The Scarlet Lord

Josh Reynolds

Anhur crushed the skull carelessly in his fist.

The crumbled shards of bone tumbled from his hand to the bloody stones, there to gleam wetly in the weirdling light cast by the ever-spinning facets of the Black Rift. The Scarlet Lord turned. A jolt of pain rippled through him. It had started not long after his confrontation with Skul’rath, and grown steadily worse in the hours since. He felt as if his skin were too tight on his muscles, and as if he might burst the seams of his armour at any moment.

Victory at the cost of pain, he thought. Such had been his mantra since he had fled Klaxus and the Tephra Crater. Pain was the coin of Khorne’s realm, and the Scarlet Lord paid it willingly. He had paid it over the course of centuries, without hesitation. ‘How much time, Pazak?’ he growled.

‘Some, much, a little,’ the sorcerer said tersely, as he wove his thin fingers in arcane gestures. He stood on the lip of the crater, shaping the magics that would wrench apart the flesh of the world. The air about him was thick with souls and daemons. Neither sort of apparition had any substance, but that would change in time. The ghosts grew thinner and the daemons stronger, as they battened on the blood and pain.

Innumerable daemon-spirits suddenly raced forward through the steamy air, as if drawn from throughout the Sulphur Citadel. Anhur turned, following their path, and watched as Pazak’s blightkings spilled the blood of the latest batch of prisoners across the swelling expanse of the flesh-shroud, down in the crater. Do you feel nothing for them, then? These are your folk, a small voice murmured, deep in the back of his mind. They are Klaxians, Anhur…

‘Victory at the cost of pain,’ he muttered. Klaxus and its people had become weak, and it was his duty – the duty of a king – to purge them of that weakness. He would buy the glory of future generations with the pain of this one. He would forge them into a blade worthy of Khorne’s hand. Klaxus would rise as the world descended.

A thrill of impatience raced through Anhur, and his grip on his axe tightened. He longed to bury it in unresisting flesh, to cleave bone and shatter armour. To give in, at long last, to the joyous entertainments of the red road, and become as Apademak or Hroth. To fight forever, and think of nothing save fighting. To drown slowly in seas of gore, as all that had been Prince Anhur, Keeper of Ytalan, was worn away by the ceaseless bloodstained tide.

Anhur swung his head towards the doors to the chamber. He could hear the sounds of battle, the splitting of stone and the screech of metal. More, he could hear… the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his soldiers, killing them by the dozen. The yellow, crystalline war-plate of the knights ignored what few blows were struck in return as they strode forward, killing all who stood between them and their prey… He could hear Oros calling for the retreat, even as he dragged Anhur away from that hissing doom… They had failed… FAILED…

Anhur howled. The sound drove the daemons into a silent frenzy. ‘I still live,’ the Scarlet Lord roared. ‘And I will not fail this time. I still live… I…’ He trailed off, as another spasm of pain gripped him. He clutched at his chest. Things moved within him, twisting into new shapes. Bones cracked and sprouted jagged spurs, filling the hollows of him with nests of pain.

‘Not beast, not god, less than a man,’ he murmured, as the pain receded. He pressed the flat of his axe to his brow, and listened to the maddened whispers of the battle-spirit bound to its edge. It hissed in the language of the great fire-wyrms, demanding that he hurl himself into the cauldron of war. He tore the axe away and turned. ‘Oros is coming, Pazak. But slowly, too slowly,’ he said. ‘One might think he doesn’t wish to face me again.’

‘I doubt that’s the case,’ Pazak hissed. Bloody steam hissed and coiled about his arms like a gaseous serpent. ‘Two sides of the same blade, you are.’

‘You had best be correct,’ Anhur said. ‘He must be here in time. He must see what is to come. He must know that it was all worth something, in the end.’

‘He won’t get very far, if Volundr catches him. The war-smith is as determined to see this through as you are,’ Pazak said. He glanced at Anhur. ‘He won’t risk letting the Stormcasts get close, if he can get away with it.’

Anhur gestured impatiently. ‘Volundr carries out my will. He stoked Apademak’s rage, and casts the embers of my Gorechosen before the enemy. I have subsumed the Tephra Crater in the conflagration of war, to draw Khorne’s eye. But war alone is not enough,’ he said. ‘It must have purpose – the fire must burn hottest here.’

As he spoke, the smoky shapes of daemons capered about him, as if feeding on his growing rage. Anhur ignored them. ‘I will deliver not just a skull to Khorne, but the skull of my friend, my greatest enemy, my rescuer and betrayer. There is a debt between us and it must be paid. Only then can I ascend to my rightful place.’

Anhur threw back his head and spread his arms, allowing the daemons to crowd close about him. They clutched at him with phantasmal talons. ‘Come and fight me, Oros! Anhur stands waiting – hurry, Hound of Ytalan! The Scarlet Lord awaits you, son of Sigmar…’

Daemons rose from the broken bodies of the dead Bloodbound, and slashed at the Stormcasts with inhuman ferocity. Liberators stopped what they were doing and fell instinctively into defensive stances. They raised shields and held warblades angled so as to thrust into scaly bodies. Bolts hissed in their runnels, ready to be loosed from thunderbolt crossbows as Judicators swung their weapons up to take aim at the daemonic shapes capering towards them through the falling rain. But no daemon-blade connected, despite the savagery of the assault. And no sound emanated from those ghastly shapes, save the whisper of blood pooling on the stones of the street and the steady drumbeat of the storm.

‘Hold fast,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘They can’t hurt you, but if you let them distract you, something else surely will.’ His words echoed out over the wide avenue, reaching the ears of every Stormcast. Those who had become distracted from their labours by the sudden appearance of the insubstantial daemonic shapes immediately went back to work.

‘Blasted nuisances,’ Gorgus muttered, eyeing the nearest of the daemonic shades. They came and went like shadows, rising from the detritus of battle before fading away once more. But they were staying longer each time, and they were appearing more often – a sure sign that the membrane between worlds was growing thin, as Lord-Relictor Moros claimed. At his feet, his Gryph-hound growled, the feathers on its neck fluffed out and as stiff as quills. ‘Easy, Shrike. Nothing there for you to get a beakful of, save some foul-smelling air,’ Gorgus said, stroking his companion’s angular skull.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high. The light washed across the street, and the daemons cowered back from the golden rays. Their lean shapes came apart like a morning mist in the heat of the day. When he was satisfied that they had been driven back into whatever netherworld they had emerged from, at least for the moment, he lowered the lantern and cast his keen gaze over the street.

The vast bulk of the Gnawing Gate was still visible behind them, and he could just make out the Judicators stationed on its sagging ramparts. Their golden war-plate glinted in the light of the conflagration, which even now consumed the western districts of Uryx, despite the heavy rains. Indeed, he suspected that the storm was the only thing keeping the flames from sweeping over the inner city. He looked up, letting the rain splash across his mask and helm.

The storm was a grand thing, he thought. As savage and as powerful as the one that had marked his proving quest into the grim winterlands of the Boralis Mountains. Gorgus smiled at the thought. As an aspirant, he had scaled those storm-tossed peaks and braved the madness-inducing mists that clung to them, and returned to Sigmaron a Lord-Castellant.

