TEN SKULLS

Josh Reynolds

Baron Aceteryx, former warden of the Scorian Bastion, held up his raw and glistening gauntlet, forestalling any sound or movement on the part of the warriors who crouched around him in the rain. Formerly warriors of the elite Scorian Guard, they had once been pledged to stand watch along the ancient bastion for which they’d been named. Now, like their master, they were pledged to the service of the Blood God.

Like him, too, they were all clad in oozing, scabrous armour, mystically crafted from the muscle and meat of their murdered kin. A sign of betrayal and godly favour, all in one. The armour wept blood, but was as hard as iron. They waited, spread out over the root-encrusted rooftop overlooking the square below, ignoring the pelting rain and the clutching growths which squirmed beneath them.

With the winged scouts of the foe distracted by Phastet and her savages, Aceteryx and his blood warriors had taken to the rooftops lining the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Here and now, in the Square of Four Fangs, they would strike and cut the Stormcast advance in two. More of his warriors crouched ready and waiting across the avenue for the signal to attack. But they would not wait for long. It had been too long since they had collected the skulls of the foe.

Aceteryx knew well how they felt. It had become a hunger in him. A need greater than any he’d ever experienced. It took all of his concentration to remain calm at moments like this. Then, he thought with bitter humour, I’ve never been one to take the cautious path. He rubbed his breastplate, smearing the blood with an unconscious gesture as he watched the Stormcasts troop past in formation.

Their column had spread out, with the vanguard moving ahead, and the bulk of the warriors marching more slowly behind. Berkut and the others would handle them. But this smaller force was his. It was moving to support those Stormcasts still battling Apademak’s cannibals farther back along the avenue. The foe had stretched themselves thin, hoping to maintain their momentum without abandoning their slower elements or endangering their control of the central thoroughfare. Not enough warriors, not enough time, he thought, in amusement. They were overconfident, or simply desperate.

Either way, they are our prey, Aceteryx thought, and smiled beneath his skull-faced helm. He reached up and stroked its contours – it had been his brother’s skull, and it was his brother’s scalp that adorned it as a crest. His brother had been prey as well. Weak, and fit only for the butcher’s block. All of his kin had been weak. Too weak to survive in a world fit only for predators. Eat or be eaten, he thought.

That was why he had done it, in the end. They had held out for so long, throwing back every invader who dared attempt to take the Scorian Bastion. Even as the lands the bastion had been built to protect flared out like dying campfires in the dark, consumed by the storm of Chaos that engulfed the kingdoms of the Felstone Plains, the folk of the bastion had held. Aceteryx had held. And what had it gotten him?

Nothing. Every battle, every assault, wore him down a bit more. More empty places in the line, more cracks in the wall, more wailing, useless peons, weeping for fallen sons and daughters. As if tears would bring them back. As if despair would fill the cracks in the stones and repair shattered shields and chipped blades. The only respite was in battle.

It had begun to weigh on him, like the ache of a wound that never healed. That ache was still there, but at least now he could lose himself in the joy of slaughter. He could bathe in gore, worrying about nothing save his tally of skulls. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, carved from his wife’s femur. He could almost hear her voice as he gripped it. Her whispered endearments, her choking pleas, her final anguished screams.

Those screams had been Anhur’s price. Victory at the cost of pain, the Scarlet Lord had said. Aceteryx could still remember meeting Anhur beneath a flag of parley. The dull rumble of the Scarlet Lord’s voice as he spoke of what awaited them all, and of the glories that could be theirs, if they but opened the bastion. Of a life without despair, and a chance to be something greater than the last baron of a forgotten fortress in a burning world.

And now I am Gorechosen, he thought. Now, his foot was on the stair to the greatest glories of all. Apademak had spoken of Anhur’s weakness, as had Redjaw and others besides. Murmurs of discontent had swept the warhorde since their retreat from the Hissing Gates. Many had seen Anhur’s gesture of mercy, and few approved of such blasphemy.

The moment of glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him was near. All that was required of him was to seize the moment, as he had at the Scorian Bastion. And to do so before the others, to cut down Anhur and claim his place for himself.

He rose to his feet, sword and flail in hand. I will be a baron no longer, but a lord – Lord Aceteryx, he thought, liking the sound of it. His blood warriors rose with him, growling in anticipation. He gestured to what he assumed was the leader of the Stormcasts – a tall warrior, clad in baroque raiment and wearing a skull-shaped helm. ‘That one stinks of magic. He is mine,’ he growled. And then, with a roar, Baron Aceteryx leapt from the roof.

Lord-Relictor Moros led his warriors through the Square of Four Fangs, head bent, his reliquary staff clutched in both hands. They marched to lend aid to Lord-Castellant Gorgus, and to free up the rear elements of the chamber to support Lord-Celestant Orius and the vanguard as they pressed on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

Moros ignored the sounds of his warriors on the march, and the hollow sound of the rain striking his armour. Instead, he listened to the murmur of the lightning that pulsed in the belly of the great clouds that congregated above the Tephra Crater, and Uryx in particular. The words of Sigmar, and more besides, were in the growl of the storm, and he listened intently, finding meaning in every rumble of thunder.

Moros could almost hear the cries of those of his warriors who’d fallen in the assault so far, as they were drawn upwards into the divine tempest that thundered eternally in the skies above Sigmaron. There was pain there, aye, but a chance to rise and fight again in Sigmar’s name. To fight until the old foe was driven back from the threshold of the Mortal Realms once more. And then…?

Moros’ mind shied away from the thought. It was not for him to consider the future. Only the spirits of the dead concerned him. It was his duty as spirit-warden to ensure that should his fellow Stormcasts fall in battle, their spirits would heed only the call of Sigmar and ascend back to the heavens, rather than descending into some other realm or, worse, become lost to the winds of Chaos. He looked up, watching skeins of azure light that only he could see rise from the city and stretch towards the tempest above. Every thread belonged to a living Stormcast, and marked their connection to Azyr. The life-chain, as the folk of the lagoon-city of Po – his folk, once – had called it.

Moros remembered more about his mortal life than some, and less than others. He suspected other Lord-Relictors did so as well. They had been chosen by Sigmar not for the strength of their sword arms, but rather the strength of their spirits. In quiet moments, he retreated into his memories of the Argentum Sea, seeking out the brightest to examine and study. He drew strength from them, even as he sought to understand them. The whirr of clockwork and the smell of warm silver waters, the murmur of voices and the glimpse of a woman’s face as she laughed, her cheeks powdered with gold-dust and silver threads twined intricately through her hair. Who was she? Did she still live?

He shook himself slightly. A foolish question. She was dead. If she and all his people were not, would he be clad in gold and azure? A shout drew him from his reverie and he turned to see red-armoured shapes dropping into the square from the rooftops all around the marching Stormcasts. They fell to the ground and lurched up, stumbling at first as they raced towards his warriors, but picking up speed as they drew close. Blood warriors, he realised, as he swept his staff up. ‘Form a phalanx,’ he cried. ‘Adamantine – shields to the flanks. Protectors, to me!’

His Liberators moved to obey, individual retinues wheeling about and joining together to form a bulwark against their screaming attackers. His Protectors moved to surround him, waiting for further orders. They were outnumbered but he was confident that they could hold. Another distraction, he thought. They were being isolated, split from the others. The same had happened with Lord-Castellant Gorgus and with the Knight-Azyros, Kratus. Drawn away, separated, leaving the rest of the chamber without reinforcements or support.

More and more it seemed as if Anhur had chosen the ground for his final stand well. He’d led them into Uryx, and was now gnawing away at their strength, preventing them from simply smashing through the obstacles in their path. Too clever by half, that one, he thought grimly, as the blood warriors crashed into the Stormcast line with a ragged howl.

The blood warriors hacked and hewed at their foes with wild abandon, substituting ferocity for discipline. The air shimmered eerily with the heat of their rage, and Moros could see the ghostly shapes of daemons lurking about the edges of the battle, capering in glee. The creatures seemed more solid now than before and that disturbed him. If the Bloodbound were to suddenly find their ranks bolstered by such creatures, even the Adamantine might not be able to hold them back.

The combatants struggled back and forth through the rain. Only a few blood warriors had managed to slip through the quickly formed cordon of sigmarite, and Moros and his Protectors made short work of them. But as he struck down the last of them, the Lord-Relictor heard a roar, and saw a Liberator fall, his body burning away into motes of crackling light. His killer thrust himself into the gap in the shield wall and smashed a second Liberator from his feet with a blow from a flail of iron and brass.

‘Ha!’ the warrior bellowed, in a voice like splintering bones. ‘Is this all you have to offer Baron Aceteryx, dogs of Sigmar? Am I doomed to feast upon scraps? Where are your champions, your true warriors?’

The deathbringer wore armour composed of glistening red plates that more resembled chunks of raw meat than any metal, and they were edged with bone. They, and the long, basket-hilted sword that the warrior carried in one hand did more to identify him than any bellowed challenge. The Scorian Traitor, Moros thought, as the fallen Liberator blocked a slash from that deadly blade. There were many stories of atrocities in the Felstone Plains, but among the worst of them, whispered to their Stormcast rescuers by newly-freed slaves and refugees, was the tale of the Scorian Bastion, and the treacherous Baron Aceteryx. Moros started forward.

Aceteryx swept his flail of brass and iron down, tearing the shield from his foe’s grip. As the golden warrior tried to rise, Aceteryx drove his blade through a gap in his armour, killing him instantly. Lightning flared and the deathbringer stepped through it. ‘Is there no challenge to be had here?’ he laughed, as his followers raced past him, and the shield wall broke apart into a riotous melee.

