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Bridge of Smoke – Josh Reynolds

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Bridge of Smoke

Josh Reynolds

Kratus the Silent swooped upwards through the smoky air, high over the crater-city of Uryx, his blazing wings cutting through the red rain. His starblade drawn, the Knight-Azyros twisted and rolled, turning in the air so that his keen gaze fell upon the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge had been crafted by sorcery; formed by the priest-kings of Klaxus from the raw essence of sulphur rising in clouds and geysers from the eternally boiling lake below. Now, like the rest of Uryx, it was beginning to crumble. The corrupt magics which had held it together were slowly unravelling, causing the bridge to writhe as if in agony.

Along the bridge’s rippling span, the golden-armoured Stormcasts of the Adamantine clashed for a third time in as many hours with the remnants of those Bloodbound forces which had been driven from the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. But more enemies were flooding into the plaza behind the advancing Stormcasts even as Kratus wheeled through the air above. Skaven, beastmen and bloodreavers were streaming through the crumbling streets of Uryx like ants from a disturbed hill, all converging on the central plaza before the bridge. Every foe yet living in the crater-city and not already engaged with the Stormcasts was hurrying to join this battle.

Kratus wheeled overhead, and directed the Prosecutor retinues flying nearby to head off the newcomers. The winged warriors swooped away, and Kratus dove low, over the heads of those Stormcasts still occupying the plaza. Lord-Castellant Gorgus raised his halberd in greeting as Kratus drew close.

‘What news, Silent One?’ the Lord-Castellant called as he approached, accompanied by his bodyguard of Protectors.

The Knight-Azyros dropped onto a broken pillar. All around him, Stormcasts laboured to construct bulwarks from broken statues and shattered stones, or else toppled those few remaining Khornate icons and trophy-poles. The Lord-Castellant’s forces had arrived just as the main body of the chamber moved onto the Bridge of Smoke. Since that time, the Adamantine advance had stalled at the centre of the bridge as the ferocity of the Bloodbound defenders and the unnatural proportions of the structure acted against the Stormcasts. Now the crimson gloom of the day was giving way to the dark of night, and the rain mingled with the blood on the ground, forming a strange mire.

Kratus gestured sharply in response to Gorgus’ question. Gorgus nodded. ‘Aye, my scouts reported as much. Closer than I thought, though.’ The Lord-Castellant turned and squinted. ‘Closer than either of us thought – look.’ He gestured with his halberd. Kratus turned and saw skaven advancing into the plaza from the west, despite the best efforts of his Prosecutors to deter them. The ratkin squirmed through barriers and burst from beneath the stones of the plaza, rising from hidden tunnels. Liberators moved to meet them, shields locked.

‘They’re testing our defences,’ Gorgus said. He stroked the narrow skull of his Gryph-hound as he spoke, and the animal chirruped softly. ‘Fifth time since I arrived. Nothing serious, but they’re an effective distraction – we can’t move out of the plaza and onto the bridge to support the Lord-Celestant while they’re gnawing at our flanks. Not committed enough to warrant digging them out, but not weak enough to ignore. If you see a hundred of them, there’s sure to be a thousand who see you.’

Kratus nodded, knowing that Gorgus spoke the truth. He looked around warily, imagining beady red gazes in every shadow and behind every pillar or fallen statue. The skaven were more numerous than the Bloodbound. Indeed, their numbers were seemingly limitless – he had seen them for himself as they poured out of the jungles and outer streets of Uryx in great, squealing hordes. Where they came from, and where they went when they inevitably retreated, was still a mystery.

He gestured and Gorgus shook his head. ‘No. No sign of reinforcements yet. We’ve heard from the other chambers though. The Stormforged have taken the citadel of Ytalan, at least, and the Wrathsworn are still burning a path through the crawling jungles of Vaxtl. The Beast-Bane have cleared the western slope, but they’re finding it a hard slog through what’s left of the Raxulian Dukedoms.’ Gorgus looked up. ‘And Sigmar holds the rest of the chambers in reserve, I suspect.’

Kratus motioned sharply and Gorgus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aye, or it could be because he believes we need no help. You may have the right of it, Silent One. I– Down!’ The Lord-Castellant dragged Kratus aside as something black whizzed through the space his head had occupied.

The Knight-Azyros whirled about. His starblade sliced through the hairy form of a skaven assassin as the beast leapt at him. More of the creatures, clad in soot-blackened rags and cloaks, bounded out of the shadows, gleaming blades clutched in their paws. And not just assassins – armoured, bulky stormvermin bearing crude polearms and iron-bound shields loped towards them, screeching triumphantly.

At their head came their verminous warlord, brandishing a mace and a chopped-down halberd. Kratus recognised it instantly from their abortive encounter at the Gnawing Gate. The red-armoured creature charged towards Kratus with a snarl.

‘This time you die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’ the skaven howled as it lashed out at him. Kratus leapt upwards, easily avoiding the bite of the halberd. Warpfang twisted away from his riposte, and swatted at him with its mace. The creature was quicker than most of its kind, Kratus realised, not to mention a better fighter. They spun and fought, trading blows that never quite connected as Gorgus led his Protectors against the rest of the skaven.

As Kratus parried a blow from Warpfang’s halberd, he saw Gorgus sweep three skaven off their feet with a blow from his own halberd. The Lord-Castellant turned and swatted a leaping assassin from the air with his free hand. His Gryph-hound caught another by the back of the neck and shook it viciously, snapping the squealing creature’s spine. Warpfang’s mace glanced off the crest of Kratus’ helm, and he cursed himself for losing focus.

The Knight-Azyros drove the skaven warlord back with a flurry of blows. But as he pursued it, the world suddenly shook and somewhere, a bell tolled. Not in the city, for Uryx had no bells or bell-towers. Nor did it sound from anywhere within Klaxus or the kingdoms of the crater. It was an unnatural sound, some atavistic shred of Kratus whispered, echoing up from the dark places between worlds. It was not like the mournful tolling of the Bell of Lamentation in high Sigmaron, but instead a grisly, ponderous knell, like the cracking of a hundred-thousand bones on night-black altars. It was the ringing of uncountable axes against innumerable shields, the agonised groan of dying kingdoms and burning empires.