‘And not alone, eh, Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. Those first few days, Shrike had hunted him through the crevasses and crags at the head of a pack of screeching Gryph-hounds – before they had come to an arrangement. ‘Bit off more than you could chew, didn’t you?’ Gorgus said. Shrike snapped at his armoured fingers, not quite playfully. Gorgus laughed, and turned his attentions to the defences his warriors were constructing.

The Avenue of Ten Skulls stretched from the Gnawing Gate to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. It was the most direct route to the heart of the crater-city, according to Orius. As far as Gorgus was concerned, Uryx was a rat warren, and a confusing one at that. But he had faith in the Lord-Celestant – Orius would guide them to the enemy, and then to victory.

Buildings had been demolished along either side of the avenue by the lightning hammers of the Retributors, creating improvised ramparts and bulwarks of rubble. Taller structures were left standing, so as to provide makeshift watchtowers and firing positions for his Judicator retinues. Now, the avenue was being divided into easily defensible killing fields by the strategic application of rubble. Anything that could be used to break up the momentum of a massed charge or a steady advance.

That was the best way with the Bloodbound, Gorgus knew. He’d fought the slaves of Khorne often enough since the Adamantine had come to the Felstone Plains. He knew their way of war as well as his own. They relied on momentum – the sudden charge, the unrelenting assault. They sought to come to grips with the foe quickly. On the plains or in the geyser fields of the Hissing Gates, the Adamantine had been forced to rely on formation and discipline to deny the foe his true strength. But here, in this crowded city of stone and roots, they had a wealth of options. They could alter the map, and channel any sizeable force of Bloodbound towards heavily defended strongpoints, where their numbers and ferocity would avail them little.

Thunderhead Brotherhoods had been stationed at these points, there to ensure the sanctity of the Adamantine lines and to repel any attack. They were also in place to ferry any refugees they found back towards the Mandrake Bastion, and safety. Hundreds of survivors had come stumbling from the jungle and the outer city, seeking sanctuary from the flames and the roving bands of skaven and bloodreavers. Many were led to safety by the Prosecutors winging their way out along the flanks of the advancing Warrior Chamber, on the orders of Orius himself.

Shrike’s head came up, and the Gryph-hound gave an interrogative squawk. Gorgus turned and chuckled. ‘But speak, and they shall appear…’ he murmured. An old bit of folk-wisdom, left over from his mortal life.

A ragged group of Klaxians stumbled along the avenue, shepherded by a number of Liberators. Prosecutors swooped overhead, keeping a sharp eye out for the enemy. ‘More of them,’ a nearby Judicator said.

‘Aye, and heartening it is,’ Gorgus said, extending his halberd towards the Stormcast. ‘It means our enemy is not half so diligent as we feared, Pyrus.’

‘But our lines are stretched thin as it is, Lord-Castellant,’ Pyrus said, undaunted. ‘How can we protect them all, if they keep coming?’ Gorgus smiled. The Lord-Castellant encouraged those warriors under his command to speak their mind, when appropriate, and Pyrus did so often, and at length, but never without cause.

‘How can we not, Pyrus?’ a Liberator spoke up, as the Klaxians were ushered into the centre of the avenue, where the bulk of the Stormcasts were at work. Korus, Gorgus thought, putting a name to the voice. If Pyrus was the voice of respectful challenge, then Korus was a rock of devotion. In him was a faith unwavering in the Stormcast cause. ‘Why else are we here, if not to protect the innocent, and smite the guilty?’

‘We are here to win victory in Sigmar’s name, Korus,’ Pyrus said. ‘This city – this kingdom – is steeped in the taint of Chaos. Even these innocents bear its mark, on their souls if not their bodies. Sigmar commands that we stamp Chaos out, wherever it lurks.’ He gestured towards the frightened huddle of Klaxians. Gorgus looked at them. Men and women, young and old. Children as well, though not many. All frightened, many wounded and some sick. They had not eaten in days, he thought, and fear had its claws deep in them. One of the children – a girl, her face marked by filth and bruises – met his gaze.

‘Sigmar is not simply the voice that thunders from the clouds, Pyrus. He is also the quiet voice that speaks within. The voice stripped of pride and bluster, leaving behind only that solitary light of purpose – we fight, brothers, to free these folk from the chains that bind. Chains of evil and malice, of fear and cowardice, of Chaos,’ Gorgus said.

He sank to one knee and extended his hand towards the girl. ‘If we do not show them mercy, if we do not show them kindness, even in the midst of war, then we merely exchange one form of fear for another,’ he said, as the child stepped forward hesitantly. She took his hand and he scooped her up. One of the women, her mother he thought, made a noise, but it subsided as her companions held her. They could see that he meant the child no harm. ‘They have lived in the dark for so long. Would you deny them the chance to see the light?’

Pyrus bowed his head. ‘No, Lord-Castellant. Better to die, than that.’

‘Yes, my brother. Better to die than to allow even one mortal soul to be lost to horrors of Chaos, if we can prevent it,’ Gorgus said. And we have all done so once already, otherwise we would not be here now, arrayed in sigmarite, he thought, as he looked down at the girl. For a moment, another child’s face superimposed itself over hers, and Gorgus felt an old pain rise anew. Shrike leaned against his leg, chirping softly, and Gorgus shook his head, banishing the memories before they could take form. The past was dust, and his mortal life with it.

‘Do not fear, child. We are the storm, and we have come to wash Klaxus clean,’ he rumbled. He looked up, as a shout echoed suddenly from farther up the street, in the direction of the Gnawing Gate. He saw a small group of Stormcasts – a Judicator and several Liberators – making their way towards him. The Judicator was helping one of the Liberators to walk, and all appeared to be wounded.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator called. ‘The enemy is upon us!’

‘Crasus, what has happened?’ Gorgus asked, as he handed the child to Korus. The Liberator held her awkwardly, as if afraid he might crush her tiny body.

‘The foe comes, Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator said, as he eased his burden down. The Liberator groaned and clutched at his side. Blood stained his golden armour. ‘They’ve broken through, pushed us back from the upper streets – they’re between us and the Gnawing Gate. My retinue harries them from the rooftops, but they do not slow, no matter how many we kill.’

‘Courage is the one virtue the foe have in abundance,’ Gorgus said, as he knelt beside the wounded Stormcast. He cast the glow of his warding lantern over the battered Liberator, and where it shone flesh healed and armour was restored. The warrior straightened, cleansed and reinvigorated by the holy light.

‘What are their numbers?’ Gorgus asked.

‘A few hundred, now. They gather in the side streets, and more flock to join them as they come… beast packs and lone warriors, straggling warbands and worse,’ Crasus said. ‘It looks like the remnants of every force we’ve smashed asunder since we started pushing out from the Mandrake Bastion. They do not seem to be organised. It is as if some instinct is driving them forward. They’re not far behind us. I…’ He trailed off as the sound of horns cut through the rain and wind. Monsters roared in the dark.