Moros slammed his staff down. Shockwaves of lightning swept out, smashing nearby blood warriors from their feet. ‘Here is a challenge, traitor,’ Moros said, his voice carrying in the sudden silence after the lightning.

Aceteryx looked at him, and raised his flail in a mocking salute. ‘Traitor? You know me then, skull-face?’

‘I know you. Traitor. Liar and murderer. Your soul is marked by your crimes, and the ghosts of your victims cling to you. Can you feel their weight, Baron? Can you hear their cries?’ Moros said, sweeping his staff out in a wide arc. ‘When you fell, Aceteryx, the souls of your ancestors filled Azyrheim with the sounds of their weeping.’

‘Then imagine how they will wail when I tear your heart out and add it to my armour,’ Aceteryx snarled. He stamped forward with a duellist’s surety, sword extended. Moros caught the blow on his staff, but before he could reply in kind, the Baron’s flail crashed down against his skull, rocking him on his feet. He swung his hammer out, driving his opponent back, but not for long. The deathbringer darted forward, faster than Moros could react. His sword skidded off the Lord-Relictor’s breastplate, and Moros staggered.

He caught a blow from Aceteryx’s flail on his staff and ripped the weapon from the deathbringer’s grasp, hurling it aside. Aceteryx lunged forward with a snarl, slashing at him, driving him back. Moros retreated, trying to put some distance between them. All around him, he could see his Protectors locked in combat with Aceteryx’s warriors, their stormstrike glaives leaving sizzling contrails in their wake.

A wild blow suddenly knocked his staff from his hand, and set him reeling, off-balance. ‘Your head is mine,’ Aceteryx howled, raising his blade in both hands. Before he could strike, however, a winged form slammed into his back and sent him staggering. The Baron whirled, slashing out at his attacker. Kratus the Silent dodged the blow, his crackling wings flapping. Where the Knight-Azyros had come from, Moros didn’t know, but he was thankful for the distraction regardless.

Moros thrust himself forward and, as Aceteryx turned back towards him, he drove his warhammer into the deathbringer’s midsection. Warped armour burst with a sickening sound, and Aceteryx screamed in agony. Kratus moved to strike the wounded Chaos champion down, but Moros waved him off. ‘Help the others,’ he said. ‘This one is mine.’ Kratus nodded and was gone, with a snap of his great wings.

Aceteryx straightened, wheezing. ‘All I am is your death, fool–’ he began. Moros’ blow interrupted his taunt. The warhammer slammed crossways against the deathbringer’s helm, shattering the warped bone, and revealing the ravaged features of the man beneath. Aceteryx screamed as if he’d lost a limb, and clawed at his face. Moros gave him no opportunity to recover. He swung his hammer, shattering Aceteryx’s hastily interposed blade. He struck again and again, crushing joints and bones, until at last, Aceteryx sank down to his knees.

‘Your ancestors await you, Aceteryx. Prepare yourself for judgement,’ Moros said, as he raised his hammer in both hands, over his head.

‘Y-you have no right to judge me,’ the wounded deathbringer growled.

‘No. Not me,’ Moros said. The hammer fell, with a sound like thunder, and Baron Aceteryx, last guardian of the Scorian Bastion, fell with it. Moros looked down at the body, and felt a moment of pity. Once, Aceteryx had been a hero. But it seemed even heroes could not long resist the lures of Chaos unaided.

And that was why the Stormcast Eternals had come, the Lord-Relictor thought. Not just to Klaxus, or the wider reaches of Aqshy. Throughout the Mortal Realms, heroes still fought against the inevitability of Chaos. And the Stormcast Eternals would find them, and, Sigmar willing, aid them.

But first, they had to win this battle, and free this kingdom. He looked up. The last of the blood warriors had fallen to the glaives of his Protectors, but the berserkers had reaped a terrible toll before they met their end. Many Stormcasts had perished, leaving behind only smouldering patches of charred stone to mark their return to Azyr, while others were badly wounded.

He reclaimed his staff and raised it, murmuring the words to summon a healing storm. The falling rain began to shimmer with a celestial radiance, and where it touched the wounded Stormcasts, wounded flesh knit and damaged sigmarite flowed like water until it was whole once more. The Lord-Relictor turned to see Kratus watching him from nearby, one hand resting on the hilt of his starblade. The Knight-Azyros had been seeing to the culling of the wounded blood warriors with his usual pragmatism.

‘We feared you lost, Silent One,’ Moros said, as the Knight-Azyros approached. Kratus signalled sharply. Moros’ grip on his reliquary staff tightened as he interpreted the Silent One’s quick gestures. It was as he’d feared. The enemy had distracted them, and tried to cut them off from Orius and the others. The Adamantine advance had been stalled time and again. And now the bulk of the Bloodbound were massing in the wide plaza before the Bridge of Smoke – another distraction, he suspected. Another stalling tactic. ‘How many?’ he asked. Kratus gestured and Moros grunted in dismay. Orius and the others would be hard-pressed to punch through such numbers. Not without aid.

Decision made, the Lord-Relictor thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Gorgus will have to hold his own, then. I will not allow our brethren to be overwhelmed, not so close to our goal.’ He swept his hammer out. ‘On your feet, Adamantine – we must make haste. Our Lord-Celestant requires our aid, though he knows it not!’

The sun was beginning to rise behind the storm clouds as the Bloodbound raced along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, howling like beasts. They swept towards the golden ranks of the Stormcasts like a headsman’s blade. The ground shuddered beneath them as they ran, and the harsh blare of war-horns sounded above the din of their coming. The air shuddered with their savage chants as they drove forward through the hail of crackling arrows that gouged furrows in their ranks.

‘Blood and skulls for Khorne,’ Berkut roared, as he charged the Stormcast shield wall. ‘Rip their flesh and crack their bones, for the Lord of Skulls!’ The bloodsecrator raised his icon high, so that those who followed him could see it. The portal of skulls trembled in his grip as it soaked up the bloodshed. Soon, it would release those pent-up energies, and its reservoir of furious power would spill over to wash across the Avenue of Ten Skulls and the crater-city of Uryx. Perhaps even Klaxus itself.

The thought fired his blood and lent him speed. He longed to tear the veil between worlds, to see again the glories of Khorne’s kingdom in the moment of realmflux. The glimpses he caught of it, when in battle, reminded him of that long-ago pilgrimage to the Brass Citadel, across the fields of blood and bone. He had slain daemons with his bare hands, and drank deep from the boiling moat which surrounded Khorne’s citadel, and for his devotion he had been gifted the icon he now carried into battle.

Berkut could feel Khorne’s gaze on this place now. The skullgrinder, Volundr, had been correct; the Blood God was watching them, watching the Scarlet Lord. Now was the time to show the Lord of Skulls how they gloried in his name. Around him, the warriors of the Bloodbound raced forward with similar eagerness and longing. Barbaric bloodreavers of the Eight Tribes loped alongside crimson-armoured blood warriors and hulking skullreapers. Feral beastmen, their hairy hides daubed with blood, galloped in the vanguard, brutish voices beyond counting raised in praise of Khorne.

The golden shields of the enemy drew close, and he raised his axe and standard both as he chanted the Blood God’s name. A moment later, the Bloodbound crashed into the ranks of their foes with a sound like thunder, axes rising and falling. Dozens of warriors died in that moment, cut down or crushed between the shields of the foe and the ranks of their fellows behind them. The Stormcast lines held, but only just.

Berkut screamed as his great four-bladed axe bit down, gouging an opponent’s shield. One of the blades became lodged in the metal, and Berkut ripped the shield from its owner’s arm. The Stormcast staggered, and Berkut kicked out, catching the warrior in the chest. He fell backwards, leaving a gap in the shield wall, and Berkut seized the moment. Lashing out with his icon and axe, he forced the gap wider, driving the other Stormcast back, so that the warriors who followed him could break through. Slowly but surely, the shield wall began to split in two.

Berkut howled with laughter as warriors died and bodies fell. The blood ran thick on the stones. He slammed the haft of his icon into the ground. The bloodsecrator threw back his head and roared joyfully. Now was the time, in the moment of shattered shields and dying warriors. Now, NOW… The portal of skulls writhed in his grip and the great rune of Khorne glowed with a hot light. The light swelled and burst in violent pulses, and reality tore like silk.

The ground beneath his feet turned to blazing brass and the air filled with sulphurous fumes. The Bloodbound around him screamed and raged as they were driven into a killing frenzy. The energies of the Blood God’s realm infused them, giving them strength, forcing them on, even as the Stormcasts struck them down. Roaring blood warriors, their eyes wild with murderous fury, flung themselves onto the enemy. They barged through the ranks of the bloodreavers in an effort to come to grips with the foe, their rage burning hot enough to make the air shimmer.

Berkut joined them in the slaughter. Blue streaks of lightning crackled upwards as one foe after another fell. As he fought, he saw daemons stretch and claw as they rose from the blood and brass. They screamed at him, howling out prayers to Khorne. They were not free yet. The membrane of the world was too thick, too solid to allow them to slip through. Berkut hissed in frustration, even as he struck down another Stormcast, tearing the warrior’s head from his shoulders with a sweep of his axe.

He longed to fight alongside the children of Khorne once more, to revel in their incandescent glory as they piled the heads of their foes at the foot of the Skull Throne. That was the glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him. He had sworn to rip an unhealing wound in the flesh of reality, from whence the legions of Khorne could pour through and inundate the Tephra Crater and the Felstone Plains beyond.

A thousand kingdoms would drown in the daemonstorm they would unleash here, and Khorne himself would grow full and fat on the blood spilled in his name. Berkut bellowed the hymn of slaughter as he fought on. He knocked a Stormcast sprawling with a sweep of his axe, and pinned the fallen warrior with his foot. He raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. But as it fell, a blade, shining with a terrible light, interposed itself between the bloodsecrator and his victim.