As the echoes faded, the bell tolled again, drowning out even the clangour of battle. As one, the remaining skaven began to slink away. Kratus turned to find the warlord watching him. It raised its mace in a mocking salute, and cackled wildly. Its green fang shone eerily as it backed away from him, into the shadows it had emerged from.

‘Too slow, lightning-rider,’ it hissed. ‘Too stupid. But fun. Maybe Warpfang lets you live, yes-yes? Fight again, yes-yes? Or maybe not.’ Then, with a last mocking titter, it vanished, and the bell continued to toll.

The skaven messenger squealed as the Scarlet Lord caught it by the throat. Anhur lifted the wriggling ratman off its feet and snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. Its message had not totally displeased him, but the urge had been unbearable. Pain hummed against the base of his skull like the flutter of moth-wings. His armour creaked when he moved, its buckles and clasps straining to contain the thing he was becoming.

He stood in the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, with his remaining Gorechosen and his favoured blood warriors. The Scarlet Axes waited in silence for his orders. The only sign of their impatience was the occasional scrape of an axe across a chest-plate, or a low growl. The chamber was filled with a harsh glow, like the reflected light of a hundred fires. It emanated from the spinning facets of obsidian which formed the hell-engine known as the Black Rift, and had been growing steadily brighter since his return.

Anhur stared up at the spinning facets of obsidian. He could not tell where one ended and another began now. A black mandala whirled in their place, drawing in light and heat. Phantom shapes fought and clawed free of that howling void, bounding into solidity one after the next. He could feel the power of it soaking into him, changing him.

But into what? His hand fell to the pommel of his sword. How often had he wielded that sword in defence of Klaxus? And I defend it still, he thought, but the notion rang hollow. He shook himself and looked at Pazak and Volundr. The sorcerer and the skullgrinder met his gaze steadily. ‘The skaven intend to retreat into Uryx. And the enemy crosses the Bridge of Smoke,’ he said, as he dropped the still-twitching body of the ratman to join the heaped corpses of the sacrifices which lay scattered about. ‘I must go. I must return to the battle.’

Warpfang would be making his last sally now, but it was nothing more than a distraction. The skaven knew that the end was approaching, and they had little wish to see things play out to their inevitable conclusion, glorious as it was. The canny little warlord intended to fight his way out of the crater-city. He would retreat into the tunnels and caverns of the crater rim, before returning to the Hellwarrens of the Ferruslands with his slaves and plunder. Anhur almost wished him well. The creature had held up his end of the bargain, at the very least. More than I can say for some of my other champions.

The loss of the Shieldbreaker… hurt. He had been counting on Hroth to maintain discipline amongst those forces gathered in the citadel and on the Bridge of Smoke. But now that task had fallen to lesser chieftains. Already, the greatest of his remaining champions were allowing themselves to become distracted by the desire to replace the fallen members of his Gorechosen. Mighty paragons of violence though they were, they lacked the sense to see that there were more important matters to settle first.

Soon enough, however, it wouldn’t matter. The Stormcasts sought to cross the Bridge of Smoke. His remaining forces had stymied them thus far, but they could not do so forever. His perception had narrowed to a sharp point, like the tip of a blade, and he could see only what lay ahead. There was no more time for strategy or delay, only the crush of bodies and strength matched against strength. Something tensed within him, and he grunted in pain.

He could hear the roar of battle echoing through the chamber. Every fibre of his being – of the horror growing within him – longed to hurl himself into the fray, and deal death until nothing living remained in the city. To slay and slay until the Tephra Crater overflowed with blood, and the Felstone Plains drowned in an ocean of red.

‘Warpfang has done what he could, Anhur,’ Pazak said. ‘He has delayed them long enough, in any event. Let your chieftains earn their keep. They can hold the bridge for a few moments without you. Let the strong rise and the weak fall, as the gods will it.’ He shook his head. ‘If you get yourself killed now – after everything we have done… then what was it all for?’

‘Is that concern I hear in your voice, sorcerer? Is the infamous solicitude of Grandfather Nurgle welling up in you, Pazak?’ Anhur said, as he retrieved his shield from the dangling chain he had hooked it to. The broad, triangular shield was made of beaten brass and crudely shaped iron. The monstrous face embossed on its surface rolled its eyes blindly in their metal sockets as he slid it onto his arm. ‘Do you fear for me?’

‘No,’ Pazak said. ‘I fear for me, if you fall. You might have spared me, but whoever steps into your place may not be so considerate, Anhur. I would not die here, in service to another’s plans.’ His hand fell to the hilt of the curved pox-blade sheathed on his hip. ‘And I would rather not see my efforts go to waste…’

Anhur laughed. ‘Would you rather die now, then?’

‘No, oh most puissant Scarlet Lord. Death would not agree with me, I fear,’ Pazak said. He looked up, at the Black Rift. ‘I have fed this place the blood of eight hundred Klaxians, as the ancient rites decreed, and the membrane between realms frays… It is opening, Anhur. I can feel it in my marrow. Can’t you feel it? Or has your burgeoning apotheosis rendered your wits as dull as those of your blood-drunk followers?’ The sorcerer looked at him. ‘Why do you think I summoned you from the field?’

‘He is right, Anhur. Do you see that light? It is the glow of Khorne’s forges,’ Volundr rumbled, glaring at Pazak as he spoke. The skullgrinder dropped a heavy hand on the Scarlet Lord’s shoulder. ‘Do you hear the cries of his children? Look about you… Your hour has come at last, my brother. There is no need to fear that battle will pass you by, for here is the end of all such weaknesses and worries.’ The war-smith swept out his other hand, indicating the daemons which squirmed and strained at the air.

Anhur looked around. As the light of the rift fell upon them, red shapes tore their way free of the amniotic blood layering the floors and walls. The noise of their birth filled his head – it was the sound of iron splitting flesh, and of stretching wounds which wept raw, red tears. He had thought that the sounds were only in his head. ‘Then… it’s done?’ he croaked.

‘It is done. We have won,’ Volundr said. ‘You have won, Anhur!’

Anhur clutched at his skull as the pressure swelled… He could hear the tread of some far-off colossus, drawing ever closer. He could hear the howls of daemons and those souls lost to the pull of Khorne’s cosmic madness. Brazen horns brayed in the deeps and drums made from the flesh of the damned were pounded with cracked femurs. The world shook, as something awful marched out of the void and into the light of the world.