Gorgus chuckled harshly. He’d expected as much, though not so soon. Unless they were eradicated utterly, the Bloodbound always returned. Once they recovered their courage, they attacked. There was no grand strategy, no tactical masterstroke… simply blind malevolence, driving them towards those who had defeated them.

‘Chaos filth. The more you sweep it aside, the faster it congeals,’ he said, as he rose to his feet. He helped the newly healed Liberator to stand. ‘They wish to strike our rear. To surround us and drown us in bodies. We must teach them that the Adamantine do not fall for such ploys so easily. Crasus, take these Klaxians in hand – guide them to the Gnawing Gate. They’ll be as safe there as anywhere. Pyrus, Korus – help him. Rejoin your retinues when you can.’

Stormcasts snapped to attention. The sound of horns rose higher and higher, and was joined by howls and bellows. The noise rose from the streets all around them, as if the enemy were converging from all sides.

‘The rest of you, lock shields and man the bulwarks! The enemy comes and I would not have him find us wanting,’ Gorgus roared. ‘They seek to break our lines, Adamantine. What do we say to that?’

‘We shall not break,’ the Stormcasts cried, as they moved into position. Liberators sank to one knee behind the lowest of the improvised bulwarks, and set the rims of their shields atop the piled stones. Judicators took position behind them, or else scaled those buildings that still stood in order to gain higher ground. Retributors and Decimators fell in around Gorgus. He would lead them in repelling any enemy who threatened to get past the shields of the Liberators. Overhead, Prosecutors sped towards the approaching enemy to slow their advance and shatter their courage.

The very stones trembled with the noise of the approaching warhorde. The tramp of feet and hooves joined the clatter of weapons and the thump of barbaric drums. No, the enemy did not lack for courage, Gorgus thought. Such was the madness that gripped them, they would keep coming until the last of them was dead.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus shouted, over the noise of the approaching Bloodbound. ‘We shall hold. We shall push them back; we shall be the bastion upon which they break. Hold fast, Adamantine.’ He thumped the ground with his halberd. ‘Hold fast!’

Apademak the Hungry led his warriors forward with a scream. Slivers of stone and splinters of wood jutted from the battered flesh of the slaughterpriest, and blood oozed down his looming frame. He had not bothered to bind the wounds he’d sustained at the Plaza of Six Pillars. His blood would whet Khorne’s appetite as well as any. ‘Forward,’ he howled. ‘Blood and skulls for Khorne. Blood and skulls!’

All around him, warriors and beasts charged in his wake, driven into a frenzy by his words and by their own shame. They had been defeated by the Stormcasts, driven back in disarray, and no true follower of Khorne could bear such disgrace. The broken standards of at least three tribes of bloodreavers and the tattered banners of several beastherds rose above the mass of screaming killers. A pitiful force, by any estimation, but it was all that the slaughterpriest had been able to gather after he had clawed his way free of the rubble in the Plaza of Six Pillars. Khorne had given him a weapon. It was not up to him to say whether it was worthy or not.

He roared, as memories of his failure burned through him. He had been so certain that Khorne had preordained his triumph. But he’d been wrong, and the broken bodies of the tribesmen who’d followed him into that battle had lain everywhere, half-buried beneath the remnants of shattered walls and fallen trees, even as he had been. Unlike them, however, he’d survived. Others had been piled in heaps, left where they’d fallen by the victorious Stormcasts. Of the enemy, there had been no sign, save for the trail of destruction they’d left in their wake. Buildings had been collapsed and torn apart to make the barriers and bulwarks that closed off the surrounding streets.

The enemy were desecrating the city – turning it into a fortress for their use. They tore apart what had been offered up to Khorne and twisted it to their own ends. But he would put a stop to it. He would smash their rearguard and fight his way into the heart of the enemy force. He would take the heads of their chieftains and toss them at Anhur’s feet. He would–

Something struck him – hard. An explosive pain, which knocked him to his knees. Head spinning, arm numb, he saw golden figures behind bulwarks of toppled stone, heavy crossbows aimed in his direction. The crossbows snarled and explosions tore along the ragged line of his followers. Tribesmen and beastkin were hurled from their feet, but the survivors pressed forward.

Apademak bared his teeth in a snarl, and shoved himself to his feet. He whipped his arm around and sent his axe spinning towards the Stormcasts. One toppled backwards, Apademak’s axe buried in his chest. The others continued to loose bolts at the charging Bloodbound.

The slaughterpriest charged towards the remaining Stormcasts, hands spread. ‘I survive, dogs of Sigmar – I live! And I hunger,’ he roared, as he flung himself on the closest of his enemies. He smashed through a tottering barricade of stones, his bare fists hammering down, striking the warrior on the head. His flesh burned as it impacted the glowing metal, but Apademak did not slow his assault. Pain was nothing – there was only victory or death.

Apademak snapped the warrior’s neck and flung his body aside. As he rose to his feet, he saw the remaining Stormcasts retreating. He snarled in fury as he retrieved his axe and glared about him. For the first time, he realised that the Stormcasts had staggered their bulwarks, creating a killing ground. They were more cunning than he’d been led to believe.

His followers died in droves as they tried to navigate the impromptu maze. Every time they cleared one bulwark, the Stormcasts simply fell back to another. Each time it became harder and harder to dislodge them – they grew stronger and his warriors grew weaker. The Stormcasts were bleeding them, as if they were nothing more than beasts.

Crackling crossbow bolts shrieked perilously close, casting broken stones and dust into the air as they struck around him. Golden figures moved across the rooftops, firing down into the milling ranks of the Bloodbound, driving them back, breaking up the horde. Rage flooded him, and for a moment, he thought of nothing save hurling himself up after them. They might kill him, but he would reap such a tally before dying…

No. A cheap death. His failure would not be forgiven so easily. Only victory could erase that stain. The Stormcasts would be beaten, Anhur would be cast down, and all by his hand. He began to fight his way through the press towards the front of the battle line, chanting as he moved. As his booming voice pierced their battle-fogged minds, the tribesmen and beastkin nearby were drawn after him.

It was an old song he sang, older than the world, older than anything yet living, save the gods themselves. A paean to murder, sung by the warriors of the Age of Myth. It had been passed down through the generations that followed, like the echoes of a death scream. It set fire to the blood of man and beast alike, and called to the berserker in every soul. Warriors shuddered and spasmed as they followed him, bodies contorting with uncontainable fury. Beastmen howled and tore at their own flesh, so eager were they to spill blood.

His chanting rose above the fray, and he knew that it would carry through the streets, riding along the winds of war. More warriors would come, following his song – hundreds of them. Every warrior left in the city and not already engaged in battle would come at his call – not just the Eight Tribes, but all of the others: blood warriors and skullreapers, wrathmongers and deathbringers. Every warrior who paid homage to the Blood God would hear and come. Such was the gift given to every slaughterpriest. He spoke for Khorne, and the ears of his true servants could not help but hear. His voice would pierce even the rumble of the storm, and reach the ears of Khorne himself.

