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The Sulphur Citadel – Josh Reynolds

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A Black Library Publication

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The Sulphur Citadel

Josh Reynolds

Orius Adamantine was not alone as he confronted the Scarlet Lord. In his wake and at his side came a thousand ghosts. The murdered folk of Cinder, of the Calderan Plains and the Firewalk were with him as he surged up the grotesque spell-born stairs, drawn from the charnel remains which decorated the great chamber. But loudest of all were the dead of Klaxus, who called for the head of the one who had once marched in their name.

The waters of the Hissing Gates shrieked upwards in boiling columns. Steam swept down, filling the air, as the Adamantine advanced in a shimmering line. The forces of the Scarlet Lord met them there, in the shadows of the immense geysers…

Anhur lurched to meet Orius, moving awkwardly as if some unseen wound pained him. Daemons clung to him like wisps of smoke, leering and laughing as the black axe fell through the air with an animal shriek. Orius twisted about, raising his sword.

Two figures, one gold and one crimson, charge towards one another through the boiling breath of the countless geysers. Their blades clash. And then, a moment of recognition, as the eyes of the duellists lock. A voice cries out…

‘Anhur,’ Orius roared as runeblade crashed against daemonic axe. The shock of the blow shivered up his arm, and sent his memories into disarray. He shook his head to clear it as he faced his opponent. He lashed out with his hammer, trying to drive Anhur back.

‘Oros,’ Anhur said, as he parried the blow with his axe. ‘All hope is gone, and the way is open.’ He shoved Orius back down several steps. ‘Welcome to the eternal moment, the sharp edge between victory and defeat, my friend.’

Orius glared up at the Scarlet Lord from where he crouched. Behind him, the Lord-Celestant could hear his warriors fighting against the daemons which continued to pour from the shimmering rift above the steps.

‘No,’ he said, taking a step. What happened to you, Prince of Ytalan? Where is the man I once knew? There would be no satisfactory answer to those questions, Orius knew. Chaos had claimed Anhur’s soul and whatever choices had led him down that dark path were hidden in the mire of the past. ‘I am no friend of yours, monster.’

‘But you were once,’ Anhur said. ‘We stood together in this place, against true monsters. Against those who would see our folk stretched on altars and fed to false gods.’ He gestured at the shifting facets of the Black Rift above them. ‘I will free our people, Oros. At long last, they shall be free of all suffering. They shall be reborn in fire and blood.’ He shuddered. ‘As shall I.’

‘My name is Orius. Oros of Ytalan is dead – he died, leading those you left behind. He is dead, as Anhur of Ytalan is dead. We are not friends, and we share no past,’ Orius said, as he took another step. Faces swam before his eyes, soldiers, rebels, heroes – men and women who had joined their rebellion and paid the price. Anhur laughed.

‘You said that before, but it is a lie. Your new life is a lie. You are still the man you were, as am I. We shall never be free of our past, while this debt is owed.’ He pointed his sword at Orius. ‘Look – see. I still carry the sword of Ytalan, the sword of my fathers, and their fathers before them. I am Anhur. I am king.’

‘You are a coward,’ Orius said and lunged up, hammer looping out. Anhur caught the blow on the flat of his axe and swung his sword. Orius interposed his runeblade. The tableau held, for a moment. ‘You left us, left them, to die in your stead.’ In his head he heard again the screams of the dying, the whispered prayers to Sigmar – the true Sigmar, rather than the debased caricature that the priest-kings worshipped – the clash of steel on steel and the hiss of the sulphur-blade as it cut towards his neck. He had died. But Anhur had lived.

‘I am no coward,’ Anhur snarled. ‘I wished to fight and die, but your hand – yours and no other – propelled me to safety. It was by your hand that I was denied my glorious end, and now you have the gall to call me coward?’ Axe and hammer slammed together with a sound like a scream. Swords clashed in a flicker of steel.

‘You are worse than a coward,’ Orius said. ‘You are an abomination.’

‘Aye, and more besides,’ Anhur said as their swords locked with a screech of metal. ‘The drumbeat of war is in my blood, as it is in yours, Oros. We are the sons of Klaxus – the last sons of Klaxus. I slew the old priest-kings, swept their ashes from the throne of the crater-kingdoms, and I will raise up something glorious in their stead.’

‘We are not the last, Anhur,’ Orius said, as he strained to hold his foe’s sword back. ‘As you yourself claimed, not all of our folk have been taken by the madness you unleashed. And while a single Stormcast lives, Klaxus shall survive. Her people will live.’ He thought of the refugees huddled within the stone ramparts of the Mandrake Bastion, those pitiful few, saved by the efforts of his Stormcasts. They will survive, he thought. My people will not go into the dark, not today, not while I yet draw breath.