‘Lo, the Black Rift opens,’ Pazak howled, as the air pulsed with a foul light. It was a light born not of the clean cosmos, but instead the light of a daemon star. The cruel hell-light which flickered arhythmically in the dreadful void between the kingdoms of the damned. Anhur raised his hand to shield his eyes, and was momentarily deafened as the facets of obsidian scattered and then came together with a thunderous crash. They slammed together so hard he feared that they would shatter, but instead, somehow, they slid into one another, combining in an impossible shape with eights facets and eight edges at once.

A pulse of crimson light rippled outwards from the Black Rift, spreading through the chamber and passing through its walls. And then, in the silence which followed, a bell tolled. The sound grew louder and louder, as if it raced across some inconceivable distance. The echo of its knell shook the Scarlet Lord to his marrow, and he felt something within him scream in triumph.

‘He comes,’ Volundr roared. ‘The Broken One comes!’

Eight times, the unseen bell tolled. Eight times the great noise rolled forth to shake the air and the earth. Anhur fought to keep his feet, even as his warriors were knocked sprawling. Eight times the echo of that barbaric knell rang out across the Tephra Crater and its embattled kingdoms. And as the last echo faded, a hand, as wide across as Anhur himself, and knotted with inhuman muscle, stretched out from within the swirling facets of obsidian.

The stink of vast forges, of molten brass and spoilt blood, flooded the chamber as the monstrous shape of Skul’rath the Broken, Skul’rath of the Fifth Host, dragged himself bodily into the world. The chamber shuddered as the bloodthirster’s brazen hoof slammed down, cracking the stones of the floor.

‘Rejoice, for I am come!’ the daemon roared. ‘Rejoice, for Klaxus dies today!’

As the last echo of that measureless tolling faded, the silence which had fallen across the Bridge of Smoke broke. The Bloodbound charged towards the Stormcast shield wall again, scrambling across the undulating surface of the bridge in an undisciplined mass. Chieftains and deathbringers sought to outdo one another as if the battle were nothing more than a contest of skill, urging their followers on to greater speed.

The yellow substance of the bridge spread and contracted like smoke on the wind as they raced towards the enemy. With little warning it would expand suddenly like a fog bank to subsume whole groups of tribesmen and blood warriors into its length. Their bodies floated in the solid-smoke gullet of the bridge, slowly dissolving or occasionally sliding out to tumble into the lake below. Some few managed to cut themselves free to stagger on, reeking of sulphur.

The Stormcasts, too, were forced to anticipate and ward themselves against the unpredictable nature of the battlefield. More than once, their shield wall had to compensate for its contractions with grim efficiency, even as unlucky golden-armoured warriors were dragged into the semi-opaque substance of the bridge. Yet still they pressed forward, driving the Bloodbound back with relentless precision. The only respite for either side came when the contortions of the bridge momentarily separated them, or else made combat all but impossible – an event which was becoming more common as the magics which held the bridge together faded.

‘Lock shields,’ Lord-Celestant Orius snarled. ‘Hold them, Adamantine, hold them and push them back – for Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor, and signal the Judicators to concentrate their fire on the left flank. We must break them, and quickly. Moros!’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said, as he directed a retinue of Retributors forward to deal with any Bloodbound who managed to get past the ragged shield wall. ‘Speak and it shall be done.’

‘That sound… like a bell,’ Orius began. As the Judicators shifted their fire in response to Tarkus’ winding signal, the left flank of the Bloodbound began to disintegrate. Boltstorm crossbows loosed volley after volley of crackling shafts of energy which reduced bloodreaver and blood warrior alike to ruins of flesh and blackened armour.

Moros nodded wearily. ‘Whatever our foe came to Klaxus for has begun, I fear.’ He gestured with his warhammer. ‘Have you noticed that all of the daemons are gone? As if something called them away.’

Orius looked around. The Lord-Relictor was right; the phantasmal daemons which had shadowed the Adamantine since they’d entered Uryx were nowhere to be seen. ‘That was a summoning knell, wasn’t it?’ he asked, feeling a chill. He had faced daemons before, in the Furnace Lands and in the degraded ruins of Cinder, but it was never an easy battle – they were unnatural things, predatory shadows of un-reality which fought and killed with a glee that outstripped even the berserk excitement of the Bloodbound.

The Lord-Relictor nodded. ‘I can hear it, on the wind. Like a million running feet, drawing ever closer. They are lean and a-thirst, and they are coming this way.’

Orius shook his head. ‘Let them come. We will break them, as we break their mortal followers. Summon a rain, Moros. Wash the fatigue from our minds and limbs,’ he said. ‘I will not be stalled again – we must push them all the way back to the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, preferably before this bridge vanishes like a morning mist.’ He raised his hammer, signalling for the nearby Decimator retinues to move forward. ‘We will carve them piecemeal if we must.’

He turned his attention back to the left flank. Rank after rank of Bloodbound fell to the volleys of the Judicators, and, for a moment, the bulk of their host shifted away from the lethal rain. And that moment was all the Stormcasts needed. ‘Left rampart – forward,’ Orius said. The left of the shield wall began to march forward, swinging to the right in order to contain the right flank of the enemy. As they pushed the dazed tribesmen back, the Decimators surged out to join the melee. The axemen charged into the mass of Bloodbound warriors seeking to fill the gap left by their fellows. Soon, blood slopped across the bridge from side to side as the Decimators laid about them in well-trained harmony.

‘Tarkus – call them back,’ Orius said, as the pressure on the shield wall slackened. Behind him, Moros began to chant softly. As the Knight-Heraldor blew his horn, Orius lifted his runeblade. ‘Shield wall – advance and hold.’ The Liberators strode forward into the gap created by the Decimators, shields still locked rim-to-rim as the steadily falling rain soothed aching muscles and sharpened fatigued senses. Warblades and warhammers finished off the wounded as the Stormcasts advanced over a carpet of the dead and dying.

A shout caught Orius’ attention and he turned to see Gorgus hurrying towards him, shadowed from above by Kratus and his Prosecutors, as well as several retinues of Stormcasts, who moved immediately to add their strength to the shield wall.