Apademak raced forward, vaulting chunks of rubble and the dead alike. Crackling bolts punched into the ranks of those behind, but he ploughed on, heedless, his chant never faltering. It was all so clear now. It had been a trick. Treachery – that was the only explanation for his failure. The enemy was stronger than he thought. He had been goaded into this trap. Anhur had sent Volundr to prod him into a headlong assault, so that the Stormcasts might do what Anhur himself lacked the strength to accomplish. He feared Apademak, feared that he would draw Khorne’s attentions from unworthy Anhur. But he had failed.

Apademak lived, and Anhur would regret it.

He crashed into the shield wall, using his greater strength to bull the Stormcasts aside with shoulders and elbows. None of his warriors could have managed it, but Apademak was blessed by Khorne. His chant rose to a fever pitch, and those Stormcasts nearby suddenly convulsed, steaming gouts of blood jetting from the seams of their armour. They gurgled and fell, drowning in their own blood, as his axe reaped a ghastly toll. Sizzling arrows pierced his flesh as he staggered on in pursuit of the retreating foe, hurling hymns of massacre after them.

Apademak fought on, a living beacon of the Blood God’s power. As he chanted, more Stormcasts died, and his warriors pressed forward, growing ever more frenzied in their efforts. Any who stood against him were slaughtered, their bodies reduced to flickering motes of blue. The world grew thin, like frayed cloth, and he felt Khorne’s hand on his shoulder, driving him ever forward. Blood dripped from his pores and scorched the stones of the street where it fell. He roared in fury, and could see the embers of bloodlust in the steel-hard souls of his foes flicker in response. Not even these enemies could resist the pull of battle.

The slaughterpriest extended his axe towards the ranks of the Stormcasts. His chant rose, and the embers flickered and flared. The shield wall began to buckle as warriors broke ranks.

‘Come to me,’ he snarled. ‘Come, warriors – come, dogs of Sigmar. Apademak is hungry and only an ocean of blood can satisfy him.’ First one Stormcast, then another started forward, drawn irresistibly towards him. One by one, they began to succumb to the suicidal fires of the battle-fury he’d stoked in their veins.

He threw back his head and roared in satisfaction as the shield wall disintegrated and the organised line of battle became nothing more than struggling knots of berserkers. But his triumph was short-lived. A winged Stormcast swooped low, a blazing hammer coalescing in his hand as he did so. Apademak twisted aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have removed his head, and struck, embedding his axe in the mechanism on the Stormcast’s back. He was dragged off his feet and away from the battle by the warrior’s momentum. The Stormcast hurtled upwards at a steep angle, trying to dislodge the slaughterpriest.

Apademak hauled himself up and wrapped one long arm around the Stormcast’s throat. ‘You wanted this fight,’ he growled, ‘do not think to flee it now!’ He tore his axe free as they shot higher and higher. The streets of Uryx spread out far below them. Winged shapes closed in from all sides and Apademak laughed wildly – they thought to isolate him, to draw him into the air, where he was helpless. The Stormcast clawed at his arm, and the slaughterpriest tightened his grip. ‘But I am never helpless – I am Apademak. I am the blessed of Khorne!’

Metal buckled and flesh smouldered as Apademak slowly crushed the winged warrior’s throat. Then, with a sharp wrench, he snapped the Stormcast’s neck. Apademak shoved away from the dissolving carcass, and flung himself at another Stormcast. A hammer, wreathed in lightning, struck his side as he crashed into the warrior. Smoke boiled from the wound, but Apademak ignored the pain. Khorne was with him, and he would not falter.

‘See me, Lord of Skulls! See me, Gorequeen,’ he shrieked, hurling his words into the teeth of the storm. ‘See your most devoted disciple at his labour.’ His thumb crunched through the right eye-slit of his foe’s mask, then he drove his axe down through the hinge of one wing. As the warrior spiralled, off-balance, Apademak thrust himself towards another of the Stormcasts. His axe sheared through crest and helm to split the unlucky warrior’s skull. He pushed away from the tumbling corpse, even as it exploded into a crackling ball of blue lightning, and fell towards his next opponent. The remaining Stormcasts hurtled up to meet him.

As he plummeted, his heart thumping like a war drum, he could see something vast striding towards Uryx from the horizon. It stank of a million battlefields, the air quivered with the weight of its tread, and it trailed red clouds behind it as it tore through the storm. In one enormous hand it clutched a titanic sword, and in its other, an immense net, filled with the skulls of all the dead of the Tephra Crater.

Khorne had heard him. Khorne was coming, and Uryx would drown in blood.

‘Come kings of weakness, let me crown you with iron,’ Apademak roared as the wind whipped past him. He slammed into one of the warriors, knocking him away from his fellows. A hammer crashed against his head and shoulder. Bone cracked and he tasted blood. He reared back and drove the haft of his axe into the Stormcast’s face, crumpling the metal mask as they spun end over end. Metal-clad fingers clawed at his throat and Apademak laughed. His axe bit into his opponent’s neck, tearing through the golden armour. Blood spurted and the body beneath him went limp.

He tore his axe free and fell towards Uryx, still laughing.

Lord-Castellant Gorgus fought in silence. No war song breached his lips, no shout of exultation or effort broke his taciturnity. He fought like a craftsman, wasting no movement, spending no more energy than was required to do the deed. His halberd snapped out, its sigmarite blade lopping through tattooed limbs or scarred necks with ease. Crimson-stained armour tore like paper beneath its bite, and the bloodreavers fell away from him like wheat before the scythe. Shrike, never far from Gorgus’ side, darted amongst the Bloodbound, beak tearing at hamstrings and slicing through tendons.

Behind Gorgus came a retinue of Decimators. The enemy sloughed away from their advance, reduced to twitching gore by whirling thunderaxes. Bloodreavers fell back, their frenzy paling in the face of inexorable destruction. Beastmen bounded through the press, slaver trailing from goatish jaws, but they too succumbed to the relentless efficiency of Gorgus and his warriors. The stones of the avenue were stained a deep red when the first tribesman turned to flee. Then went another and another, scrambling back and away.

Gorgus slashed upwards, bisecting a howling gor as it leapt at him. As the two twitching halves of its body crashed down, he turned and bellowed. ‘Back in line! Reform the shield wall.’ Across the avenue, Liberators fell back from the fleeing foe and locked their shields, ready to repel the next charge. And there would be a next charge. The Bloodbound were in no mood to give up. Gorgus led his Decimators back through the shield wall, his warding lantern hanging from the blade of his halberd.

Judicators and Retributors were busy hauling stones in an attempt to repair the bulwarks shattered by the last attack. The enemy had nearly broken through, despite everything. What made it worse was that it wasn’t in any way, shape or form an organised assault. The Bloodbound had been driven into a frenzy by something – or someone – and now they were being drawn from throughout Uryx like flies to dung.

