eye.

Strange shapes rose from among the heaps and mounds of dead bodies, twisting and stretching like living smoke. Grotesque faces leered and gibbered silently at him, as intangible limbs swiped uselessly at the Stormcasts as they moved through the battlefield. ‘By the celestial hammer,’ Tarkus said, as something lean and foul clawed at him with ghostly talons. It thinned and faded as he whirled to confront it, vanishing like the morning mist.

‘Daemons,’ Moros said, a sick feeling rising in him. ‘They press at the world’s threshold, seeking entrance.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Stay close – they cannot harm us, not yet.’ Not until whatever is in the air has come to a boil, he thought. Was that Anhur’s plan, then? To summon a daemontide to drown his enemies? A chill swept through him at the thought.

‘Let them come,’ Tarkus said, as he chopped through another fading daemonic shape. It twisted in on itself and vanished as his sword pierced it. ‘They will meet the same fate as their mortal servants.’

‘Boldly spoken,’ Moros said. ‘And Sigmar-willing, prophetic. But leave them be. They are vermin, and we should ignore them as such, until it is time to spill their ichor upon the ground.’ Despite his words, he felt uncertain. He shook his head. ‘Come. Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. We must press on. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. We must not fail him.’

Hroth Shieldbreaker strode through the rain, across the cracked and stinking plaza. Slaves toiled despite the storm, heaving heavy blocks into place to form barricades or else erecting dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles were embedded in the stone, their fleshless bounty staring sightlessly out over the lake which separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Standards and banner poles bearing the rune of Khorne pierced the plaza, like arrows in the hide of some great beast. Bands of scuttling skaven dragged weeping prisoners past him, towards the Bridge of Smoke. More grist for Pazak’s mill. Hroth growled softly. Sorcerers were not to be trusted. Especially ones who had once been enemies.

The armoured shapes of Anhur’s Scarlet Axes were visible amongst the throngs of slaves and bloodreaver taskmasters. The blood warriors had fought for Anhur since well before Hroth had joined the warhorde. They were loyal unto death, and rarely mingled with others. As he watched, one cut down a cowering prisoner with a casual sweep of his axe. The blood warrior tore the dying man’s head free of his neck and began to scrape the flesh from the skull.

Grass crunched beneath his feet and he glanced down. Even here, at the heart of the sulphurous lake, life persisted. The yellow, brittle grass thrust persistently upwards through the flat stones, obscuring ancient mosaics. The thick, sickly-hued roots of a few monstrous trees pushed more of those stones up or else cracked them clean through, casting blighted shadows across the plaza. As the magics that had kept Uryx safe faded, so too did its great works crumble. Soon, even the Sulphur Citadel would be no more than a root-encrusted ruin, its terraces and ramparts hidden beneath a shroud of jungle trees and grasses. Strange birds, scaly and lumpen, perched in the crooked branches, screeching a song that sounded almost like the screams of children.

Hroth liked the birds. They reminded him of home. He glanced back, past the ancient stone archway that marked the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge stretched away, over the boiling surface of the sulphur lake. The bridge had come by its name honestly. It had been carved not from stone, but from sulphur fumes, trapped and frozen like amber by sorcerous tools. The bridge swayed and undulated slowly, like a strand of smoke caught in the breeze.

He remembered leading his warriors across its ever-shifting expanse. It shrank and grew without warning, enveloping bloodreavers and drawing them screaming down into itself. Others fell into the lake below, as the bridge shrank beneath their feet. It had thrashed like a thing alive as the Bloodbound fought the Klaxian sulphur-knights across its span. He remembered Vasa the Lion’s roar of triumph as he brained the grandmaster of the knights.

He smiled at the memory. The knights had been brave, for mortals. But they had died like all the rest, and the bridge had swallowed their remains as greedily as it did those of the Bloodbound. Now the great expanse waited, content for the moment. He did not trust it, for it was a thing of sorcery, but he could not deny that it made for a potent barrier. Then, the city was full of such horrors – the Mandrake Bastion, the Gnawing Gate, the Street of Vines...