Tarkus held the bloodsecrator’s axe for a moment. The scar-faced warrior glared at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘You dare?’ he growled. His eyes burned with a madness so pure that it was almost elemental, and red steam curled from his branded flesh.

‘Always,’ Tarkus said. He disentangled their weapons and stepped forward. His broadsword hummed as it sliced through the sulphurous air. The bloodsecrator parried the blow and stepped back.

Quickly, Tarkus reached down and dragged the fallen Liberator to his feet. ‘Back into line, brother. We will not break,’ he said. As the Liberator staggered back towards his retinue, Tarkus raised his sword. His heartbeat was steady as he met the bloodsecrator’s maddened gaze. It was as he had told Lord-Relictor Moros – he had been forged for this. To meet the champions of Chaos and strike them down. To rise and fight, whatever form the enemy took, wherever they stood, whatever their purpose. He was the sword of Sigmar, and no foe could stand against him. He had already claimed the scalps of a number of enemy chieftains, and, Sigmar-willing, he would claim yet more before the battle was won.

That had always been the way of it, in the Graklands. Constantly assailed by brayherds and savage orruks as they were, his folk had learned that to kill a chieftain was to cripple an army. And there had been no better killer than he who had been Tarka of the Grakdt. For a moment, Tarkus was there again, beneath the amber skies, amidst thorny grasses, the thump of orruk drums loud in his ears, and he duelled not a servant of Khorne, but a bellicose orruk chieftain, all slabbed muscle and yellowed tusks.

Then the bloodsecrator snarled, and the memories came apart like smoke on the wind. The air around Tarkus burned, and thick, cancerous strands of brass ran through the stones at his feet. The bloodsecrator was the cause of the sudden frenzy of the Bloodbound. Tarkus had fought his kind before – they fed on the fury of battle and channelled it in unholy ways, even as he raised the spirits and bolstered the courage of his fellow Stormcasts. Tarkus extended his blade in a gesture of challenge. Then, with barely a scrape of sigmarite on stone, he lunged forward. Axe and sword met with bone-rattling force as the Knight-Heraldor and the bloodsecrator traded blows back and forth.

As they fought, Tarkus considered trying to lift his horn from where it hung, strapped across his back. But he doubted his opponent would give him the time. The bloodsecrator lunged towards him, snarling unintelligibly. He stepped aside, and spun his broadsword, bringing it down across the bloodsecrator’s back. The brute staggered, but his armour held and he recovered almost instantly.

Around them, the battle had broken down into a scattered melee. The Stormcast vanguard had punched into the heart of the enemy forces flowing up the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Tarkus and his Thunderhead Brotherhoods had stalled the Bloodbound’s advance, and now bled them of momentum. The shield wall, shattered by the enemy’s charge, had broken up into independent phalanxes of Liberators and Judicators. Each knot of Stormcasts was an island of gold amidst a bloody tide, refusing to budge despite the fact that their foes threatened to sweep over them. Any of the Bloodbound who got past them would be easy pickings for the rest of the chamber as it advanced more cautiously.

Tarkus deflected a looping axe blow and drove his shoulder into his opponent’s chest, knocking him back a half-step. Phantasmal daemons clawed ineffectually at him as he brought his broadsword down, cracking the bloodsecrator’s shoulder-guard. Howling in incoherent fury, the warrior lashed out at him with his foul standard, driving him back.

Acting on instinct, the Knight-Heraldor chopped through the thick haft of the standard. Crimson energy ravened forth, burning everything it touched with molten talons. Stormcasts and Bloodbound alike fell to it, but Tarkus plunged through it, sword angled to take the stunned bloodsecrator in the side. He felt the blade of his broadsword ram home, even as the foul energies of the staff washed over him.

The bloodsecrator grabbed him by the throat, and swung him against the side of a building. ‘I… can see it…’ the Chaos warrior gurgled, as he scrabbled at the Knight-Heraldor’s neck. ‘It is… beautiful.’ Tarkus tore his blade free of the dying warrior and shoved him back. The bloodsecrator staggered, and sank to one knee, arm wrapped around his belly. ‘I can… see it,’ he croaked, looking at Tarkus, but not seeing him.

‘Then go to it, and find whatever damnation awaits you,’ Tarkus said, as he brought his broadsword down on the dying Bloodbound’s neck.

Redjaw the Resplendent slid forward, and thrust his spear, Lungpiercer, out, quick as a serpent’s strike. The broad blade of the spear drew sparks from his opponent’s shield, and the force of the blow knocked the Stormcast back. Redjaw whipped his spear up, and slid it over the rim of the shield. The tip of the blade punched through the eye-slit of his opponent’s mask.

The Stormcast stiffened and slumped forward soundlessly. The deathbringer jerked Lungpiercer free and spun, battering a second Stormcast off his feet with the length of the spear. Redjaw danced among the remnants of the enemy shield wall, thrusting and slicing wherever his fancy took him. Some fell to his assault, others were merely driven back. They were hard to kill, these lightning-men. Worse, it was hard to tally your kills when the evidence vanished before your eyes.

What glory, what glory, he thought as he whirled, his metallic cloak swirling about him. He drove the haft of his spear into a shield, and then the blade forward into a Stormcast’s back. Lungpiercer’s ensorcelled blade tore through the golden armour, not with ease, but a sight better than the weapons of the tribesmen he’d led into battle. Most of those were dead now, fallen so that he might reach the foe. He felt nothing for them. That was what lesser warriors were for – to die so that their betters might live.

Such had always been Redjaw’s way, since he had first stepped into the war-dance of his people, in the ever-burning forests of the Pyrdim. Move so that the flames could not burn you, move so that the ash would not fill your lungs, move through the dead and dying, let the weak shield the strong. Move, move, move, he thought as he brought Lungpiercer down like a club, driving a Stormcast to one knee. He jerked the spear back, dragging his opponent off his feet. As the warrior fell, Redjaw spun Lungpiercer and drove the blade down between his shoulders.

All around him, the same story played out in a hundred different ways. The golden-armoured invaders fought with a vigour that put even the most brutal tribesman to shame. They fought not as individuals, but as a single engine made of many parts. Redjaw shook his head and leaned on his spear, stilling the squirming of his dying opponent. It was madness, that was all there was to it. What glory was there to be had in such a method? If all fought as one, did they share equally in the triumph? He growled. Such a thing was anathema to him – Redjaw fought for the glory of none save himself. Khorne blessed only the most resplendent, most infamous warriors, those who caught his eye and held it.

And Redjaw of the Pyrdim was the most resplendent of all. Did he not wear a cloak of glimmering blood? Had he not danced among the bones of countless slaughtered gargants and tribesmen, had he not cast down the marble temples of the Skorch and pierced the multi-hued skull and four-lobed brain of the Ever-Changing Oracle? Was it not Redjaw who had tamed the copper-boned horses of the Caldera, and split the iron heart of the Steel Duke?

‘Aye, and more besides,’ he said, giving Lungpiercer a final twist. As he tore the blade free of the already evaporating body, he caught sight of Berkut. The bloodsecrator was locked in combat with one of the Stormcasts – this one in fancier armour than the rest. A blow from the warrior shattered Berkut’s portal of skulls, unleashing a mystical conflagration which momentarily obscured them both from sight.

The mystical fires cleared, and Redjaw saw Berkut sink to one knee as the Stormcast raised his sword. Berkut’s head rolled free and Redjaw grunted in satisfaction. One more empty place in the Gorechosen. He knew of others who would gladly take the bloodsecrator’s position, many of them loyal to him. A few more deaths and Anhur might find his Gorechosen peopled by enemies, rather than comrades. The thought pleased Redjaw no end. Even more pleasant was the thought of killing the warrior who had taken Berkut’s head – he radiated power. He was a champion among the Stormcasts, that much was obvious, and his skull would be worth much esteem for the warrior who claimed it.

He started forward, but a strong hand fell on his shoulder.

‘No. It is time to draw them in,’ the skullgrinder, Volundr, rumbled. He was surrounded by a group of seething wrathmongers, their grotesque forms dripping with the blood of the foe. Volundr, too, was spattered with the stuff, and his anvil was encrusted with brain matter and worse. Redjaw jerked free of his grip.

‘I doubt that they will let us go so easily,’ he snarled. The Bloodbound were locked in place, like a manacled hand, caught between the phalanxes of the Stormcasts. Whichever way they moved, weapons wreathed in lightning awaited them. In a way, Redjaw almost admired such precision. The foe were tenacious, and almost as unwilling to retreat as the Bloodbound. Indeed, the very thought of ceding ground to the foe sent a shiver of disgust through him.

‘They will have no choice. Go, my brothers. Teach them the meaning of fear.’ Volundr gestured, and the wrathmongers hurtled towards the closest knot of Stormcasts, howling wildly. The skullgrinder caught hold of the brass muzzle of Redjaw’s helm. ‘It is their duty to meet Khorne. It is ours to save what can be saved. We must pull back to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, so that we might draw the foe after us.’ Volundr laughed and released him. ‘Come! The Shieldbreaker and the vermin await us – would you be selfish, Resplendent One, and hoard all of the beautiful carnage to come?’

‘Aye, as would you, skullgrinder, if you were me,’ Redjaw snapped. Nonetheless, he raised his spear, signalling the closest of his subordinate chieftains to begin the retreat. Most would ignore him, too caught up in the killing as they were. They would stay and fight and die, as was proper. Redjaw would not be among them. Volundr and Anhur had promised greater glories to come, and Redjaw intended to collect upon that promise.