So far, it had only been tribesmen and beastkin, but his remaining Prosecutors had seen skaven scurrying through the nearby backstreets, and bellowing packs of blood warriors and skullreapers converging on the Avenue of Ten Skulls. His force was about to be cut off from the rest of the Chamber and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘Curse that slaughterpriest,’ Gorgus muttered. The brute had broken the shield wall, and his foul sorceries had driven disciplined Stormcasts into a berserker rage. By the time Gorgus had been able to dispatch a retinue of Prosecutors to remove the monster from the battlefield, it had been too late. Now his carefully orchestrated defensive measures were in danger of coming completely unravelled.

Where the slaughterpriest was now, he didn’t know. And so long as he’s not here, I can’t say that I care, he thought. He signalled for the Liberators to fall back to the newly rebuilt bulwarks. They were ceding ground to the enemy, but he couldn’t afford to leave his retinues scattered out, not now. Too many had fallen in that last assault. And still no sign of reinforcements, he thought, scanning the black sky above. Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, but no bolt of deliverance had yet appeared.

Smoke rose above the rooftops, resisting the efforts of the rain to disperse it. The fires were drawing closer, consuming Uryx street by street. He thought of Crasus, leading his tiny band of Stormcasts and refugees to the Gnawing Gate, and wondered whether they had made it. He hoped so. He considered sending Prosecutors with orders for the scattered Thunderhead Brotherhoods stationed back along the Avenue of Ten Skulls to pull back to the Mandrake Bastion. Cut off as they were, there was no way to reinforce them, if they should require it.

He dismissed the idea with a twitch of his head. ‘They’ll have to hold as best they can, eh Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. ‘To abandon the city now would be admitting defeat before the final blow has fallen. No, let them hold as we shall hold.’

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up and laughed. ‘Ha! There’s a fine sight – ho, Kratus! Come to toil with us honest craftsmen, instead of playing the zephyr?’

The Knight-Azyros dropped gracefully from the sky, his crackling wings folding behind him. His armour was streaked with smoke and grime, and it bore the marks of battle, as did the armour of the Prosecutors who followed him down. As ever, Kratus was the most reliable line of communication between the staggered brotherhoods of the Adamantine, lending aid where necessary, and bringing word when danger threatened. It had been Kratus who had scouted ahead along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, and made note of where the enemy congregated. He and his Prosecutors had routed entire warbands to clear a path for Orius.

Kratus gestured, and Gorgus laughed again. He had little difficulty understanding the Silent One’s battle-cant, simple as it was.

‘They made it then? Good. Crasus always was dependable,’ he said, with some relief. ‘What of the rest of the line?’

Kratus gestured again, and Gorgus nodded. The line of battle was holding, but only just. The enemy were drawn to the largest battles. They would ignore the isolated Thunderhead Brotherhoods until they had defeated all other foes.

‘So we still hold their attention, then. Well, Sigmar willing, we shall hold it a bit longer. You’ll need to take word to Orius and the others, let them know that we are cut off. I’ll follow when I can, but for now they can’t expect any support. They’ll have to press on to the Bridge of Smoke without us.’

Kratus nodded sharply. They clasped forearms. Then, with a snarl of lightning, the Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors were hurtling skyward once more. Gorgus watched him go, and then turned as the war-horns of the foe sounded anew. The Bloodbound had regrouped, and were charging again. Howling tribesmen darted through the rain towards his warriors, bloody axes and cleavers raised.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus roared. ‘Stand fast, Stormcasts – STAND FAST!’

Phastet of Charn crouched on the rooftop beneath the canopy of dying plants that stretched over the Street of Vines, and watched the sky. Rain pattered against the dull leaves and dripped down onto her ash-streaked skin, but she ignored it. Her long fingers stroked the smooth surface of her new axe. She had claimed it from the body of her fellow deathbringer, Kung of the Long Arm, as was her right. The daemon in the axe had not been used to her at first, but it was growing more comfortable as the hours ran by.

She looked down at the weapon. They said that Kung had carved it himself, from the bones of his brother. She didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it was a very good axe. It would serve her well, when the time came.

‘Soon,’ she murmured, as the single yellow eye set high in the blade blinked inquisitively at her.

Phastet stretched, letting the rain play across her bare arms and face as it spilled down through the canopy. The thick vines which stretched from one end of the street to the next had been shaped and grown by sorcery, and had once possessed a diabolical life, snatching birds from the air, and often devouring the scaly apes which used to make them their home. Now, however, they were merely strands of dull vegetation, rotting through and dropping to the cracked stones of the street below. Like the rest of Uryx, the Street of Vines was dying. A shame, she thought, I should have liked to have seen them in full flower.

She tilted her head, inhaling the thick smell of smoke and rotting vine. The fires were drawing ever closer, and soon they would sweep through the inner city. She grinned, pleased at the thought. Cities were tombs for the not-yet dead. Only the weak sought to encase themselves in stone and wood. The strong fought for their place, rather than making it. She would be pleased to leave Uryx when the time came. There were orruks in the deep jungles, or so the skaven claimed, and gargants had been sighted along the eastern rim of the crater, prowling the volcanic crags there. They would make good hunting, once the lightning-men were defeated.

Her scouts had spotted the winged ones, flying through the rain, far out on the flanks of the advancing Stormcasts. They were coming this way, and in a hurry. Hurry meant distraction, and Phastet smiled. Distracted prey was easy prey.

Orruks were easy to distract. You dangled bait and they rushed off, fighting one another in their haste to reach it. Then you slipped in behind them and cut their legs out from under them or broke their backs. It didn’t do to kill too many of them, for they only kept their flavour when cooked alive. And their skulls made for satisfying totems.

But these Stormcasts were not gratifying prey at all. They vanished when they died, leaving nothing but the blood on your blade and your warriors broken at your feet. They were unnatural, and there was precious little pleasure to be had in killing them. But Khorne demanded their death regardless, and Phastet had never denied the Lord of Skulls his due.

She had hunted his foes and slain them in his name. She had bent knee to Anhur for that same reason, the day he led his warriors through the Ashdwell. She had fought beside him at the Sun Gate, and seen the truth of him as he braved the Tollan Cannonade, riding a daemonic steed into the teeth of the foe’s artillery. A thousand warriors had died there, erased in an instant, but Anhur, alongside Skullripper and the Shieldbreaker, had survived to ravage the noble Tollan gunners in their silken finery.

Khorne’s hand was on the Scarlet Lord, and any who couldn’t see that were fools, no better than unblooded youths. Those like Redjaw and Apademak barked and growled at any who dared overshadow them. Phastet had no quarrel with shadows. Shadows were useful things – they helped you to kill your prey and hide your trail, so that the enemy grew to fear you. You could flourish in shadow, and you could grow strong on the leavings of larger predators.

She and her tribesmen would grow mighty in Anhur’s shadow. They had reaped a great toll since crossing the Felstone Plains and entering the crater-kingdoms. And they would reap mightier tolls still, when the Black Rift yawned wide at last.