It is no wonder that Khorne was pleased when we brought this place to ruin, Hroth thought, with satisfaction. The priest-kings of Klaxus had been sorcerers and that was reason enough to mark them for death. He turned away, and continued on, his warriors moving around him in loose formation.

‘A wonder, is it not?’

Hroth turned, as the bulky shape of Volundr fell into step beside him. He had his anvil balanced on one shoulder, and its chain wrapped about him. Hroth grunted in annoyance as he noted the way his blood warriors made way for the skullgrinder. Such a show of respect annoyed him – only two beings were worth that, and Volundr was neither.

‘What is?’ Hroth said.

‘This bridge. The city. All of it. The priest-kings crafted it from the raw stuff of the jungle, and now, with their fall, the jungle reclaims it. Roots and branches once kept in check by the magics of the Klaxian nobility now spread and engulf the city built atop them. Feral warriors run wild in darkened streets, and predators prowl the temple squares. Civilization crumbling unto savagery, as it must,’ Volundr said. ‘A wonder, as I said.’

Hroth peered at him. ‘And so?’

‘I forget that you are not a craftsman, deathbringer. You cannot see the beauty in such things,’ Volundr said.

‘The only beauty I care for comes from split skulls,’ Hroth said. ‘You are in my way, smith. Stand aside and live for another day yet.’ He started forward, wondering if the skullgrinder would try and stop him. Some part of him longed to test his might against Volundr. The war-smith was reputed to be one of the eight forgemasters of the infamous Soulmaw warriors, who had supposedly won Khorne’s favour by wrestling with the very elements themselves in order to craft weapons of great and terrible power. Win or lose, Hroth thought it would be a glorious fight, one to be remembered in tale and song.

‘I will not stand aside. Nor will I hinder you,’ Volundr said. ‘I come to fight beside you, and the others.’ The skullgrinder stepped back and swung his hand out. ‘They await us, at the heart of the Plaza of Yellow Smoke.’

‘Us... you have not deigned to take the field since we fought our way through the scalding geysers of the Hissing Gates, Volundr,’ Hroth said, as they strode through the vast plaza. A hundred campfires burned in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The Plaza of Yellow Smoke had once felt the tread of a hundred thousand supplicants, seeking aid, mercy or salvation from the priest-kings of Klaxus. Now it was a mustering ground for the warhorde in all its demented glory. Amidst the newly-erected monuments and tottering banner poles, cackling beastmen strung up skin sacks, newly flayed from screaming captives and sewn tight, so that they caught the sulphurous breeze. Warriors matched blades across circles of crushed bone, and slaves were auctioned for sale between tribes.

Such was the fate of any place where the shadow of Khorne fell. The conquered had no right to life, to salvation or mercy. The weak were food for the strong, and such was the true way of it. Hroth had learned those lessons on the seas of Gjoll as a boy, and he kept them close to his heart.

The sounds of battle echoed up from the city. Apademak had demanded the honour of the vanguard, and Hroth had seen no reason to deny the berserker his desire. With Vasa the Lion likely dead, Apademak was the next most senior, behind Hroth and Volundr. The rest of the Scarlet Lord’s Gorechosen were crouched over a crude map Warpfang had scratched out in the dirt. It depicted the northern edge of the city, so that the skaven chieftain could indicate the movements of the enemy for the others.

‘Lightning-things are here, here and here,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered, as he stabbed the dirt with the tip of his halberd. ‘They have advanced past the screaming-tree-things and the gate-that-gnaws. My clawbands hold them here,’ he continued, tapping another spot.

Hroth stroked his beard. ‘They move fast.’

‘Like lightning, one might say,’ Baron Aceteryx murmured. Hroth looked at him. The deathbringer shrugged. ‘I did say “might”.’