Slowly, reluctantly, he followed Volundr back down the avenue, surrounded by equally unhappy warriors. Whatever glories awaited them had best come soon. But as he left the battle behind him, the deathbringer marked the Stormcast who had slain Berkut.

You’re mine, he thought.

‘Forward – let no foe stay your advance,’ Orius Adamantine said, as the Stormcast shield wall pressed onward, through the Avenue of Ten Skulls. ‘For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ Liberators moved forward steadily at the Lord-Celestant’s command, pushing back against the tattered remnants of the Bloodbound who had, only a short time ago, bounded eagerly into battle. Caught between the advancing shield wall and the Thunderhead Brotherhoods, those who did not break and flee were swiftly obliterated.

When the shield wall pressed past each of the isolated Brotherhoods, those Stormcasts fell swiftly into formation with the rest of the chamber. The Liberators joined their fellows at the fore, beneath the glittering battle-standard held by Galerius, and the Judicators moved to add their volleys to those of the retinues marching behind. But not all of the Thunderhead Brotherhoods had survived intact.

As Orius and his warriors came to a halt near the end of the avenue, the crack of thunder and the glare of lightning revealed the fate of the rest of their brethren in gory detail. ‘Sigmar above,’ Galerius breathed.

The remaining Thunderhead Brotherhoods were locked in combat with a band of blood-soaked wrathmongers. Two of the beasts were already dead, but the remaining four fought against almost five times their number without any apparent fear. The muscle-bound monstrosities whirled their flails in lethal arcs, smashing the life from Stormcasts with every blow. Judicators circled the melee, searching in vain for a clear shot, as one by one the Liberators were crushed. The flails of the remaining wrathmongers crunched through armour like parchment, tearing the flesh and splintering the bone beneath. A crimson haze rose from their torn skin, and every wound they suffered seemed to drive them to greater heights of fury.

Orius caught sight of a familiar form in the thick of the fray, his broadsword flickering like lightning as he chopped through a bellowing wrathmonger’s midsection. ‘Tarkus,’ he muttered. Of course the Knight-Heraldor would be in the thick of it. A Liberator, armour crumpled and torn, skidded across the street to crash against the legs of the shield wall. His broken body hurtled skyward in a bolt of lightning a moment later, and even as the flash faded, Orius was already moving forward. Galerius and the Liberators moved to join him, but he waved them back.

The Lord-Celestant had fought wrathmongers before. He’d seen whole chambers torn apart by the dark curse which afflicted the brutes. Orius would not risk his warriors being drawn into such madness – he would see to the creatures himself.

He charged towards one of the wrathmongers. With a swift blow from his hammer, he shattered the creature’s knee. Ducking an awkward swing of its flail, he drove his sword up beneath its arm, and into its throbbing heart. Tearing his blade free, he deftly avoiding the spurt of ichor and kicked the dying wrathmonger away from the press of battle. ‘Shoot it,’ he shouted, signalling to nearby Judicators. Even as he spoke, he could feel the weight of the creatures’ rage pressing down on him. It clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to shatter the bulwarks of discipline which bound him. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar as he turned, searching for his next opponent.

Skybolts punched through the wrathmonger’s brass cuirass, ending its fury as Orius isolated a second. He lunged beneath the flying body of a Liberator and let his runeblade dance across his target’s ribs. The wrathmonger howled and turned. The stink of it assaulted his senses. It was not simply a physical odour but also a spiritual miasma – an infection of the mind and soul that reached out, seeking to snare him in its crimson coils. He could feel it stoking the fires of his rage, trying to entice him to surrender to the battle-madness. But he would not surrender. He would not break.

The wrathmonger’s flail thudded down, narrowly missing him. Orius pivoted and brought his blade down, severing the creature’s forearm. As it staggered, he rammed his hammer into its throat. Before it could recover, he drove his shoulder into its gut and shoved it back, away from the others.

This time, the Judicators acted without having to be ordered, and bolts of sizzling energy thudded into the creature’s back and head. Orius stepped back and let it fall. He turned, and was forced to parry a blow from Tarkus’ broadsword. The Knight-Heraldor roared wordlessly, and made to lash out again. He had been caught up in the wrathmongers’ fury, and was unable to tell friend from foe. Orius stepped close and drove the head of his hammer into his fellow Stormcast’s belly, dropping him to his knees.

Without slowing, he advanced on the last of the wrathmongers. The beast smashed a Liberator to the ground and swept its flails back to finish the hobbled warrior off. Orius stretched his hammer out, and as the flails tangled around the head, he twisted about, hauling the wrathmonger off-balance. It staggered back with a bellow of surprise. As it turned, Orius slid the point of his runeblade through the eye-slit of its helm. The creature stiffened, and then slumped, its weight pushing him back a step.

He extricated his sword and let the body topple. Already, the remaining Liberators were shaking off the effects of the savage miasma. Orius sheathed his blade and turned to extend his hand to the still-kneeling Tarkus. As he helped the Knight-Heraldor to his feet, Tarkus said, ‘I must – I did not see you, Lord-Celestant.’

‘You were caught up in the blood rage of your foes.’ Orius shook his head. ‘You should have let the Judicators shoot them from a distance, rather than charging in as impetuously as always.’

‘I thought – it was as if some force held my soul in its grip. I could not resist – I tried, but it was…’ He trailed off. ‘Is that what they feel? Is that what our foes feel, when they fight?’

‘The call of the Blood God is monstrously strong, Tarkus. It is like the waves of the sea, washing away even the sturdiest foundation over time. It seeps through the cracks in your discipline. If you are not careful, it will claim you, and I may not be there to drag you back.’

Tarkus shuddered. He looked at Orius, his eyes haunted behind the stoic features of his war-helm. ‘For a moment I could not tell whether you were friend or foe… I nearly took your head off. I nearly–’

‘But you didn’t,’ Orius said sternly, clasping his forearm. ‘And you are yourself once more. Now sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. The enemy are on the run, and I would let them know that we are on their heels.’ He raised his hammer, and the shield wall started forward once more. Tarkus sounded his battle-horn as the last of the Stormcast vanguard fell into formation, and the Adamantine left the Avenue of Ten Skulls behind.

Their path expanded, spreading out into a vast, semi-circular plaza which jutted out over the smoky waters of the sulphur lake. The plaza was strewn with dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles stood upright from the stones, their fleshless bounty staring blindly out over the yellow waters that separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Thousands of standards and banner poles, each bearing the rune of Khorne, pierced the plaza like arrows in a dead man’s back. As the Bloodbound retreated through this grisly artificial forest, they were swiftly absorbed into the ranks of the massive force arrayed before the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. Undisciplined lines of fur- and iron-clad tribesmen, red-armoured blood warriors and bellowing beastmen stretched across the plaza, alongside more orderly phalanxes of black-furred, heavily armoured stormvermin. Barbaric standards fluttered in the rain, alongside the rat-gnawed banners of the skaven.

The enemy lines pulsed like a thing alive as the Stormcasts marched into the plaza. Individual warriors pelted from the Bloodbound ranks towards the Adamantine, but were cut down by the bolts of the Judicators before they could cross the gap between both forces. Orius counted the standards of at least six distinct tribes, and more warriors were flooding into the plaza from the surrounding streets.

‘They were waiting for us,’ Galerius said as the shield wall spread out before them, ready to resist the enemy charge. More Liberators moved into formation behind the front rank, ready to take the place of their fallen brothers, or to relieve them when they grew fatigued. Judicator retinues moved to the flanks, accompanied by Retributors. Their fire would drive the bulk of the enemy towards the centre of the line, where retinues of Decimators waited for their moment to counter-attack. Tarkus was with them, the winding call of his horn filling the air – the Knight-Heraldor would lead the attack, while Orius and Galerius held the line. The Retributor retinues would serve to anchor the flanks of the shield wall, preventing any enemy attempt to lap around them.

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not us. Look – beyond them. The Sulphur Citadel.’ The fumes rising from the lake made it hard to see the citadel, but it was clear that something was happening. The bulky fortress-temple was surrounded by a halo of greasy light, which pulsed in various shades of red and brown and black, like a wound going septic. Worse, the air above the citadel and the plaza was filled with monstrous phantoms – daemons. Thousands of them. They flocked above the heads of the warriors gathered in the plaza, crouched on rooftops or racing through the air. Watching. Waiting.

‘By Sigmar’s hammer,’ Galerius said, as ghostly daemons began to arise from the stones like mist and caper between the two armies. ‘Why do they not attack?’

‘They are not here yet,’ Orius said. ‘But they will be soon, I fear. We must win this battle, Galerius… or we may lose the war.’

‘Here they come, just as he predicted,’ Hroth Shieldbreaker said. Bloodbound streamed into the plaza in disarray, their chieftains and champions bellowing useless orders. The Stormcasts had broken them, as Hroth had known they would. It was what the foe did – they were like gilded millstones, grinding flesh and bone to pulp. He admired that sort of ferocity. ‘Relentless,’ he said, ‘Like a storm.’ He peered at the crowd, trying to spot Volundr or Berkut. He saw Redjaw, shaking his spear over his head, and frowned. He’d hoped the deathbringer would meet his fate in the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

‘No-no, just man-things, same as any other,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered. The skaven warlord stood beside him, at the foot of the Bridge of Smoke, weapons in hand. The creature’s tail lashed in agitation. ‘They die easily enough, yes-yes.’

‘Feel free to prove it, vermin,’ Hroth said, extending his hand. ‘Go ahead and scurry into battle, if you like.’ He grinned at the skaven, as it eyed him suspiciously. ‘But first, send a runner to Anhur – he’ll want to be here, at the kill.’ He gestured towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘That’s what this is all in service of, after all.’