‘Did you hear that?’ the Lord-Castellant growled, as he joined Orius. ‘Whatever it was, it sent the skaven scuttling for their filthy warrens. The plaza is secured.’

‘I heard. And good. I fear we’ll need solid ground to fight on, before the end of this,’ Orius said. ‘Something has happened. Anhur came to Klaxus for a purpose, and I fear he has achieved it.’ The rain slackened momentarily, before redoubling in intensity. Moros grunted in disgust and Orius saw that the rain was leaving red streaks on the Lord-Relictor’s armour.

‘It’s become blood,’ Moros said, harshly. Orius turned towards the Sulphur Citadel, and saw that the last bastion of the priest-kings of Klaxus was glowing with an infernal light. Every stone and rampart, every terrace and pillar, was outlined in an eerie haze which stung his eyes. The air stank, and not just from the boiling sulphurous lake below.

As he watched, a cloud of something spewed from the dome at the citadel’s summit, rising and spreading like oil on water. The cloud became a wave which flowed endlessly from the uppermost point of the Sulphur Citadel to fill the skies and cast a pall of darkness over the two armies locked in battle below.

‘What in the name of Sigmar is that?’ Tarkus said, pointing at the spreading cloud with his sword. ‘Some new sorcery?’

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not sorcery. It is death – the death of Klaxus, and of us, unless we raise and lock shields, Adamantine!’ he roared as the cloud stretched down towards them. Swiftly, the Stormcasts did as he commanded, until the shield wall resembled a curved rampart of solid sigmarite. The cloud sped down towards them, splitting, revealing itself to be a wave of hundreds of screaming bloodletters, tumbling through the rain-soaked air.

The wave of daemons slammed into the shield wall, hacking and clawing at the Liberators in animal fury. Judicators began to fire, picking off the red-skinned monstrosities as they tried to climb over the uppermost line of shields, and Retributors moved to crush any who made it over. Decimators wielded their axes in whirling arcs as daemons swarmed over the sides of the bridge and sought to envelop the Stormcasts.

Through the gaps in the shield wall, Orius could see more daemons racing across the bridge towards them, carving a bloody path through the ranks of the Bloodbound. Though the daemons struck them down, some Bloodbound sought to follow them, bellowing out the name of their fell-handed god in lunatic joy. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ Orius shouted. ‘Take not a single step back. We shall not break.’

Everywhere the Lord-Celestant looked, a daemonic face leered at him; rising over the side of the bridge, dropping from the sky, clambering over the raised shields of his Liberators. For every daemon that was struck down by blessed sigmarite, three more pushed and fought to take its place. He parried a wailing blade and rammed his hammer between the gaping jaws of a bloodletter, shattering its fangs. His runeblade pierced its chest a moment later.

Tearing his blade free from its dissolving carcass, he heard the scream of lightning. He saw a Liberator fall back, already evaporating, a black blade sunk hilt-deep in his chest. A Judicator stumbled, and bloodletters hacked him down. He heard a roar, and saw a Retributor struggling against a trio of daemons, even as the bridge suddenly enveloped them. Golden war-plate and daemonic flesh both were reduced to nothing in mere moments. Elsewhere, bloodletters chopped at the bridge itself, releasing a steaming flood of fiery sulphur to splash at the legs and shields of the Liberators who strove to hold them back.

The members of Orius’ auxiliary command were equally hard-pressed. As he opened a daemon’s belly with his sword, releasing a spew of super-heated ichor, he saw Gorgus whirling his halberd in a complicated pattern, blocking dozens of blows that might otherwise have claimed his life. Tarkus parried a daemon-blade and drove his head into a bloodletter’s face, staggering it long enough to whip his broadsword across its throat.

‘We must stop them at their source,’ Moros said, as he crushed a bloodletter’s distended skull with a blow from his hammer. ‘Else they will overwhelm us, and any who come after us.’ He looked at Orius. ‘We must reach the Sulphur Citadel, and we must do it now!’

‘Go,’ Gorgus said. The Lord-Castellant swept his halberd out and bisected a trio of bloodreavers. ‘I am the wall, I shall hold them back. Leave it with me, Orius – go, and see this thing ended.’ He thrust the haft of his weapon into a bloodletter’s belly, and sent it staggering over the edge of the bridge. ‘I shall hold the line here. I am Adamantine, and I shall not break, just because the red tide laps at my shins.’

Orius nodded. Gorgus was right. And he had no time to argue. ‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ he said, as he turned back to Moros. ‘Can you clear us a path, Lord-Relictor?’

‘I will do better than that, Lord-Celestant. I shall make us one,’ Moros growled. He raised his staff in both hands, extending it far above his head. ‘The spells which bind this bridge are frayed and weak and therefore easy enough to bend to our purposes.’ Lightning carved a crooked trail through the daemon-haunted sky to strike the reliquary with a snarl. The Lord-Relictor shone with a terrible light, brighter than any fire. With a great cry, he slammed the ferrule of his staff down, and the bridge thrashed as if in torment.

His hands sprang from the staff as if burnt, and it remained upright like a spear rammed into a leviathan’s back. Lightning crawled down its length, stretching to shroud his hands even as he spread them out, his palms held parallel to the bridge. Lightning flowed down, tearing ragged holes in the ever-shifting surface of the bridge. Moros wrenched his hands up, and the strands of crackling lightning pulled taut, like shimmering chains, and the Bridge of Smoke… cracked.

The sound reverberated along the length of the mystical structure, vibrating up through the forms of every combatant, mortal and daemon alike. Moros, the chains of lightning wrapped about his forearms and hands, hauled back, widening the crack which spread from the point where his staff touched. It spread up the length of the bridge and daemons fell howling into the gap as the bridge writhed in seeming pain.

Moros caught hold of his staff once more, and twisted it to one side, like a labourer trying to split a stone. With a vast hiss, the sliver of the Bridge of Smoke broke away from the bulk of the bridge. Sulphur fumes rose thick into the air, and the bridge shuddered along its length as the sliver slid sideways, creating a bifurcated path. ‘We must hurry, Orius – I cannot control it for long. The magics are too unpredictable, and my strength is already fading,’ Moros called. He held tight to his staff, at the point of the sliver, shoulders tensed and legs braced.