For now, however, she was content to aid Anhur in her own small way. She would blind the enemy so that he walked into the trap her fellow deathbringer, Baron Aceteryx, had set, unaware of the forces gathered beyond the Avenue of Ten Skulls in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. The Stormcasts were like orruks in that way – they saw only the enemy straight ahead, and took no note of those to the sides or behind, confident in their ability to bull through anything.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sky for a brief moment, revealing the winged shapes passing close overhead. She grinned and signalled to her warriors with a piercing whistle. Bloodreavers rose from the thickest sections of canopy, clutching chains and hooks. Her tribesmen had learned the art of bringing down flying prey in the deeps of the Ashdwell, hunting the great red-furred bats that lurked there in the dark. It was merely a matter of timing.

The hooks were hurled upwards to snag arms or legs. They only needed to bring down one or two – the rest would follow. A winged Stormcast faltered as iron hooks snared him. Bloodreavers roared and heaved, leaping to pull as one on the chain. The Stormcast jerked from the air, crashing through the canopy before slamming into the street below. Two more followed him, before the rest turned on the hunters. Hammers of lightning hurtled downward, tearing through the canopy and smashing bloodreavers from their perches. But that had been expected. Death was the price of victory.

Phastet leapt from her perch as the broken, smoke-wreathed bodies of her warriors fell to the ground around her. Their brothers and sisters burst from hiding, and charged towards the downed Stormcasts. The howling bloodreavers closed in on the dazed warriors, axes and swords raised. One of the golden-armoured warriors fell, his body hacked apart by the cannibalistic tribesmen. Phastet beheaded a second, her new axe screaming in delight as it separated the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

She whirled, her gory axe raised. ‘Here I stand, fully alive,’ Phastet cried. ‘Here I stand, Khorne – ready to kill and die, in thy name. Send me foes, send me death, whatever be thy will – here I stand!’

Kratus the Silent burst through the canopy of grey vines that obscured the street below, followed closely by his remaining Prosecutors. Two of the fallen were already dead, their bodies returned to the storm. But the third still lived, despite the chains that tangled him. The Knight-Azyros drew his starblade as he sped towards the fallen Stormcast. Bloodbound converged on the warrior as he struggled to free himself. More savages clambered through the canopy like spiders, blades clutched between their teeth.

The ambush had been well planned, for all that it was a thing of brute simplicity. Had he and his warriors been mortal men, they would have died the minute they pierced the canopy. The bloodreavers raced through the street in untold numbers, and hurled themselves onto the Prosecutors from the wooden ledges of the nearby buildings and the canopy of vines, swarming over them. Chains snagged limbs, grounding several of the winged warriors. Ropes lassoed wrists and necks, dragging the Prosecutors off balance.

Kratus alone avoided being snared and he dropped from the air with a sound like thunder. The stones of the street cracked and burst asunder at the sudden impact. So too did the bones of the closest bloodreavers as a blow from his wing sent them tumbling. He whirled and chopped through the chains holding a trapped warrior. Spears hurled from above crashed against his sigmarite war-plate, only to clatter away uselessly.

The Prosecutor gasped out his thanks as Kratus hauled him to his feet. The Knight-Azyros gestured to the sky, and the recovered warrior hurled himself into the air without hesitation. Kratus turned and sliced open the throat of a charging bloodreaver. More raced towards him, leaping in to attack with wild yells and guttural prayers. He killed them all, painting the air with their blood.

When the last of them had fallen, Kratus tore his celestial beacon from his belt and flipped its aperture wide, filling the street with a blazing radiance. Bloodreavers screamed and burned as the light swept over them. Flesh blackened and turned to ash. As Prosecutors shrugged themselves free of crumbling corpses, Kratus swept his bloody sword towards the sky in silent command. They could not afford to become bogged down. In the close confines of the street, they could not take advantage of their speed and manoeuvrability.

Prosecutors sprang upwards, their wings stirring the ashes of their foes, as more bloodreavers closed in from all sides. Kratus raised his beacon, casting its light over the charging warriors, searing them from existence. Their momentum carried them past him, their bodies wreathed in all-consuming flame. He would burn the infestation from this place, and then join his Prosecutors. A sudden hiss from above caused him to turn.

An axe skidded down the curve of his chest-plate, filling the air with sparks. His celestial beacon clattered from his grip as he fell backwards. Kratus rolled aside as his attacker dropped down, driving her axe into the stones where his head had been. The axe shrieked like a dying cat as it split the stones of the street.

The deathbringer was lean-muscled and clad in leather and crude armour. Her flesh was painted with ash and soot, and her face was split by a monstrous grin that stretched from ear to ear. Barbaric tattoos covered the visible portions of her skin, and her hair was threaded through with bones. She wrenched the daemon-weapon loose, and slashed at him again. Kratus backed away, trying to get enough room to get airborne again. She grinned at him, her face nearly splitting in two, and drew a smaller axe from her belt.

‘Pretty wings,’ she cooed. ‘Will they still crackle when I hang them from my lodge-pole, little bird?’ Kratus tensed, sword held low. She threw back her head and howled. Before the echo had faded, she was bounding towards him. He interposed his sword, and daemon-blade crashed against sigmarite with a keening shriek. Twisting the starblade, he hooked the deathbringer’s axes and tore them from her grip, even as his wing snapped out. She leapt back, thrown off-balance by the feint.

Kratus slung the weapons aside and dove towards his assailant, starblade extended. She hurled herself out of the way, spitting curses. With a flap of his wings, Kratus was airborne. But not for long. Iron chains and hooks shot out from the ruins all around him, entangling him. He had bought the others time to escape, but it appeared he wasn’t going to be so lucky.

‘Trapped, pretty bird,’ the woman crowed. ‘Just like the others. We will tear you apart, one feather at a time, until all that is left is blood and bone, hey?’ She spread her arms. ‘But I know the way of it now. I won’t kill you, not all at once.’ Her razor grin stretched across her ash-smeared face. ‘Meat always tastes better carved from something that can still scream anyway.’

At her shouted command, many hands hauled on the ropes and chains, trying to drag him down. Wings snarling, he fought to stay aloft. He caught sight of his beacon, still blazing like the light of Sigendil. He dropped to the ground. Stones crunched beneath his feet as he began to fight his way towards the light, dragging the cursing, struggling tribesmen behind him.

A bloodreaver charged towards him and he flung his sword, smashing the barbarian from his feet. Then, he stretched his arms back and caught hold of the ropes and chains, gripping them tight. Before his captors could react, he flapped his wings and lunged forward, into the light of the beacon. Bloodbound screamed as he jerked them into the cleansing radiance. Ash filled the air.

Freed, Kratus retrieved his sword and turned, just in time to parry a blow from the deathbringer. Her screaming axe crashed down again and again, until their weapons became locked. He tried to force her back, but she was stronger than she looked. As they strained against one another, she leaned towards him and opened her mouth, impossibly wide.

Something thick and red lashed in her cavernous throat. It shot forward, and a circular maw of thin yellow fangs smashed against his mask. Acidic drool sizzled as it scorched his armour, and he jerked his head away before it could find his eye-slits. She wrenched his blade aside and they broke apart.

With a scream, she lunged at him. He caught her by the throat as her tongue lashed at him. Gripping her throat, he swung her towards the light of his beacon, blocking her axe with his sword. She shrieked and squirmed to no avail as he plunged her into the celestial glow. The axe in her hand began to keen like a thing in pain.