Warpfang scrubbed his muzzle and fixed Hroth with a red eye. ‘I do not understand,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is not the way the Bloodbound usually wage war, yes-yes?’

Hroth chuckled. ‘There’s war, and then there’s war, vermin. Not all battles are waged with axe and blade, and not all wars are won on the field.’ He looked down at the skaven. ‘The Scarlet Lord has been waging this war since he first took up arms in Khorne’s name, and now, here, it ends. Or so some say. In truth, I am but a simple man and seek only those pleasures familiar to me.’ He rested his hands on the weapons dangling from his harness. ‘Go to your rats, Gorechosen. We will meet the enemy, and together, you and I will pile their skulls in the centre of the plaza.’

Warpfang hesitated. The skaven looked up, at the roiling clouds far above, and then at the flames which flickered beyond the rooftops of the buildings which surrounded the plaza. ‘I do not think we will meet again, man-thing,’ Warpfang said, as he licked the glowing fang which had given him his name.

Hroth gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘No. Probably not, vermin. Die well, Kretch Warpfang.’

‘Warpfang will not die, man-thing,’ Warpfang said. Weapons over his shoulders, the skaven warlord scuttled away, to join his stormvermin. Hroth watched him go and snorted. The rats would break before the Bloodbound. They would scatter into the crater-city and vanish into their holes the moment they realised that the enemy wasn’t going to break. That too was part of Anhur’s plan. Or so the Scarlet Lord claimed. His head must be about to burst, filled as it is with so much cunning, he thought sourly. Still, better to serve a cunning lord than a foolish one.

He examined the Stormcast ranks as they moved into the plaza, moving with a precision he couldn’t help but envy. They were disciplined. Even more so than the Firewalk duardin. Horns brayed and drums thumped all along the battle-line, as the Eight Tribes grew restless – with the enemy in sight, it would soon be impossible to control them. Solitary bullgors and frenzied champions broke ranks, charging towards the enemy, only to be felled by crackling arrows loosed from behind the shield wall.

Best to get things started, he thought, smiling grimly. Hroth drew his axes – long-hafted shield-crackers, fashioned in the style of the great boarding axes of the ice-raiders of Gjoll. Heavy, compact blades, free of adornment save for the rune of Khorne etched on their hafts. He spun one with a twitch of his wrist, and extended it. ‘Now we come to it, my brothers,’ he cried. ‘Now comes the drawing down of all your days, to the sharp end of memory and that last, bright pain.’ He spread his arms. ‘The enemy we have prayed for stands before us, and the burning waters at our back. Will you die a straw death, or deliver your skull to Khorne in person?’

The warriors around him roared in reply, shaking their weapons at the storm-tossed sky. Feet and hooves stamped on the stones as swords and axes thumped shields. Hroth laughed and clashed his axes together. ‘NO!’ he cried. ‘No straw death for the servants of the Scarlet Lord! The foe have come a long way to meet us, Bloodbound – let us greet them with the respect they deserve.’ He swung his axes out, and at the gesture, the Bloodbound gave a great cry and surged forward as one, racing towards the glittering shield wall of the Stormcast.

Tarkus sounded his horn again and again, until the Knight-Heraldor thought his lungs might burst. From behind him came the hiss-crack of shockbolt bows and thunderbolt crossbows, as Judicators fired over the heads of the Liberators in the shield wall. The Bloodbound pounded closer, paying no heed to the explosions which tore through their ranks and threw them back time and again. Tarkus looked around, meeting the gazes of the Decimators gathered about him.

‘When the moment comes, we must be quick,’ he said, trusting his words to carry. ‘We must strike and strike and strike, until we have gutted the enemy. Only then will I sound the call to break and retreat. But we must be sure to do so, for our brothers need our axes. We are worth twice their number, but the enemy are three times ours. The shield wall will not hold for long if we cannot cut them down to size. We are the fists of the Adamantine, the edge of the executioner’s axe and the steady hand that removes the enemy’s head. You are the last moment made flesh, the destroyer paladins, and the enemy fear you above all things. Let us remind them of that, my brothers. You are the Axemen of Azyr and you shall not break.’

‘We shall not break,’ the Decimators intoned. Tarkus nodded in satisfaction, and turned his attention back to the approaching enemy. The hammer blow would fall hardest on the centre of the shield wall, thanks to the efforts of the Judicators. But that was as it should be.

The ground beneath his feet trembled as the Bloodbound drew closer. Explosions rocked the plaza as the Judicators continued to fire. Rain fell steadily, and he closed his eyes, taking a moment of solace in its comforting rhythm. The gods spoke through the rain. That was what his folk had believed, before he’d been chosen to ascend. Sigmar spoke through the rain and the thunder, the hiss and the roar. In every storm was a song of war and hope.

Tarkus opened his eyes, and the song of the storm was gone, replaced by the crash of iron and brass colliding with sigmarite. The Bloodbound slammed into the shield wall like an avalanche of flesh and steel. The Liberators held, but only just. The sheer weight of the foe was deforming the line, creating breaches in the wall. A blood warrior toppled through, between two Liberators. The Bloodbound snarled as he rose, and buried the edge of his axe in the back of a Liberator’s neck. Tarkus drove his broadsword through the berserker’s chest before the warrior had a chance to free his weapon.

He raised his horn as he placed a boot on the dying warrior’s head and, as he withdrew his sword, he blew a single, dolorous note. The Decimators snapped to attention, and the breach in the shield wall grew wider. Liberators stepped back, and the Axemen of Azyr surged forward, Tarkus at their head. Soon, severed limbs and heads were flung skywards as they went to work. Tarkus pressed forward, fighting to keep his footing on the gore-slick stones.

Something hissed, and he turned. The wide blade of a spear scraped across his shoulder before he batted it aside. Its wielder withdrew it quickly and stabbed at him again. This time, Tarkus was quick enough to catch it with the edge of his broadsword and he twisted his wrist, pinning the weapon a hair’s breadth from his belly.

‘Quick one, aren’t you?’ the spear’s wielder growled. Clad in a shimmering red robe and a brass helmet shaped like a hound’s snarling muzzle, the Chaos warrior laughed. ‘Or maybe Berkut was just too slow?’

Tarkus strained against the spear, fighting to keep it trapped. He said nothing, as his opponent fought to twist his weapon free. The battle swirled on around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound fighting and dying. The warrior laughed again, and with a wrench of his shoulders, he tore his weapon loose and sprang back in a swirl of robes. ‘Redjaw, lightning-rider,’ he said.

Tarkus cocked his head. ‘What?’

‘My name, Stormcast. So you can tell Khorne who claimed your head – I am Redjaw the Most Resplendent, Redjaw of the Pyrdim… Redjaw, deathbringer and Gorechosen,’ Redjaw said, as he lifted his spear over his head. ‘It is only right that you know my name, since I have sought you out especially. I see you carry a horn,’ he added, chuckling. He swung his spear about, the holes in the blade emitting a hollow moan. ‘Are you a minstrel, then, lightning-rider?’ Redjaw whirled towards Tarkus in a blur, his red cloak flaring out as he whipped his spear about in a complicated pattern. So swiftly did he move that Tarkus could barely follow him, and when he struck, the Knight-Heraldor almost missed it.

Tarkus jerked his head aside, and the foul blade scraped against the side of his helm. He swayed, and his broadsword swept around. Redjaw stabbed his spear into the ground and lifted himself up, avoiding the sword’s arc. His feet crashed against Tarkus’ chest, staggering him. The deathbringer dropped to the ground and uprooted his spear, slashing it out in the same motion. Chunks of rock spattered Tarkus as the blade screeched along his breastplate and gouged a scar across the face of his helm.

The deathbringer backed away, laughing. Angry, Tarkus lunged after him. They duelled back and forth for a moment, twisting and turning, matching each other blow for blow until Redjaw drove the weighted haft of his spear into Tarkus’ temple and knocked him back a step. Tarkus reacted on instinct, snatching hold of the spear’s haft, as Redjaw pulled it back. He jerked his opponent forward, and their helms connected with a dull clang. Tarkus pivoted, and rammed his shoulder into Redjaw, knocking him off his feet. He’s drawing me away, out of position, Tarkus thought, as Redjaw hit the ground. Not intentionally perhaps, but it was happening all the same. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into a duel, rather than rallying his warriors to hack themselves a path back to their brethren. He’d left his brothers open to attack. He’d been foolish to follow the deathbringer. Even as he’d been foolish to attack the wrathmongers. Anger at his failure pulsed through him.

Determined to give his foe no chance to recover, Tarkus swung his broadsword down. Redjaw rolled aside with desperate speed, and Tarkus’ blade caught only the folds of the Chaos champion’s cloak. Redjaw rose with a roar, but Tarkus smashed aside his spear. They traded blows, moving back and forth, as around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound clashed.

The Decimator retinues had shattered the heart of the enemy, scattering them, but the Bloodbound were so undisciplined that it mattered little. The assault had devolved into a brutal melee, where numbers counted for more than skill. Need to get back – bolster the shield wall, Tarkus thought. He made to draw his horn from where it hung across his back.

‘I will have your head,’ Redjaw roared, as he lunged forward. Tarkus spun and stepped aside, avoiding the spear’s blade as he caught the haft. With a single stroke, he chopped through the iron stock. Redjaw staggered back, lifting the broken weapon in confusion. Tarkus lunged forward and drove the blade of the spear into its wielder’s midsection. The deathbringer gasped and clawed at his arm. Tarkus shoved him back and let him fall.