‘Well, that’s one way of doing it,’ Tarkus said, with a laugh. He blew his horn, signalling for nearby retinues of Liberators and Retributors to break away from the battle. The Stormcasts hurried towards Moros’ new path as quickly as they could, smashing through any daemons who sought to bar their way. Once they reached the sliver, they joined the two retinues of Protectors who stood ready to shield them. Kratus and his Prosecutors hovered nearby, ready to accompany them. Orius moved to join them, when the air was suddenly split by the sound of great wings and a shadow fell over the Bridge of Smoke. He looked up.

Something massive fell through the air like a black comet, and when it struck, the Bridge of Smoke momentarily deformed as both Stormcasts and their foes were knocked sprawling. Yellow steam burst in gouts from the suppurating crater as the clamour of battle faded. All eyes were on the crater as a huge shape, horned and winged, rose from within the pall of smoke. Clad in brass and black iron, the bloodthirster set one steaming hoof on the bridge and uncoiled a barbed lash from about its wide torso. In its other claw it held an axe whose curved blade was made from the melted and merged bones of the slain.

Its dog-like muzzle peeled back from brass-capped fangs, and eyes like lit furnaces fixed on the Stormcasts as they regrouped. ‘At last,’ the creature rumbled. ‘At long last, I shall be avenged.’ The daemon rose from the crater and stood between the two armies. It extended its axe towards the Stormcasts.

‘I am Skul’rath. I claim right of challenge and I shall slay any who gainsay me,’ the greater daemon roared, snapping its barbed lash at those Bloodbound and daemons who drew too close. ‘I am Skul’rath of the Fifth Host and I demand a champion – a death for a death, whelps of Azyr. I am Skul’rath. Face me,’ the bloodthirster bellowed, striking the bridge with its axe. ‘Face the Child of Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun. Face he who broke the Morghast Host at the Battle of Screaming Skulls. Face Skul’rath, Prince of Chains. Face me, so that I might be avenged!’

Orius made to step forward, but Tarkus caught his arm. ‘No, Lord-Celestant. You and Moros go. This is my task. I am Knight-Heraldor, and I was forged for this.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Go, my lord. And Sigmar watch over you.’

‘You as well, Knight-Heraldor,’ Orius said, as Tarkus strode through the ranks of the slowly recovering shield wall towards the daemon. He looked at Gorgus. ‘Gorgus–’

‘Only with my death shall the daemon-tide pass into Klaxus,’ the Lord-Castellant said, setting his halberd. ‘And I have no plans to die today. Go and do what must be done. Tarkus and I shall hold their attention, while we can.’

Orius nodded and joined Moros on the sliver of bridge. ‘Go, Moros. Take us to the citadel before they realise what we’re about. More daemons fill the bridge with every moment that passes, and soon they shall flood into the city. If we cannot stop them…’

‘We will,’ Moros said. ‘Hold on.’ The chains of lightning which snapped and snarled about his arms grew even more frenzied. Then, with a sibilant groan, the sliver of bridge suddenly began to rear up like a serpent readying itself to strike. Daemons raced towards them along the edges of the bridge, screeching and snarling. Kratus and his Prosecutors dealt with a number of them, hammers singing out, but some made it past the winged warriors. As he readied himself to face them, Orius saw that Tarkus had reached Skul’rath.

‘You call yourself the Prince of Chains, but I know no creature by that name,’ Tarkus called out, his voice echoing loudly. ‘I know only Skul’rath the Tamed. Skul’rath the Broken.’ The Knight-Heraldor extended his blade towards the bloodthirster. ‘I know only the beast who was cast down by the warriors of our Stormhost, and fled the light of the Realm Celestial the day the first Stormcasts set foot in the Mortal Realms. I am Tarkus, Broken One, and I shall remind you of your place.’

The bloodthirster threw back its dog-like head and roared. It charged forward, shaking the bridge with every step. Its barbed lash snapped out, scraping across Tarkus’ armour as the Knight-Heraldor moved to meet his foe. Orius lost sight of them as a bloodletter hurled itself towards him, its blade held low. More daemons bounded up the curved shape of the sliver as it peeled itself fully from the bridge and rose ever higher.

He heard the whistle-crack of the Prosecutors’ wings as they swooped about the rising sliver, driving the daemons back. He saw Kratus defending Moros, his starblade whipping out in a wide arc to send red-scaled killers tumbling to the waters below. A Prosecutor hurtled by, his hammer smashing a daemon from the air as he swooped past Orius.

Orius traded blows with a bloodletter, until one of his Protectors managed to slide the blade of his stormstrike glaive beneath the creature’s guard and pierce whatever passed for its heart. The other Protectors whirled their glaives, weaving shimmering patterns of celestial energy which no daemon-blade could breach, defending those who clustered on the rising tendril of mystically solidified sulphur. The remaining daemons quickly found that they were unable to breach the web of glaives, and those that didn’t fall to the Protectors were quickly dispatched by the hammers of the Prosecutors.

The pseudopod of sulphur rose up alongside the bridge and began to stretch forward, expanding at Moros’ muttered command. ‘Hold fast,’ Orius said. At his words, the Stormcasts hunched forward, crouching as the sliver began to extend over the bridge, towards the Sulphur Citadel. He turned as they began to move, and saw Tarkus catch the bloodthirster’s axe on his broadsword. Do not break, brother, he thought.

The force of the blow drove the Knight-Heraldor to one knee. The daemon loomed over him. ‘I am Skul’rath and I am your doom, dog of Sigmar,’ the bloodthirster growled, its voice echoing across the bridge. ‘But rejoice, for I am a mighty doom indeed, and your skull shall be etched with the story of your end by Khorne’s own scribes.’

Tarkus shoved the axe back in a shower of sparks and flung himself aside with desperate strength, narrowly avoiding the blade as it chopped down into the surface of the bridge. Sulphur spewed upwards and the bloodthirster reared back with a roar of surprise. Tarkus clambered to his feet and lashed out at the daemon’s back. Skul’rath howled as the Knight-Heraldor’s blade tore through one massive wing, crippling the daemon.