Hroth shook his head. The Shieldbreaker had fought in campaigns undreamt of, against enemies both monstrous and mortal. But he could not recall ever coming across a creature so worthy of an axe between the eyes as Baron Aceteryx. The Baron fought with words as well as blades, waging his wars in the mind and heart as well as on the field. In that way, he was much like Anhur.

‘Fast or not, we can match them,’ Phastet said. She crouched over Warpfang’s rough map. ‘This city is a warren, full of narrow streets and wide plazas. A perfect hunting ground.’ She looked at Warpfang. ‘Scouts?’

The skaven showed his teeth. ‘Yes-yes. Flying things. Stink of the storm. They burned my warriors,’ he said, eyes narrowed. He stabbed his halberd down. ‘Here. Freed my chattel-things. Slew the gate-that-gnaws.’ Hroth laughed. The skaven sounded more aggrieved about the slaves than his warriors. Warpfang glanced at him, as if trying to determine the source of his humour. Hroth smiled and Warpfang looked away.

Smart beast, he thought. Warpfang had shown his mettle in the Rite of Choosing, but Hroth had been Anhur’s shield-bearer since the fall of Skorch. And he had maintained his position through three Choosings of Gorechosen. He yanked on his beard. ‘I know the beings he speaks of – we’ve all seen them. Great winged warriors, hurling hammers of light and force.’ The others nodded. Many of them had witnessed the fury of the Stormcasts, winged or otherwise, at the Hissing Gates. ‘And more besides.’

The skullgrinder nodded. ‘Apademak clashes with the foe in the outer city even now. But he will not hold them for long,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He will bloody them, as we must bloody them.’

‘And where is Anhur? Why does he keep himself from war?’ Redjaw said, thumping the ground with the haft of his spear. Hroth reached for one of his axes, annoyed by the other deathbringer’s tone. Warpfang replied before he could snatch it up and brain the whelp.

‘A wise leader does not race to fight,’ the skaven said, still studying the map he’d scratched out. ‘A wise leader, yes-yes, a wise leader lets others die for him, before seizing the glory, quick-quick.’ The skaven gestured, as if snatching something out of the air.

‘Maybe amongst your cowardly kind, vermin, but we are Bloodbound – our leaders are the first to spill blood, the first to meet the foe,’ Redjaw said.

‘I always assumed that they were merely the last ones standing,’ Baron Aceteryx said, in polished tones. Redjaw turned, spear raised, but Hroth thrust a hand between the two deathbringers.

‘Anhur has done all that you claim, Redjaw, again and again. You were not at Orrux, boy. You did not stand with us against the war-beasts of the Firewalk duardin or charge alongside the Scarlet Lord into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade,’ Hroth growled. He pointed a finger at the other deathbringer. ‘But you were at the Hissing Gates, so you have no excuse for your words.’

‘Aye, I was at the Hissing Gates, and I saw Anhur draw back his axe from the throat of a foe,’ Redjaw said. ‘What sort of warrior does that?’

‘One who takes pleasure in more than butchery,’ Volundr said. He looked around, at the other Gorechosen. ‘One who has caught Khorne’s eye, not for the quantity of his kills, but for the quality of them. Who broke the Calderan Khans and burned the plains clean of their yurts? A thousand champions tried and failed to bring the horseclans to heel, but only one succeeded.’ The war-smith hefted his anvil. ‘Eight million skulls were shattered on this anvil when we broke through the shimmering walls of the Fire Domes. Who was it who pierced their sorcerous veil and saw through their stratagems? You, Redjaw?’

Redjaw growled, and the iron of his spear-haft groaned as his grip tightened. Volundr continued, uncaring. He gestured to Baron Aceteryx. ‘Who was it who claimed the soul of Baron Aceteryx and gained us entry into the Scorian Bastion, where even Skarr Bloodwrath himself failed to triumph?’ Aceteryx bowed mockingly, his seeping armour moaning slightly. Volundr went on, relentless. ‘Who led us to victory over the armies of Cinder, and delivered up the seven child-kings and their queen-regent to Khorne in sacrifice? By whose kindness do you wear that fine cloak, Resplendent One?’