‘No. You won’t,’ he said, as he turned to rejoin his warriors. But his heart sank as he surveyed the battlefield. The shield wall was crumpling, despite the efforts of the Decimators. The foe were too numerous. The ranks of the enemy had simply lapped around the Decimators, filling in the gap they’d created with fresh bodies. Now, they were cut off and out of position.

Tarkus raised his battle-horn and signalled a call to arms. We will not break, not because of me, he thought, as the Decimators rallied to him, and they began to fight their way back towards their brethren. We shall not break!

Volundr stormed forward into the golden ranks of the foe, his anvil whirling over his head. He brought the brazen anvil down, obliterating a Stormcast from the neck up in a shower of blood and bone. As the warrior’s corpse came apart in a scatter of lightning, the blades of nearby Bloodbound began to glow as if red-hot.

As the skullgrinder waded into the fray, he laughed in pleasure. Redjaw had done his job well – the deathbringer had drawn out the enemy axemen, and left the shield wall exposed to the full fury of the Bloodbound. If the Resplendent One survived, Volundr thought he might take him in hand, after all. Khorne might have a use for the vainglorious fool.

But for now, he had his eyes set on other matters. The enemy had their champions, even as the Bloodbound did. Heroes and captains, to whom the lightning-riders looked for courage and orders. Killing them would not break the Stormcasts, but it would please Khorne greatly. The death of any hero was sure to draw the Blood God’s interest.

And Volundr had chosen his quarry with a craftsman’s eye – unlike the Bloodbound, the Stormcasts had only one battle-
standard, and the one who bore it was worthy prey indeed. The standard bearer stood at the forefront of the disintegrating shield wall, exhorting his warriors to greater efforts. Volundr saw the golden standard begin to glow with an azure energy and he felt the air turn cold as he smashed a Stormcast aside.

The sky above split with a sound like tearing metal and comets of cerulean fire rained down from the storm-ravaged skies, striking throughout the plaza with earth-shattering force. Volundr staggered as a nearby blood warrior simply vanished, his war cry cut short by a sudden impact. Blood and screams filled the air as the heavens loosed their fury on the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. More comets shrieked down, tearing craters in the plaza, and reducing howling warriors to little more than a red mist. Broken bodies tumbled through the air, and gobbets of smoking meat struck him as he plunged forward through the barrage, ignoring the slivers of stone and metal which embedded themselves in his bare arms.

Volundr charged through the smoke and dust, and hurled himself at the Stormcasts. A warrior was smashed to the ground, and a second sent twisting into the air, and then he was face-to-face with his quarry. Volundr roared and slung his brazen anvil out.

The Stormcast standard bearer turned aside at the last moment, avoiding the blow that would have pulped his skull. Volundr turned, letting the chain wrap itself around his arm as he guided the spinning anvil towards his opponent a second time. The anvil pulverised stone as the Stormcast swatted it aside with a desperate blow from his hammer. Volundr pressed his attack, turning, bending, letting the chain slide through his grasp as he moved.

The anvil crashed against the Stormcast’s chest, denting the metal there and knocking him from his feet. Volundr swung the anvil down in a vicious arc, but his foe rolled aside. The skullgrinder tore his weapon free of the ground in a spray of rock, and caught the Stormcast in the back as the warrior tried to get to his feet. Volundr paced after his foe, as the Stormcast staggered, leaning against his standard for support.

‘I… shall not break,’ the Stormcast said, as he turned to face the skullgrinder.

‘All things break,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Especially men.’ He swung the anvil down again, shattering the standard and sweeping its remains from its wielder’s hands. Lightning crawled across them both as the skullgrinder caught his opponent in the chest with a boot and drove him flat. Before the Stormcast could do more than grab at his leg, Volundr lifted the anvil in both hands and brought it down on his foe’s skull. Golden armour burst, and bone splintered, and then he was surrounded by a gush of blue lightning as it careened upwards, back into the storm clouds from which it had first emerged. As his vision cleared, he heard the blare of brass horns and turned to see the banners of the Scarlet Axes rising above the fray.

Anhur had come. The Scarlet Lord had come to taste battle as a mortal warrior one last time.

Volundr threw back his head and laughed as his choler rose within him. A blessed rage, a loving wrath, a righteous anger given outlet at last. He heard a familiar roar and saw, over the heaving surface of the battle, the bulky shape of Anhur storm forward, into the midst of the enemy axemen. Stormcasts were sent flying by a single sweep of Anhur’s black axe, or knocked flat by the merest brush of his shield.

The Scarlet Lord roared again, his axe sweeping out to lop off limbs, remove heads and shatter weapons. None could stand before him, though many tried. They were not cowards, these Stormcasts, and that made them the best of enemies. Axes struck sparks from Anhur’s great daemon-headed shield and glanced from his heavy armour as he bulled forward into the thick of the fighting, his hand-picked blood warriors at his side.

Volundr spread his arms as Anhur was lost to sight and the battle surged back and forth around him. He gazed upwards. Past the clouds, beyond the curtain of pelting rain, he saw a vast shape loom over the crater-city. Two eyes like hellish suns gazed down, piercing the fog of storm and war with ease, searching. ‘See him, Khorne,’ Volundr growled, stretching a hand up towards those fiery eyes. ‘See what I have made of him, oh Lord of Skulls. See the blade I have forged for thy hand, see and know that he is worthy of ascending!’

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the black clouds writhed in the grip of the reddening sky. Volundr lowered his arms and turned, searching for more prey. A familiar figure caught his eye. Apademak, Volundr thought, as the looming figure tore through the press of battle. The slaughterpriest struck Bloodbound and Stormcasts alike in his frenzy, and those drawn in his wake did the same. Maddened bloodreavers attacked their fellows, hacking and chopping at their fellow tribesmen as they charged after the Hungry One. Volundr looked up, and saw the monstrous muzzle of Khorne leering down through the roiling clouds, eyes alight with savage interest. The Blood God was watching… waiting. Something was happening. Something…

Anhur. No… NO.

That thought pealing in his head, the skullgrinder started after the slaughterpriest.

Orius saw Galerius fall to the monstrous Chaos champion, but could do nothing save whisper a prayer for his fallen brother. He was too far away to take vengeance, and surrounded by foes of his own. Blue lightning ripped upwards, carrying the Knight-Vexillor’s spirit back to Sigmar’s soul-forges. The Stormcasts fought on, their resolve unwavering. Death was not the end, for the fallen could be forged anew, to rise and fight again. Galerius would carry the battle-standard of the Adamantine once more. But today, his loss was a grievous one.

Moros would soon arrive, if Sigmar was willing. Thus bolstered, the Stormcasts might yet succeed in driving the foe from the field. But only if they could hold out against the swelling tide of the Bloodbound. More and more tribesmen and skaven were flooding the plaza from the inner city, racing into battle with reckless abandon. Already, the shield wall had shrunk, apportioning itself into several distinct phalanxes. And these were steadily being driven apart by the sheer numbers of the enemy. He parried a whirling axe and removed its wielder’s head before turning to face the next foe.

The skaven were massing on the flanks, seeking to swarm the shield wall even as it splintered. Everywhere he looked, the forces of the enemy heaved like a red sea. Blood warriors and tribesmen crowded around, each seeking to be the one to bring him down. We shall not break, he thought, as he hacked down a snarling beastman. We shall not–

‘Oros!’ a voice boomed, cutting through the din of battle, like a sword through flesh. ‘Where are you, Oros of Ytalan?’

Orius crushed a blood warrior’s skull with his hammer and turned. A heavy shape ploughed through his Retributors, axe whirling. ‘Come to me, Oros,’ the massive warrior bellowed. ‘Come to me, my friend – Anhur is here, and he would have words with thee!’ Anhur was much as Orius remembered, from their too-brief encounter at the Hissing Gates. A savage heat radiated from the Scarlet Lord’s armour, pounding upon the air, and the daemonic face emblazoned on his shield twitched and squirmed, gnashing its brass teeth in impotent fury.

Orius made for the Scarlet Lord, his steps quick. Warriors, both Stormcasts and Bloodbound, scrambled out of their path. They met with a thunderous impact as Orius swung his hammer down on Anhur’s shield and parried an axe-blow with his runeblade. ‘I am here, monster. Speak, and be damned,’ Orius said.

‘Oros, you are a welcome sight for my eyes. Here we are again, at the beginning of the end,’ Anhur said, as he drove forward, his axe slashing down. Orius parried the blow with his hammer, and stabbed out with his sword. Anhur turned the blade with his shield. ‘The same as before, always the same,’ the warlord continued, as he forced Orius back.

Orius said nothing. His hammer slammed down against the monstrous shield, filling the air with a hollow sound. Sword and axe crashed together in a burst of sparks. ‘Then, it has always been thus, has it not?’ Anhur said, smashing his shield into Orius. ‘You pursue me to the very gates of death and beyond, Hound of Ytalan… and for what? Vengeance?’

‘Justice,’ Orius said. The word burst unbidden from his lips as he whirled his hammer about and brought it down, crumpling a portion of his foe’s shield. The grotesque face emblazoned there screamed in agony as the force of the blow knocked Anhur back a step. ‘Justice, Anhur. Justice for our people. Justice for those you abandoned.’

‘Those who abandoned me, you mean,’ Anhur snarled. He swept his axe out in a vicious arc, nearly gutting Orius. The two warriors broke apart. ‘They were weak – they lacked the stomach to do what was necessary, lacked the will to fight, the strength to win.’ He pointed his axe at Orius. ‘Even you, my friend. Even you, in the end.’