The bloodthirster twisted, snapping its lash at its opponent. Tarkus staggered as the barbs tore at his armour. Orius tensed. No, he thought. The bloodthirster loomed over the Stormcast, and hacked at him with its axe. Tarkus blocked the deadly axe again and again, but every time with less speed. He was tiring, Orius knew. Tarkus was among the best of their Stormhost, but even he was no match for a creature like Skul’rath. Not alone.

The axe sped down and at last, the broadsword parted before its merciless descent. The cruel edge smashed into Tarkus’ chest and knocked him flat, and Orius’ heart sank. The bloodthirster wrenched its weapon free of the dying Stormcast’s torso and chopped down again and again, causing the bridge to shudder with every blow. Lightning exploded upwards, enveloping the beast and causing it to scream in agony. It staggered, smoke rising from its scorched hide. With a convulsive flap of its charred wings it shredded the smoke and reared back to let loose a roar of victory that echoed upwards.

As the echo faded, the Bloodbound lurched forward as one, howling in triumph. The daemons flowed alongside them as they raced towards the newly reformed Stormcast shield wall. Gorgus had not been idle while Tarkus fought his doomed duel. Orius’ grip on his weapons tightened as he fought the urge to hurl himself from the bridge onto the bellowing greater daemon below, even as he lost sight of it.

Instead, he looked at Moros. ‘Can we not go faster? Even Gorgus cannot long resist such a creature. We must seal whatever portal those creatures are emanating from before he is overwhelmed.’

‘We will not reach the citadel in time, Lord-Celestant, even like this – the very air is resisting us,’ Moros said, as the length of sulphuric matter trembled and shook as it plunged towards the citadel. It was moving swiftly now, and the air shrieked past. But even as it moved, it was losing integrity, melting back into the poisonous cloud it had been wrought from. The Stormcasts crouched on its surface crowded more closely together.

Orius cursed and looked up at his Knight-Azyros. ‘Kratus… do what you can,’ he called. ‘Reduce it to rubble if you must, but seal that rift.’ Kratus lifted his starblade in salute and, with a single crackling flap of his wings, plunged down towards the Sulphur Citadel. The Prosecutors followed him, summoning their celestial hammers as they dived on gleaming wings, like the wrath of Sigmar made manifest.

‘Oros is here,’ Anhur said. Daemons streamed past him and his warriors, racing towards the clamour of battle. They crawled jerkily across the walls or loped across the floors, moving between eye-blinks. He raised his axe. ‘The enemy is on our doorstep, despite everything,’ he said. It seemed that even Skul’rath could not keep the Hound of Ytalan from his throat.

The thought was a pleasant one, for all that it threatened everything he had worked for, these many centuries. Ah, my friend, here you are again, at the end. So it was, so it shall be, he thought. He glanced at his reflection in the polished blade of his axe and wondered if the Stormcast thought the same. He hoped so. Otherwise, what was the point of it all?

The chamber shook as a spike of power erupted from the obsidian plates. Red energies cascaded across the chamber, knocking several warriors from their feet. A crimson light began to seep from between the stones, casting weird shadows which danced and thrashed in a frenzy. Anhur turned as the sound of Skul’rath’s roar of triumph pierced the din.

‘Broken no longer,’ Volundr said. ‘His glory is assured. As is yours, Anhur.’

‘I should be out there,’ Anhur said. Pain gnawed at his vitals. He was reminded of his youth, and the folktale of the boy who’d swallowed a gryph egg. The creature hatched and chewed its way free of the unfortunate boy’s belly. I am the boy and the egg both, he thought. And something was chewing its way free of him. ‘If they reach this chamber–’

‘Then they will die. We have one foot in Khorne’s realm here,’ the skullgrinder said. He swept his thick arms out. ‘Look around you. See the legions of blood as they rise, ready to slay at your command. All that has come before was but a prelude. This is your army, Scarlet Lord. An eternity of slaughter awaits you, if you but take command.’

Anhur looked around at the daemons rising from the stones to race madly into battle. More and more of them, one daemon for every drop of blood spilled in Uryx, and in Klaxus. A thousand-thousand nightmares made flesh, freed to fight again in Khorne’s name. The blood of every man, woman and child in Klaxus stained him like a curse. Deep within him, something scratched at the walls of its swiftly crumbling cage. Is it as you imagined, Prince of Ytalan? Is this the day you dreamt of, in your long exile?

‘No,’ he murmured, trying to clear the sound of its gloating voice from his thoughts.

‘Yes. This is the moment when hammer strikes metal,’ Volundr said. ‘Klaxus is the forge, Uryx the anvil.’ He caught Anhur by the shoulders, startling the Scarlet Lord. ‘This is the moment of your forging, Anhur. The moment I was called to witness… I am a Forgemaster of the Soulmaw, and I say that you will be a weapon for Khorne. A weapon meant for greater wars than this. Wars which rage between the realms, amongst mad stars and within the audient void.’

Anhur shoved the skullgrinder away. ‘I will not cower here, while the battle is fought.’

‘What battle? This is the battle,’ Volundr roared. ‘This is the moment that all of this has been leading to. This. Moment. Here.’ The skullgrinder took a step forward, his chain clinking. ‘Choose wisely, Anhur of Ytalan, Prince of Klaxus. This crater will become a fiefdom of Khorne, a new bastion of the Brass Citadel. Your people will be reshaped, made whole and strong again, if you but have the courage to hold your course.’

Anhur looked at the skullgrinder, and then down at the axe in his hand. He stared at his reflection in its surface for a moment. ‘Will I still be Anhur, when it is done?’

Volundr looked away. ‘You will be what Khorne wills.’

‘And nothing more,’ Pazak said.

‘Quiet,’ Volundr growled.

Anhur looked at Pazak. The sorcerer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen my share of ascensions, Anhur. We are playthings of the gods, but there is a difference between a plaything and a tool. I have never betrayed you, and I will not do so now.’

Volundr took a step towards Pazak, but Anhur extended his axe between them. Before he could speak, however, the doors blew off their ancient hinges and winged Stormcasts hurtled into the chamber. Crackling hammers smashed through support pillars and tore Anhur’s warriors apart before they could react. Anhur raised his shield as a hammer spun towards him. The impact rocked him back on his heels, but his shield held true, though it screamed in agony as the celestial lightning washed over it.