Heat washed over him as he held her struggling form in the light. She clawed at him, but gradually her struggles grew weaker, and finally ceased altogether. Kratus released her and stepped back. The blazing light enveloped her body, and soon there was nothing left of either the deathbringer or her axe, save blackened bones and greasy ash.

Breathing heavily, Kratus retrieved his celestial beacon and sprang into the air.

Horns blared and drums thumped as the forces of the Scarlet Lord started forward, up the Avenue of Ten Skulls, a stinking sulphurous mist swirling about their legs. Volundr marched among them, his anvil balanced on his shoulder, its chains looped about his arm and torso. The skullgrinder moved without haste. Warriors of the Bloodbound flowed around him like a red tide, driven by ferocity and fear in equal measure. They loved Khorne and feared him, as was the proper way of things.

Behind them, in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, Hroth Shieldbreaker and Warpfang made ready to greet the Stormcasts. That they would break through the force advancing towards them was a foregone conclusion. But they would bloody themselves in the doing, and be ripe for the slaughter. Anhur waited, ready to lead his Scarlet Axes in delivering the deathblow, when the time was ripe. Volundr had no fear that the Scarlet Lord would grow impatient… Anhur was cannier than most, and not prone to haste.

Not like that fool, Apademak. Volundr grunted in annoyance as he thought of the slaughterpriest. The Hungry One was impatient and greedy. He was a hollow thing, a fire that sought to expand beyond its hearth. If allowed to burn free, his madness would spread to others, like the egotistical Redjaw or the treacherous Baron Aceteryx, who needed little prodding to turn on his fellows. Thus far, Anhur had suffered no true challengers to his position – the Shieldbreaker had little ambition, save to indulge in war, and no other deathbringer was strong enough to challenge the Scarlet Lord. But Apademak… Apademak thought Anhur was weak, the way an axe sees weakness in a sword. Volundr shook his head.

Luckily, Apademak was on the other side of the enemy, and too far away to interfere in things any further. Perhaps the Stormcasts had even done them a favour and killed the man-eater, though Volundr doubted it. Whatever his faults, Apademak was no weakling. Still, he would have to be dealt with, eventually. Nothing could be allowed to endanger what was to come, least of all one of their own warriors.

The sky was filled with fire, smoke and rain. As he walked, Volundr watched the orange glow rise over the tops of the roofs. In its light, he saw something that might have been movement, and in his bones he felt the thunder of Khorne’s approach. The Blood God was drawing near to Uryx, hungry for the feast to come. Daemons screamed silently in the shadows and loped, barely visible, through the ranks of tribesmen. Volundr could feel their longing to join in the carnage to come. Soon enough, he thought. Soon and then forevermore.

That was the price demanded, and the price Anhur had agreed to pay. Eight kingdoms given over to Khorne. The eight kingdoms of the Tephra Crater, sacrificed on the altar of war. Volundr laughed harshly, and those bloodreavers nearest him edged away. That was the price of glory, the price of war unending. Anhur had given himself, his warriors, his folk and his kingdom over into Khorne’s keeping. He had given his past and his future into Khorne’s hands, and would be rewarded accordingly, with an eternity of slaughter beneath the stars.

Anhur would make a fine weapon for Khorne to wield in the eternal wars of the gods. Like Valkia before him, or the Bloodwrath, the Scarlet Lord would serve as a piece in the Great Game, in service to the Lord of Skulls forevermore. Volundr had known that the first moment he laid eyes on the princeling of Klaxus, as he had fought his way south, away from the crater-kingdoms. Anhur had been without purpose then, bereft of his kingdom, and his allies. Alone save for his most loyal retainers, and his boundless rage.

Volundr had sensed that rage, and tracked its bitter scent across the Felstone Plains and the grasslands of the Caldera. He had come upon Anhur in battle against the horseclans there, and given him aid. He had guided him through fire and massacre, showing him the way to victory. In Anhur was a monstrous cunning, only barely chained by tattered nobility. And now, at long last, the last shred of that woebegone prince was fading, leaving only the savage purity of the Scarlet Lord.

He would guide Anhur up the eighty-eight steps, and see any danger to his apotheosis crushed. He had invested too much effort into crafting this weapon to allow jealousy or old foes to tear down all that he had built. Anhur would enter the fires of the Soulmaw and transcend the Mortal Realms, as had so many others under Volundr’s tutelage. But the Scarlet Lord would be his greatest creation.

And what then, war-smith? What next for Volundr of Hesphut, what next for the Skull-Cracker, he thought. Another weapon, he suspected. Khorne always needed weapons, and the skullgrinders were his weaponsmiths. He stroked the runes embossed on the brass plating of his anvil, aware of the raging heat contained within its blunt shape – the heat of Khorne’s own forges. The heat of weapons yet to be shaped, of furies without purpose.

There were some among Anhur’s Gorechosen who might yet ascend to those heights. The Shieldbreaker was exalted among the deathbringers of the warhorde. In him were all the virtues of the Bloodbound, and few of their vices. The Huntress too had potential, should she survive. Berkut was too lost to the song of slaughter, and Apademak to his own lusts. Redjaw was a fool, but lethal. Baron Aceteryx matched them all for guile, if not strength. So many possibilities, for a true craftsman.

He looked down at his hands and felt again the heat of the blazing chains he had reeled from the smoky air to loop about the anvil he carried. Each link was a soul torn weeping from the Screaming Sea of Khorne’s realm. He stretched the links tight between his fists, thinking of all that was yet to come. He looked up, scanning the faces of the nearby Bloodbound; each one was an ingot of malice, ready to be hammered and tempered into something greater.

Some would not survive. Some materials were fit only to heat the furnace. But others… So many possibilities, he thought. So many weapons, waiting for the touch of the hammer and the kiss of the fire. It was his duty, his honour, to wield that hammer and stoke that fire.

Volundr felt the air turn hot. He glanced to the side, and saw eight hulking shapes stalking through the ranks of the Bloodbound towards him, their chains clattering, a crimson haze rising from their twisted red limbs. Monstrous and swollen with bitter strength, a hellish ichor sweating from their pores, the wrathmongers approached him reverentially. Bloodbound and beastkin alike scrambled from their path, desperate to avoid the attentions of the blessed of Khorne. The wrathmongers were battle-madness made flesh, and to tarry too close to them was to drown in that madness.

‘We… come,’ one grunted, in a voice like the thudding of iron on bone. He was a bulky thing, scarred and smeared with dried blood and worse substances. His helm was a single chunk of brass, marked in its centre by the rune of Khorne, and topped by a crest made from a skull and dangling spinal column. ‘Come to… to fight at your side, war-smith. Come to… come to fight!’ The wrathmonger twitched and staggered back, his wrath-flails rattling as he threw back his helmeted head and screamed. His companions screamed with him, and their voices momentarily silenced the clamour of the horde.