Orius shook his head. ‘You would simply have replaced one monster with another,’ he said, as the broken memories of the man he had been rose and spun in the storm of his mind. ‘Our people would have still been slaves.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘They would have been kings.’ He rushed forward, his axe hissing down. Orius charged to meet him, and they spun about, trading blows. ‘I will make good on my promise, Oros! I will make our people strong – Klaxus will reign supreme,’ Anhur roared.

‘Oros of Ytalan is dead,’ Orius said. Sword and hammer locked with axe, and for a moment, the two warriors leaned against one another. ‘He died, leading those you abandoned. I am Orius Adamantine, and I am the will of Sigmar made manifest.’

Anhur made a sound, deep in his throat. A laugh, Orius thought. There was nothing human in his opponent’s gaze… only the red light of war. Anhur shoved him back. He was strong, stronger than Orius remembered. It was as if the slaughter about them were feeding him. He tore his axe free of Orius’ weapons and chopped at him, more quickly than before. Orius was hard-pressed to block or avoid the strikes, and more than once, the black axe scored a mark on his war-plate. Each blow that landed rocked him back on his feet.

‘Sigmar is no better than the priest-kings we sought to cast down, Oros,’ Anhur said, as Orius backed away. ‘He is the lie-that-speaks, a pretender to a throne born of falsehood.’ He spun his axe lazily. ‘A delusional potentate. Where was Sigmar, when we fought to save our people, eh? Where was he when those who ruled in his name burned our folk in offering?’

Orius said nothing. He had no answer. When the great gates of Azyr had slammed shut, the faithful had been left bereft of Sigmar’s guidance. Some, like the Klaxian priest-kings, had perverted his word into something unrecognisable. Something more like the promises of the charnel gods. Sigmar had seemingly abandoned them, and in his place they raised up a monstrosity bearing the God-King’s face.

Around him, the battle surged to and fro. He caught sight of his warriors, locked in combat with skaven and Bloodbound. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, and the crackle of Moros’ lightning, and took heart. He met Anhur’s gaze and said, ‘And how is the beast you serve any different? You say you wish to raise your – our – folk up. And so you have. They rise, but in the form of smoke, from a thousand pyres.’

Anhur hesitated. ‘Not all of them,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

‘No, some still live. As meat for monsters,’ Orius said. ‘Klaxus is no more. You might be king, but your kingdom is a slaughterhouse.’

Anhur screamed and lunged forward, bashing his shield into Orius. They slammed back into a pillar. Orius’ hammer caught Anhur in the side, and as the warlord twisted away, the Lord-Celestant’s runeblade chopped into the rim of the daemonic shield. Orius tore the shield from his opponent’s arm with a wrench, and Anhur staggered back, off-balance. Before the Lord-Celestant could press his advantage, however, a hairy shape crashed into him.

The skaven was bigger than most, and bulky with muscle. Its halberd and mace crashed against him, and Orius was forced to defend himself. ‘Warpfang kill,’ the creature howled. ‘Die-die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’

The skaven moved like lightning, leaping from shattered pillar to toppled statue, driving Orius back through sheer, frenzied momentum. He slashed at the creature, and it flung itself over the blow. Its feet slammed down on his shoulder and then it was behind him. Even as he whirled, its mace crunched down against the side of his knee. The sigmarite held, but it hurt nonetheless. He backed away, weapons raised. Skaven closed in from all sides, racing towards him.

Over the heads of the scuttling vermin, he saw Anhur being pulled away from the battle by a burly warrior, and for a moment, he could hear the sibilant whine of the war-horns of the sulphur-knights as they advanced across the plaza, and Anhur’s gasping protests as Oros dragged him towards the Avenue of Ten Skulls and then a skaven blade dug for his heart and reality snapped back into focus.

Shaking his head, Orius slew the ratkin. But the rest closed in, urged on by the creature called Warpfang. All around him, he could see that the battle was turning against the Stormcasts. Worse, he was cut off from the rest of his chamber. He could hear Tarkus’ horn, and hoped the Knight-Heraldor could salvage something. If they could just hold the plaza until Moros or Gorgus arrived, the Adamantine might yet win the day. Even if I am not here to see it, he thought, as halberds and crude spears stabbed at him from all sides.

Then, as swiftly as a summer storm, lightning streaked down throughout the plaza, and winged shapes hurtled through the air. Celestial hammers spun from golden gauntlets to pulverise uncomprehending Bloodbound, as fresh warrior retinues marched into the plaza to join the fray. The Prosecutors banked and swept out, savaging the ranks of the foe from above. The skaven about him stared upwards, distracted by the sudden arrival of these new enemies. Orius lunged forward, and the skaven gave way as his hammer shattered skull after skull.

More crowded forward, but these too began to edge back as a winged shape dropped from the sky to join the Lord-Celestant. Kratus the Silent whipped his starblade out in a tight pattern, splintering the spears that were thrust at him. As the skaven scrambled backwards, Kratus raised his celestial beacon and flipped its aperture open. As the pure, cleansing light of the beacon blazed forth, those skaven not instantly incinerated retreated in disarray.

Orius saw Warpfang loping at the head of his fleeing horde, and felt a twinge of regret at failing to kill the creature. He shook the thought aside, and turned. The newly arrived Stormcasts had joined with his own warriors and were slowly but surely reforming the shield wall and driving the Bloodbound before them. Winged Prosecutors swooped low over the field, preventing the enemy from regrouping, even as Tarkus and his Decimators harried them back towards the Bridge of Smoke. He looked at the Knight-Heraldor. ‘As ever, Silent One, your arrival was most timely.’

‘And he did not come alone,’ Lord-Relictor Moros said, as he stepped over the smouldering bodies of the skaven. ‘I was moving to support Lord-Castellant Gorgus when the Silent One warned me of your peril. We came as fast as we could, but the enemy were great in number between here and there, and all of them moving this way.’

‘You are here now, and that is all that matters, my friend,’ Orius said. ‘Together, we can push them back. They thought to trap us – well, we’ll show them that Sigmar’s chosen cannot be beaten so easily as that.’

‘Fall back – across the bridge,’ Anhur roared. Those Bloodbound not actively engaged with the enemy or too far lost to the battle-madness flooded across the bridge at his command. The skaven were retreating as well, albeit away from the bridge, and away from that hideous radiance rising from the centre of the plaza.

Hroth shook his head. ‘The vermin are abandoning us,’ he growled. He hefted his axes. ‘I should take that treacherous rat’s tail for this.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘Let them be. They will divide the attention of our foe. They cannot pursue us while the skaven still lurk nearby, ready to take advantage of any distraction. Warpfang will flee, in time, but until then, he and his ratkin are still of use.’ He laughed and struck the rim of his recovered shield with the edge of his axe. ‘Besides, the brute saved me the embarrassment of dying at my moment of triumph. He’s earned his freedom.’

He turned and caught Hroth by the shoulder with his shield hand. ‘Get across the bridge, Shieldbreaker. I would have you at my side when the Black Rift opens. I need you to keep our warriors in check, to keep them from spending their lives uselessly, while I meet my destiny. We must hold the foe on the bridge until the last moment.’

‘Is it soon, then?’ Hroth growled eagerly. ‘After all this time… have we done it?’

‘Aye. We’ve done it. Can’t you taste it, deathbringer? The air is thick with the stink of blood, and Khorne himself watches over us,’ Anhur said, lifting his axe towards the sky. ‘Soon, this crater will drown in blood… and I will take the Hound of Ytalan’s head in celebration.’

Hroth was about to reply, when he saw Volundr forcing his way towards them, through the flow of retreating Bloodbound. The skullgrinder flung out his hand, as if in warning. Hroth heard the hiss of an axe cutting the air and whirled, shoving Anhur aside as he did so. As he turned, he saw Apademak charging towards him through the press of battle, his axe whirling.

‘Step aside, Shieldbreaker,’ the slaughterpriest roared. ‘Khorne demands the skull of his false servant, and I shall be the one to give it to him!’

Without thinking, Hroth lunged. He crashed into the slaughterpriest and sent him stumbling. Apademak spun, quicker than Hroth had thought possible, and his axe sang as it parted the deathbringer’s armour with ease. Pain thrummed through Hroth, and he bellowed in agony. Apademak glared at him, a snarl contorting his features. ‘Fool,’ he growled.

‘No,’ Anhur rumbled. Apademak turned, his eyes widening. Anhur’s axe flashed down, but the slaughterpriest was too quick. Before Apademak could strike back at the Scarlet Lord, however, Volundr interposed himself.

‘I warned you, Hungry One,’ Volundr said, as he stepped forward, swinging his anvil as if it weighed no more than a feather. ‘I told you that this was about more than battle. More than your hunger.’

‘Khorne favours me,’ Apademak roared. Bloody froth spilled down his lips and chin. He extended his axe towards Anhur. ‘You flee! You leave the field of battle, your tail between your legs!’ He sounded outraged and eager in equal measure.

‘War is not waged in only one way,’ Anhur said, readying himself. Apademak’s scarred head swung back and forth, as the slaughterpriest tried to keep both warriors in sight. ‘I do what I have to do, for victory.’

‘No more excuses,’ Apademak howled. ‘No more lies – die!’ He bounded forward, and his bloodreavers followed in his wake. Volundr was among them a moment later, his anvil whirring up and down to crush skulls and splinter bones. Hroth, on his feet, if only barely, fought alongside the skullgrinder, killing the berserk tribesmen with abandon. As he fought, he watched as Apademak hurled himself at Anhur.

Their axes met with a shriek of metal on stone. Apademak was swollen with fury, and he hunched over Anhur, muscles twitching, eyes bulging. Anhur met his mad gaze and slowly began to force the slaughterpriest back. Apademak gibbered with rage, and tried to stop Anhur’s advance, but to no avail. Despite his size, despite his god-gifted strength, Anhur continued to push him back step by step. Finally, the Scarlet Lord shoved Apademak back and away.