Volundr extended one thick arm, and let the anvil hang from his grip. It twisted slowly above Warpfang’s map. ‘The Scarlet Lord is no longer a mere aspirant, no mere deathbringer, like the rest of you. He is a warlord – a king among champions. He stands astride a rampart of victories, at the foot of the Skull Throne. He does not bring death to one foe, or a dozen, but millions. And this–?’ With a twitch of his wrist, Volundr let the anvil fall, to obliterate the drawing. ‘This is but a skirmish. He readies himself to wage a far greater war, and it is to our glory that we give him time to do so.’

‘And so we shall,’ Hroth said. His eyes slid to Phastet the Huntress. The deathbringer was staring at the map, concentration etched on her narrow face. ‘You have that look, woman... what are you thinking?’

She jabbed the ground near Volundr’s anvil with the tip of her knife. ‘The enemy sees further and farther than we. So we must blind him. We draw their eye here. The Street of Vines. Shoot down the pretty birds, and take their wings.’

‘A cunning scheme, my lady,’ Baron Aceteryx said. ‘Blind them to our numbers, we might overwhelm them, in these narrow streets.’ He tapped the map with his foot. ‘But even blind, they’ll keep coming. They charged through the steam-clouds of the Hissing Gates, they’ll do the same here.’ He drew his blade and marked the ground. ‘Here. A square along the main route. If my warriors and I strike, we might be able to split their forces even more.’

‘Yessss,’ Berkut said. He thumped the ground with his standard. ‘Draw them off, peel them like flesh from bone. And then I will be the hammer which breaks those bones.’ The bloodsecrator scanned what was left of the map. ‘I will strike them here – the Avenue of Ten Skulls. An auspicious name.’

‘Redjaw will join you,’ Hroth said. ‘And Volundr as well.’ Redjaw made to protest, but Volundr clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

‘You do us much honour, Shieldbreaker,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. ‘But what of you?’

Hroth grinned. ‘I? I will hold this plaza,’ he said, cheerfully. He fixed the skaven with a gimlet eye. ‘And Warpfang as well – you will call out your legions, vermin. The Stormcasts march this way, according the rat’s spies. And I feel no urge to run after them, like a panting dog. Let them come to me.’

‘Lazy,’ Berkut said, with a crooked grin.

‘My armour is heavy, my weapons too,’ Hroth said. ‘I am weighed down by the blood and souls I have claimed. I think I am entitled to sit and wait, priest.’ Berkut laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. Hroth wondered whether the bloodsecrator even remembered what humour was. There was little room in his mind for anything that was not related to blood and slaughter. ‘Go forth, my friends – kill and revel in that killing, for we do Khorne’s work this day,’ Hroth said. He drew his axes from the straps across his chest and clashed them together over his head. Thunder rumbled above, and the rain grew in strength. Hroth tilted his head, so that he could catch water in his mouth. It tasted achingly clean and he spat it out. ‘Go, Gorechosen – go, sons and daughters of Khorne,’ he bellowed. ‘To your assembled warpacks and gorebands go. The old foe comes, and there is blood yet owed.’

Berkut howled and struck the ground with his icon. ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ he roared. The others raised their voices to join his, until the Plaza of Yellow Smoke shook with the sound. The gathered warriors bellowed and shrieked along with their leaders. As the sound spread, Hroth turned to see the skullgrinder watching him. The deathbringer jerked his head back towards the Sulphur Citadel.

‘Anhur will come soon, I trust,’ he said.

‘He will. He must. There is blood yet to be spilled,’ Volundr said.

‘The time draws close, then?’ Hroth murmured. Volundr didn’t look at him.