As he lowered his shield, he saw Volundr hurl his anvil at one of the invaders. The brazen weight caught the Stormcast in the chest and punched him from the air. But the others continued their attack. Blightkings and blood warriors fell, their bodies lost amid the carnage of the ritual. One group of Stormcasts, led by a warrior carrying a shimmering beacon, swooped overhead, towards the Black Rift. ‘Defend the rift,’ Anhur roared. ‘Pazak – protect the rift!’

Pazak spread his hands as he stepped between the approaching Stormcasts and the spinning facets of the Black Rift. Cold, oily flames flickered along his fingers, and the air became greasy as the sorcerer stirred the pox-wind to life. He flung his hand out, unleashing a spume of green flame which scattered his opponents. One golden warrior was knocked from the air, his armour corroding and his flesh rotting as he fell.

As his remains struck the bloody floor, they came apart like an overripe fruit. Horrid, wriggling shapes squirmed from what was left, even as it evaporated in hissing strands of lightning. The wriggling things rapidly expanded in size, bloating and stretching into enormous flies, which swiftly lurched into the air. ‘Fly, sons of the Pox-King,’ Pazak screamed. ‘Fly and kill these gilded doves!’

The winged Stormcasts swooped and dove as the blight flies attacked, their hideous drone filling the air. Those who flew low to avoid the flies or the swinging of Volundr’s anvil soon became engaged in a desperate melee with Pazak’s remaining blightkings. Anhur caught one such Stormcast right between the wings with his axe, killing the warrior instantly. With every drop of blood he shed, the tremors of pain grew worse. He smashed aside a spinning hammer and split its wielder’s skull. He dragged the dying warrior from the air and continued to hack at him. He relished the feeling of flesh and metal parting beneath his blade.

Anhur tore his axe free of the dissolving Stormcast and turned to see the leader of the attackers hurtling towards the sorcerer, glittering blade drawn. The beacon the Stormcast carried blazed to life, and the sorcerer’s blightking bodyguards faltered in their attempt to head the warrior off. Smoke curled from their blubbery flesh as the light consumed them, and Pazak screamed in agony as the radiance set his mouldering robes aflame.

Anhur lunged forward, shield raised, and interposed himself between the sorcerer and his attacker. The metal grew hot, unbearably so, and the daemon bound to it wailed in pain and fear, but Anhur pressed forward to meet the Stormcast. ‘Find shelter, sorcerer,’ he roared, as his armour began to heat up. Pain spread through him. But he was used to pain. Pain was his oldest and dearest friend. Victory, at the cost of pain, he thought, as he took one step forward, and then another. Burning blight flies fell from the air to crash twitching to the floor on either side of him. He could see nothing, feel nothing save the heat.

Blind, every nerve raw and howling, he lurched forward and swept his shield out. He heard the sound of metal striking metal, and the light was snatched away. Smoke rose from his blackened armour as he whirled, following the sound. With blurry eyes, he saw the beacon rolling across the uneven floor, its light driving back the daemons that drew too close. He hurled his axe at the beacon, a roar on his lips.

The axe tore through the beacon with a snarl as savage as that of a fire-wyrm, and the light exploded outwards, washing across the chamber. Anhur staggered back, shield raised protectively over his face, but the light began to fade almost immediately. He heard Volundr cry out from behind him, and turned to see a golden shape shooting towards him. A glittering blade drew black sparks from his helm and breastplate. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but instead of drawing it, he wrenched his shield around to block a second blow. The Stormcast drove him back, lunging and thrusting, his sword seemingly everywhere at once.

At last Anhur smashed the sword aside, knocking it from its wielder’s grip, and caught the warrior’s throat with his free hand. He whirled and smashed the struggling Stormcast down against the floor, hard enough to crack the stones. He pressed his boot to the warrior’s chest, pinning him in place, and tore his shield loose. Gripping either side of the shield, he lifted it high over his opponent’s head, and then slammed the bottom rim down on the Stormcast’s neck. The razor-edge of the shield bit through metal and flesh, and the warrior’s struggles ceased as his head rolled free of his shattered neck.

Anhur looked around. The last of the Stormcasts had fallen, either to Pazak’s magics or to Volundr’s whirling chain. The skullgrinder met his gaze and nodded tersely. ‘It is time, Anhur. The air is thick with the song of war and you must rise up before it reaches its crescendo.’

Anhur nodded and gestured to Pazak. ‘Begin the last rite, Pazak. Call forth the eighty-eight steps and let us end this, for good or ill.’

Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet as his foe’s form at last dissolved into a burst of lightning. The citadel rocked, and chunks of broken stone tumbled down from the dome above. The Scarlet Lord slid his shield back onto his arm and reclaimed his axe.

‘At last,’ he said. ‘An ending… at last.’

‘Hold on,’ Moros cried, as the thrashing of the solidified sulphur grew worse. It twisted like a thing alive, even as the Lord-Relictor guided it towards the citadel. Some Stormcasts were hurled from its undulating length to tumble away into the boiling lake below. But the rest held on, anchoring themselves with warblades and thunderaxes, until, at last, the sliver of bridge pierced the great steps of the Sulphur Citadel like a spear.

The sound of tearing stone reverberated thunderously through the air, and a cloud of dust and stone shards was thrown up at the point of impact. Stormcasts were knocked sprawling. Orius rose from the rubble, his hammer snapping out to crush the helm of the first blood warrior to reach him. His runeblade took the second through the throat, and then he was storming up the steps, his warriors following close behind. Lightning hammers and stormstrike glaives crashed down, clearing a path for the Adamantine.

But even as the last of its mortal defenders fell, daemons charged down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel to meet the Stormcasts.

‘Kratus failed,’ Moros said, raising his staff.

‘But we will not,’ Orius said, as black hell-blades rang against sigmarite shields. Orius charged towards the shattered doors to the domed chamber at the temple’s summit. He smashed a bloodletter from his path and stepped through the doors, Moros and the rest of his warriors close behind. Daemons lunged at the Stormcasts from every direction, coming in waves of brass teeth and blades, only to fall to lightning or sigmarite weapons. Hammers crushed inhuman bone and pulped scaly flesh. Step by step, the Stormcasts fought their way towards the centre of the chamber and the flickering black rift which spun at its heart.