Hroth buried his axe in the skull of the last of the bloodreavers. As he tore it free, he saw the slaughterpriest lunge forward once more. Anhur interposed his shield and bashed his opponent in the face, shattering his teeth. Apademak staggered back and Anhur swiped his axe across the Hungry One’s shin. Bone cracked and Apademak howled. He staggered forward, and his axe crashed against the daemon-face embossed on Anhur’s shield. Brass teeth sank into the metal of the axe, and the face twisted with bestial glee as it tore the weapon from Apademak’s hand. Apademak made to rise, but Anhur’s axe swept down to meet him.

‘You were never my equal, Hungry One,’ Anhur said, as he wrenched his axe free of Apademak’s sternum. ‘But you fought well, for all that.’ The slaughterpriest sank to his knees, blood pouring down his chest to join that already spread across the ground. Apademak smiled weakly, as if in gratitude, and then toppled forward, to lay face down in the blood.

Hroth lurched forward and spat on the body. ‘Treacherous fool,’ he wheezed, glaring at the dead warrior. Apademak’s strike had split his armour and the flesh beneath, and he could feel his life’s blood pouring down his legs. A wave of weakness swept through him, and he stumbled. Volundr caught him.

‘He has paid, Shieldbreaker,’ Anhur said, softly, as he moved to help. ‘We have exacted a red toll from his cursed flesh. Here, give me your arm…’ He stooped, as if to loop Hroth’s arm over his shoulder. The deathbringer shoved away from them both.

‘What, and leave this moment to another? No,’ Hroth said. He turned towards the advancing Stormcast. ‘I have earned this, Scarlet Lord. Let it be my gift to you, on this day of days, in return for when you warded my broken body with your shield at Orrux. Khorne himself watches us, and I shall give him a mighty show, my lord – I shall be given a place in his warhost for what I do here today.’ He swept a hand out. ‘Go – Volundr, take him to his destiny. I shall hold them here, for as long as I am able.’

Anhur stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, he raised his axe in salute. ‘Die well, Shieldbreaker,’ he said, solemnly. He turned and strode onto the bridge, the skullgrinder following him. Hroth turned away from them, and cast his gaze over the advancing Stormcasts. They marched quickly, but with caution, striking down those remaining tribesmen or skaven who sought to bar their way. Hroth clashed his axes together. ‘Worthy foes indeed,’ he muttered.

He felt some disappointment that he would not live to see Anhur’s ascension. And that all that they had built – this warhorde, the alliances among mighty lords and champions – would all come tumbling down, thanks to Apademak’s treachery. Already, the chieftains leading their forces across the bridge would be eyeing one another, gauging their chances to ascend to the Gorechosen. With Anhur and Volundr distracted by the ritual, without him or Apademak or even Berkut to keep them in line, the warriors of the horde would tear each other apart, even as the enemy advanced.

That had always been the way of it. Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, only that it flowed. ‘And even the strongest blade can break,’ he muttered, as the warriors of the storm thundered down upon him. Watching them approach, he readied himself to do what he did best. Axe in either hand, the Shieldbreaker stood waiting, and when the first of the Stormcasts reached him, he struck them down. The air was filled with the scream of lightning, as golden bodies fell. The deathbringer bellowed with laughter as he fought, even when his axes shattered on sigmarite shields and he was forced to use his fists.

‘See me, you gods and savage spirits – see Hroth of Gjoll, Shieldbreaker, deathbringer!’ he roared, as he caught a blade in his hands and tore it from its owner’s grip. He booted the Stormcast in the gut and chopped down, splitting the warrior’s skull. The hilt of the blade burned in his hands, searing his flesh, but he ignored the pain. Swords pierced his armour. Hammers shattered his bones, but still he continued to fight. It was all he had known, all he wished to know. This moment was the best moment, the only moment that mattered.

The warhorde would splinter and fragment. Anhur would rise or fall. But none of that mattered. It was as if he had been waiting his entire life for this, since that day at Orrux. Since he’d felt the rumble of the duardin engines in his shattered bones. Since the day that the Scarlet Lord had stood between him and an unworthy death, ground beneath iron wheels. You saved me from death that day, Hroth thought, as he struck down his foes, but I go gladly now. A death for a death. That is the way of it, the way it must be. Khorne demands the skull of every man, and freely given.

Finally, gasping as a sword tore its way through him, he staggered, and threw his head back. His blood pooled on the stones. His strength fled, but still, he stood. He spread his arms as the final blow fell. ‘See me, for I fight in your name. I am Hroth Shieldbreaker – BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’

Orius stepped forward and crushed the dying warrior’s skull with a blow from his hammer, even as the brute howled out his death-song. The deathbringer’s armoured body sank to its knees and slowly toppled over with a clatter, leaving the way onto the bridge clear at last. The Chaos warrior had taken too many Stormcasts into the dark with him, and the air still throbbed with the roar of lightning. Orius could see Anhur’s forces retreating along the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke, moving slowly but steadily towards the Sulphur Citadel. Still running, Anhur, he thought.

‘Does he truly think to make a stand there?’ Moros said.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s trying to draw us onto the bridge for some other purpose,’ Orius said. The Bridge of Smoke was an expanse of wrong angles and unsettling undulations, rising and falling like the waters of the lake below. He could hear the screams of those Bloodbound too slow to react to its changes, as they were devoured or sent plummeting into the choking waters below. A thing of madness, like everything else in this city, he thought bitterly.

‘It won’t last much longer,’ Moros said, testing the bridge with his staff. ‘I can see the spells which hold it together coming unravelled as we speak. It’ll soon come apart, like everything else in this blasted city.’

‘It will hold long enough,’ Orius said. ‘We must cross, my friend. We are out of time, and the fate of our endeavour lies with us.’

‘Perhaps we should wait, at least for Gorgus. Strike as one chamber,’ Moros said. He looked up at the sky. ‘I know I spoke of haste earlier, but this skirts the edge of foolhardiness… Anhur is cunning. This could be a trap.’ He gestured to the southern edge of the plaza, where the last of the skaven had vanished. ‘Even now, the skaven might be regrouping for another assault. We could well be caught between them.’

‘Possibly.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘What do you remember, from before Moros?’ Orius asked, softly. ‘When you were not Lord-Relictor, but instead a mortal man.’

Moros hesitated. Then, he sighed and said, ‘I remember the way the women came and went through the piazzas, clad all in gilded finery, followed by their clockwork servants. I remember the way the wind used to howl past the watchtowers of shimmering silver, and the way the copper grasses rustled. I remember riders approaching…’ He shook his head. ‘Scattered moments, no more substantial than raindrops.’

‘I remember Anhur,’ Orius said. ‘I remember what he did, and what fate befell we who followed him. I will not allow him to escape, Moros. This ends today. Here, in this place where it should have ended so many years ago. It may be foolhardy, but something tells me that we must chance it. We must. Or else all has been for nothing.’ He tightened his grip on the haft of his hammer and stepped onto the rippling surface of the bridge.

As he did so, a growl of thunder echoed out over the city. Orius looked up. The sky behind the clouds had taken on a strange hue, like steel streaked with blood, and for a moment, he thought he saw something vast and misshapen trying to break through the barrier of the storm. Thunder rumbled, but it was no longer a hammer stroke. Instead it was the bay of some monstrous hound.

All around the Stormcasts, half-formed insubstantial daemons began to writhe, their mouths open in soundless shrieks, agitated by something. Lightning the colour of molten brass split the sky, like the downward stroke of some colossal sword upon the body of a fallen foe, and the streets of Uryx trembled, as if in pain. Orius could almost hear the reverberation of the imagined blade, and worse besides… the booming footfalls of its wielder.

The daemons could hear it as well. They reared, in their chains of cooling meat and spilled blood, and groped towards the sky as if in supplication. With a second peal of malignant thunder, the rain turned hot and it hissed sickeningly where it struck the sigmarite war-plate of the Stormcast host. ‘Something presses against the threshold, Orius,’ Moros said, almost shouting to be heard over the pounding rain. ‘The storm itself sickens.’

‘Then let us cure it. Call the lightning, Lord-Relictor – remind whatever horror approaches of the power of Sigmar!’ Orius growled.

Moros struck the ground with his staff, and bellowed the ancient words of his battle-hymn. The air took on the tang of new-forged steel, as azure lightning thrummed down, striking the plaza again and again, reducing the Bloodbound dead, and the daemons clinging to them, to crackling pyres. The lightning hammered down again and again, reducing every corpse to ashes and setting nearby buildings ablaze. It crawled across the armour and weaponry of the Stormcasts, driving all weariness and doubt from them.

Orius studied the crackling haze that crawled along the length of his runeblade. He caught sight of his reflection in the polished blade – the face of Sigmar, wrought in unblemished sigmarite. He turned. ‘The foe believe that Klaxus is theirs, by right of conquest and slaughter,’ he said, trusting his voice to carry to every living ear in the plaza. ‘They believe that they can withstand the Adamantine, where all others have failed. They think to break us.’

He raised his runeblade and hammer, bringing them together with a resounding crash. Lightning streaked down, striking the sulphur lake and stirring the acidic waters, and a bolt struck his crossed weapons. It crawled down his arms and across his armour, only fading when he wrenched his weapons apart.

‘They are wrong,’ he roared. ‘We shall not break.’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK!’ his chamber bellowed, in reply.

Orius nodded in satisfaction, and extended his runeblade towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘Forward Adamantine, for Sigmar! For Azyr, and the Realm Celestial!’

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.

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ISBN: 978-1-78251-960-7

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