‘If all goes well. If we do not falter.’

‘If he does not, you mean,’ Hroth said.

Volundr turned. ‘And you think he will? Do you truly believe such is even a possibility, Shieldbreaker?’ the skullgrinder asked. Around them, the Bloodbound mustered for war. Hroth saw Phastet the Huntress leading her band of tattooed killers down a side-street, and Warpfang was screeching orders at his hulking stormvermin. The others were occupied in similar fashion, readying their warriors for the clash to come. Bloodreavers carved the runes of Khorne in their flesh, and blood warriors clashed their blades in a savage rhythm.

Hroth grunted and ran his fingers through his tangled beard. ‘I have seen it happen. The Path of Skulls is not so straightforward as fools like Redjaw or Apademak believe. Khorne brooks no failure, no weakness, and there are only two endings open to men like us – glory or death.’

‘Anhur is destined to fight at Khorne’s side forevermore, Shieldbreaker. I have seen it,’ Volundr said. ‘It is given to me to forge the strong, to make of them weapons fit for the Lord of Skulls to wield in his eternal war. The Scarlet Lord shall ascend the eight thousand steps and join the Great Game, as is his fate.’

‘And what of the rest of us, war-smith? What have you seen for us?’ Hroth said. Volundr did not reply. Hroth laughed. ‘Aye, I thought that’d be the way of it.’ He looked up, and let the rain sting his flesh for a moment, before he said, ‘Well... I’ve followed him this far. It’d be a shame not to see how it ends.’

Still laughing, he left the war-smith standing in the rain. There was blood to be spilled, and skulls to be claimed. And Hroth Shieldbreaker intended to do as much of both as possible, before the end.

The stormfiend reared, warpstone armour rupturing as Orius Adamantine drove it back with a blow from his tempestos hammer. The strike obliterated one of the foul runes embossed on its crude cuirass, and drew greasy sparks. The hulking brute squealed in rage as Orius struck it again and again, keeping it away from the shieldwall of Liberators, who clashed with another of the creatures.

In the wake of the fall of the Gnawing Gate, the Adamantine had moved to occupy the central gateway and its surrounding ramparts. With the death of the monstrous structure, the skaven had massed and begun to launch attack after attack on the golden-armoured invaders.

Hissing hoses and whistling pipes rattled loosely along the stormfiend’s battered frame as it slashed at him with one of its vibrating grinderfists. He sidestepped the blow and chopped through the warpstone bracer it wore over one stitched forearm with his runeblade.

Its grinderfist smashed to the street as a nauseous brackish liquid jetted from the stump of its limb. The stormfiend shrieked and dropped its other fist down on Orius’ shoulder, driving him to one knee. The stones cracked beneath him as he struggled to rise, fighting against the beast’s strength. He was forced to drop his weapons as it hunched over him, pressing down on him, the grinderfist roaring only scant inches from his head. As he fought against its hideous strength, he caught sight of its fellow tearing through a retinue of Liberators. Armoured bodies flew into the air as the berserk rat-automaton tried to force itself a path through the Stormcast ranks.

In the wake of the stormfiends, skaven swarmed across the square towards the thin line of Liberators who occupied the ruined central portcullis of the Gnawing Gate. Prosecutors swooped low over the squealing tide, hurling their celestial hammers until the air was full of ash and blood, but the ratkin pressed forward. The assembled Liberators met the skaven charge without flinching, and hammer and sword flashed through the rain.

Orius saw Kratus swoop towards him through the curtain of rain, starblade black with skaven blood. ‘No, help the others,’ he shouted, as the Knight-Azyros drew close. Kratus didn’t hesitate. He banked left and hurtled towards the second stormfiend with a snap of his blazing wings. Satisfied, the Lord-Celestant caught hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hands, and gave a convulsive heave. Warpstone armour bent beneath his fingers as he lifted the whirring grinderfist up, away from his aching shoulder. The stormfiend’s tiny eyes bulged within its helm, and it raised its wounded arm as if to batter him with it.