Orius felled a yowling bloodletter and saw three figures standing beneath the black rift. Two he recognised – Anhur, and the creature who had killed Galerius – but the third, a robed, diseased-looking figure whose arms were raised as he chanted a deplorable litany, was unfamiliar. ‘Anhur,’ he cried. ‘Face me, beast!’

The bulky shape of the Chaos warlord turned. ‘Ah… you do not disappoint me, Oros my friend. I knew you would find some way of reaching me, before the end. The moment I saw you at the Hissing Gates, I knew.’ Anhur made to step forward, but the hulking warrior beside him threw out an arm.

‘No,’ he rumbled, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. ‘We are too close now. You shall not endanger all we have worked for in the name of mortal pride. Continue your efforts, sorcerer. I shall deal with these interlopers.’ Daemons spilled out of the swirling rift and raced past them, charging towards the small force of Stormcasts with inhuman speed.

Orius struck down the first, and the second, continuing his advance, even as more daemons burst into reality. The hulking warrior joined them in their charge, his chained anvil whirling above his head. He smashed a Protector from his feet, and nearly did the same to Orius, before a cascade of lightning separated them.

‘Orius, close the rift. I will see to this creature,’ Moros said. ‘I know your kind, skullgrinder. A worker of terrible wonders. A maker of foul weapons.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Well, hell-smith… let us see what you make of the weapons of Azyrheim.’

With an inarticulate cry, the skullgrinder lurched forward, his anvil whirring out. Moros ducked aside and caught his opponent in the side with the haft of his staff. The skullgrinder staggered, but recovered swiftly. Moros stepped back. ‘Go, Orius – seal the rift!’

Orius turned back towards the rift as all around him his warriors clashed with the daemons emerging from it. He struck down a bloodletter and blocked a blow from another. As the daemon struck at him again, he twisted aside and punched the creature off its feet with his hammer. He stepped over its crumpled form. As he drew near to the coruscating rift, however, the robed sorcerer completed his conjurations with a liquid shriek. A moment later, steps erupted from the bloody floor; steps of flesh, muscle and bone rising out of the effluvium.

They unfolded with a sickening sound, erected on a scaffold of bone and ligament as Orius watched in horror. Faces rose from them, and moans and pleas for mercy that would never come slipped from blistered lips to claw at his ears.

‘Behold, the eighty-eight steps,’ Anhur said. He looked at Orius. ‘You have arrived too late, Oros. The way stands open before me, and I shall ascend to the Path of Skulls on steps made from the dead. I have sacrificed much to reach this point, and I know that there is still more to be given, but I am ready. Do you hear, Khorne?’ Anhur roared. ‘The Scarlet Lord stands ready. I will walk the red road and rise in your glory.’

‘No,’ Orius cried, as he stepped towards the Scarlet Lord. A wash of green flame swept out, separating them. The Lord-Celestant turned to see the sorcerer striding towards him, a sickly green light radiating from his graceless form.

‘Ascend, Anhur – rise up, and shake the dust of this world from your feet,’ Pazak said, as he flung out his hand. Black, cancerous strands of squirming matter shot through the air to ensnare Orius’ hammer. As he fought to tear the weapon free, more strands slithered about his sword arm and legs. ‘Go! I will tend to this fool,’ Pazak continued.

Orius roared and tore his hammer free. He swung it down, striking the ground. The floor beneath the sorcerer’s feet ruptured, and Pazak stumbled, unable to maintain his balance or his spell. As the tendrils faded Orius hurled his runeblade like a spear. The blade caught Pazak in the chest, and punched through his rusty cuirass and out through his back. He fell backwards, clutching at the blade.

The Lord-Celestant stalked over to the dying sorcerer. He set his foot on the creature’s arm and tore his sword free, then turned to see that Anhur was climbing the grotesque steps.

‘Orius, you must stop him,’ Moros shouted from behind him, narrowly avoiding the skullgrinder’s whirling anvil. The weapon tore through a pillar, scattering rubble across the chamber. ‘You must not let him enter that rift!’

At the Lord-Relictor’s words, Orius lurched forward. When his foot touched the first step, the raw flesh squirmed and smoke curled from its pores, as if the blessed sigmarite he wore pained it. Ignoring the screams of the steps, he climbed after Anhur. The Black Rift spun and the air shrieked around him. Daemons sped past him, down the stairs, growing solid as they touched the floor and launched themselves at his embattled warriors. There were too many of them for him to count, too many for his battered chamber to hold back. Unless he could seal the rift, Uryx, Klaxus, perhaps even the Tephra Crater itself would be lost.

‘Turn, beast. Turn, hound of slaughter,’ Orius said, as he climbed the steps. ‘Turn, Anhur. The ghosts of Cinder, of the Fire Domes, of Klaxus and Uryx, of those you slaughtered and those you left to be slaughtered, demand that you turn. Will you run away from me again? Turn, coward!’

Anhur stopped. His ragged cloak flapped in the searing wind. Then, with an almost convulsive motion, he hurled his daemon-faced shield aside. It struck the steps and slid away, screaming recriminations. Anhur turned. Orius stopped, just below him.

‘Coward,’ Anhur said, slowly. ‘No. There is no fear in me, Hound of Ytalan. Only purpose. But… you are right. Whatever Volundr says, you are right. A million ghosts stretch out before me, an army of the conquered, and you… their weapon.’ He laughed. ‘We are both weapons, now, Oros. We are both blades, forged in the same fire, but wielded by different hands.’

Anhur drew the sword from its sheath on his hip and brought it crashing against the edge of his axe. ‘Great men once held swords like these. Great men, who founded a great nation. Now they are dust and their names forgotten. But this blade is still sharp, Oros. My hand is still steady. I am still Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and you are still Oros of Ytalan, my friend, my champion. You are still the man who saved me from the swords of the sulphur-knights, and spirited me from Uryx, though I begged you to let me die. And that debt must be paid, else all this is naught but ashes. Come, my friend. Come, champion of Klaxus. Come and let us set it all to rights.’

And, with those words, the two warriors came together with a crash of steel.

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.

Three champions of Chaos are roused from the ongoing war against Sigmar’s servants and compelled to journey into the heart of darkness. Their goal? To serve at the side of the Everchosen himself, Archaon, as one of his Varanguard.

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

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ISBN: 978-1-78251-970-6

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