Panting, the wrathmonger glared at Volundr. ‘Fight with us, war-smith. Fight… fight fight fight…’ he gibbered, spittle oozing from beneath the rim of his helm, as the others joined in like insane children. Volundr let his anvil tumble from his shoulder and strike the ground. At the hollow thud, the wrathmongers fell silent.

He studied them for a moment, considering. They were weapons too. Not so strong as Anhur, but like Apademak, they could be wielded to the Scarlet Lord’s benefit. ‘I will fight beside you,’ he said. ‘I will wield you in Khorne’s name, my brothers, if that is your wish.’

He clenched his free hand, and tore his palm. He held out his hand, his fingers red and dripping. The wrathmongers crowded close, mewling in eagerness as he marked them in blood with the rune of Khorne. Volundr laughed, as he anointed the wrathmongers. ‘Yes… I will forge you into something greater.’

The Avenue of Ten Skulls echoed to the tromp of sigmarite boots, as Lord-Celestant Orius led his chamber into the heart of Uryx. The column was composed of the bulk of the Adamantine’s retinues; those not seconded to Lord-Castellant Gorgus or left to guard the Mandrake Bastion and the Gnawing Gate now marched along the avenue towards the Bridge of Smoke, under Orius’ command. They were a sword, to be thrust into the foe.

And not for the first time, Orius thought, as he led his chamber through the rubble-strewn street. He had led warriors this way once before, he knew, though he could but dimly recall the circumstances. Flashes of memory showed him scenes of battle, as he and those who followed him fought their way through the personal guards of the priest-kings and clashed with the sulphur-knights along the broad avenue.

Everywhere he looked it seemed as if a new memory waited to pounce. He heard the cries of dying men, and the sound of blades crashing together. He could smell death and smoke and fear, all mingling in this place. He caught sight of ghostly shapes that fought and fell, just out of the corner of his eye, and some part of him knew that these were the final sounds Oros of Ytalan had heard, before his end.

…the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his companions, killing them one by one… He could hear Anhur calling for them to stand, to fight, even as Oros dragged him away from that hissing doom… If Anhur fell, the rebellion was doomed… Only Anhur could lead them… only Anhur…

But Anhur hadn’t. He had fled, abandoning his people, and sought new fields of conquest as Klaxus lurched on beneath the heels of the priest-kings. Orius felt the embers of his anger stir within him. Anhur had fled again and again, but not this time. This time, there would be no escape. This time, Anhur would pay for his crimes.

‘They’ve lost sight of Kratus’ beacon,’ Moros said, startling Orius from his reverie. The Lord-Relictor gestured with his staff to the Judicators on the rooftops above, who called down to the column of Stormcasts marching below. ‘Something has happened,’ Moros continued. ‘An ambush, perhaps.’

‘Should we go to his aid?’ Tarkus asked. The Knight-Heraldor sounded eager. Though they had met the enemy more than once during their advance, the battles that followed had been over far too quickly for the herald’s liking, Orius knew.

Before Orius could reply, a winged shape dropped to the ground before the vanguard of the column in a crackle of lightning. The Prosecutor’s golden armour was streaked with blood and grime as he rose to his feet, his shimmering wings folding behind his back. Orius held up his hammer, signalling for the column to halt in its advance. He recognised the warrior as one of Kratus’ retinue, and said, ‘What news, brother?’

‘Lord-Celestant Orius, Lord-Castellant Gorgus is cut off,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The enemy has pierced our lines.’

Orius restrained a curse. If Gorgus was cut off, so too was the rest of the chamber. They were well and truly outnumbered now, not to mention surrounded. ‘What of the Silent One?’

‘We were ambushed, my lord,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The Knight-Azyros sent us ahead, while he stayed to deal with the foe.’ He hesitated. ‘I… I do not know whether he yet lives. They were many, and he but one.’

‘Aye, and his one is worth their many.’ They seek to blind us, he thought, to surround us and batter us, until we become bogged down, unable to advance. The Bloodbound had the advantage of numbers, and time was on their side. Whatever was going on, whatever scheme Anhur was perpetrating, it was close to fruition. If they allowed the Bloodbound to delay them, there was no telling what horrors might arise… but if they advanced unsupported, they might fail regardless. He caught Moros’ eye.

‘Time is not on our side,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘When is it ever?’ Orius said. He had made his decision. He clapped the Prosecutor on the shoulder. ‘I must ask you miss out on the glories to come, brother. I need you and the rest of your retinue to take word to my fellow Lord-Celestants and apprise them of our situation. If we fail to take the Sulphur Citadel in time, they must know something of what they shall face.’

‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant,’ the Prosecutor said, crashing his fist against his chest-plate. The winged warrior turned and sprang into the air. Followed by the rest of his retinue, he hurtled west towards the light of the fires that flickered on the horizon.

Orius turned to Tarkus. ‘Tarkus, take the vanguard,’ he said. ‘We must press on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. We are close, and we must not slow our pace. Not now. Range ahead, break the enemy where you find them. Move fast, but not without caution. Do you understand, Knight-Heraldor?’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ Tarkus cried. He lifted his horn and blew a signalling note as he quickly departed to lead his warriors forward. The vanguard would probe the strength of whatever force waited for them ahead, and break it, if possible. Orius turned to the remaining members of his auxiliary command.

‘Galerius, we shall lead the shield wall. Moros…’

‘I shall hold the centre,’ the Lord-Relictor said. From the centre of the column, Moros would be able to lend aid to either Gorgus or Orius at a moment’s notice, whichever might prove necessary. If Gorgus could not hold back the enemy, then Moros would advance to meet them. But if Gorgus won through, then he and Moros together could march to reinforce Orius and the rest of the Chamber as they advanced.

Orius turned to Galerius.

‘Speak, Knight-Vexillor. We are like the grindstone. The enemy will be ground beneath us. Speak, Galerius – show the standard.’ As he spoke, he raised his sword, and as one, the front ranks of the chamber began to march forward. ‘Let the enemy hear us coming, my friend, so that they know who has defeated them.’

‘Stand true, stand fast, Adamantine,’ Galerius cried, as he strode beside Orius. ‘Let no shield-arm dip, no sword-arm falter. We fight in Sigmar’s name, and he watches us, my brothers, he watches us and he sees how we hold his standard high.’ He struck the front of his chest-plate with the flat of his hammer. ‘We wage war in his name, Stormcasts. Cherish every breath you breathe here, cherish every ache accrued in his service, cherish the sound of sigmarite as it hews through hell-forged armour. Stand fast, my brothers, stand fast. We shall not move from our path, shall not bend nor break!’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK,’ the Stormcasts bellowed in response.

‘We are Adamantine – we shall not break!’ Galerius roared, striking the ground with his battle-standard and cracking the stones. ‘But the foe shall. They shall break and break again, until nothing remains. We are Adamantine, and nothing can stand against us!’

I am coming for you, Anhur, Orius thought, as he led the cheering warriors of the Adamantine forward. I am coming, Scarlet Lord, and nothing shall stand in my way…

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 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Black Rift of Klaxus: The Scarlet Lord © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Black Rift of Klaxus: The Scarlet Lord, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

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

ISBN: 978-1-78251-956-0

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

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