Orius shoved the grinderfist away and lunged for his hammer. He scooped it up, even as the stormfiend struck at him again, and twisted around. His hammer sang down, crushing the brute’s tiny skull in its envelope of warpstone. It dropped to the ground, where it lay twitching. Orius recovered his runeblade and made to step over the dying beast.

But as he did so, a stinking steam spurted from its pooling blood, rising up into the air. The steam coalesced into a leering grimace – a thing of brass teeth and rolling eyes, of obsidian horns and red scale. It lunged for him, only to shred into tatters and wisps. Orius turned, and saw more of the phantasms rise from the blood which stained the stones of the square, then writhe and fade as quickly as they had come. Daemons, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them – such creatures were drawn to slaughter as flies to filth, but had they simply been called by battle, or was it something else?

Orius forced the thought aside. The creatures were gone, and there were more solid enemies to hand. He started towards the second stormfiend. Kratus had jammed his sword into the brute’s back, occupying its attention. The Liberators retreated, dragging the wounded with them as the stormfiend staggered about, clawing uselessly for the winged warrior perched on its back. Kratus would kill it, in time, but Orius was in no mood to wait.

The Lord-Celestant stalked towards the brute. As the stormfiend reeled in his direction, arms spread, Orius charged forward. Blade and hammer snapped out, and the brute slumped to its knees with a shrill whine. Orius drove his runeblade up through its jaw into whatever passed for its brain, finishing it off. He tore his sword free and turned.

The skaven were in retreat, falling back in a disorganized rush amidst a babble of terrified squeals. They climbed over one another, bit and clawed at each other, nearly killing themselves in their haste to escape the warblades of the Liberator retinues who pursued them. Orius watched the ratkin flee and then turned, his hammer held high, signalling his Judicator retinues to cease firing. The Judicators had taken up position on the slumping ramparts of the Gnawing Gate, where they could watch the streets to either side.

The Liberators marched back into position. There were gaps in their ranks. He’d lost several warriors since they’d arrived. The skaven seemed determined to retake the Gnawing Gate, and had attacked again and again, coming in greater numbers each time. Regardless, they had been driven back with every attempt, leaving mounds of hairy corpses in their wake. But his warriors could not hold out forever. If Moros and the others didn’t reach them soon, the skaven would simply swamp them in numbers too great for even the Stormcasts to resist.

The thought faded into irrelevance as he heard the tell-tale sound of Tarkus’ battle-horn. Orius sheathed his sword and strode towards the shattered portcullis. He felt his heart lift as he caught sight of Galerius’ standard, swaying above the column of approaching Stormcasts. ‘You are late, Moros,’ he called, as he stepped to meet the Lord-Relictor.

‘My apologies, Lord-Celestant. The Bloodbound sought to bar our way in a most churlish fashion,’ Moros said, taking Orius’ proffered hand. ‘We set them to flight, though I know not where. I suspect they’ll soon regroup, however.’

‘Then Gorgus will handle them,’ Orius said. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant perform his function, as we shall perform ours.’ He turned and gestured with his hammer. ‘The Bridge of Smoke lies in that direction. It’ll be a slog, though.’

‘When is it not?’ Tarkus interjected. The Knight-Heraldor laughed. ‘Let them stand in our path. We shall grind them under, all at once or piecemeal, it makes no difference.’

‘It makes all the difference,’ Moros snapped. He looked at Orius. ‘The air is thick with daemon-stench, Orius. A storm is brewing somewhere in this city... not a storm as we know it, with cleansing rains and celestial fury, but something fouler. I can feel it. It weighs me down.’ The Lord-Relictor looked past Orius, towards the distant shape of the Sulphur Citadel.

‘A doom comes to Klaxus, and if we are not prepared it shall claim us as well.’

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.

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

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ISBN: 978-1-78251-948-5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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