‘A simple enough solution presents itself,’ Anhur said and shoved Orius back. Their blades separated with a scream. ‘But why speak of dread certainties, when there are more important matters to be discussed?’ Anhur turned away, startling Orius, and began to climb the steps towards the coruscating facets of the rift. He left himself exposed to attack, as if certain that Orius would not do so. ‘Since I recognised you at the Hissing Gates, I knew that our story had but one end. What began here must finish here. Whatever others might wish. A debt is owed and it must be paid. A life for a life, Oros.’

Orius pursued him up the steps. Whatever else happened, the rift had to be closed. Daemons raced past him down the steps, gaining substance as they drew closer to the floor. Phantasmal muscle bulked and swelled, darkening and becoming real as brazen claws struck the bloody stones. The bloodletters loped into battle with his dwindling retinue of Protectors and Liberators. Of those Stormcasts who had accompanied him and Lord-Relictor Moros in confronting the horrors of the Sulphur Citadel, a bare handful remained. Soon, they – and those Stormcasts who fought to hold the Bridge of Smoke – would be overwhelmed.

Moros was somewhere nearby, locked in battle with the monstrous skullgrinder who served Anhur. And Lord-Castellant Gorgus was leading those forces defending the bridge. There would be no aid from either quarter. It was up to Orius to seal the Black Rift by whatever means he could, even if it meant his death. Even if it meant the destruction of Uryx and Klaxus both. His grip on his hammer tightened. ‘Face me, monster,’ he said.

The Lord-Celestant lunged, runeblade extended. Anhur spun. His axe nearly caught Orius in the head. The Stormcast lurched aside and swayed, off balance. The steps twitched beneath his feet, as if they might try and dislodge him. He regained his balance and struck out at Anhur again and again, trying to land a blow. But the Chaos lord avoided or parried his attacks with ease.

‘Ah, Oros, do you recall our mornings on the training fields of the Rim-Citadel?’ the Scarlet Lord said. ‘When we sparred, honing our skills to face whatever enemies the day brought? How many times did I leave you gasping in the dirt, Hound of Ytalan?’

‘As often as I left you, Prince of Klaxus,’ Orius said. He did not know whether he spoke the truth. He barely remembered those days, and what memories he still possessed were more distraction than anything else. But if Anhur’s growl were anything to go by, he’d struck a nerve. The Scarlet Lord started towards him, but paused as a sudden spasm wracked his body. ‘You’re still running Anhur – why not stand and fight?’ Orius said.

Stones plummeted down from above. He heard the hiss of lightning, and the shriek of daemons. The chamber shook as the rift pulsed with a red light. Anhur shuddered and bent forward with a groan. His armour creaked as though something were pressing against it from within. For a moment, Orius thought he saw a second form, more monstrous by far than Anhur, superimposed over the Scarlet Lord’s own. A nightmare shape of talon and sinew, winged and horned, and wreathed in black fire. Then the moment passed and Anhur was rising to his full height with a harsh sigh.

‘Because I have chosen the ground for our duel, and this realm is not it,’ he said. ‘I have been planning this moment since the Hissing Gates – have you never wondered why I pulled my blow that day? I could have given your skull to Khorne there and then…’

The blow scraped the sigmarite of his breastplate, knocking him flat… The axe fell, splitting the air… Orius shook his head, banishing the memories. Anhur stepped back, so that he stood directly before the pulsing rift. Spectral daemons swept over and around him, screaming in savage joy. He spread his arms.

‘I knew, my friend. I knew that if I spared you that day you would not rest until you had brought me to battle once more. Until we came again to the only place our debt could truly be settled. And here you are. So follow me if you dare, Hound of Ytalan – follow, so that we might meet our fate together.’ With that, he turned and stepped into the swirling rift. Orius hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then, weapons ready, Orius Adamantine plunged into the Black Rift.

‘Hold fast, Adamantine – not one step back. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus said, trusting his voice to carry over the din of battle. ‘Let the world itself crack, and we shall still hold our ground. We did not break at Cinder, at Karnaharak or at the River Lament. We shall not break here.’

He frowned. Not unless the bridge collapses beneath us, he thought. He could feel the Bridge of Smoke ripple beneath his feet. The bridge was the only way across the sulphur lake, and it was both more and less solid than stone. More than once, a Stormcast sank knee-deep into its substance. They had learned how to avoid its occasional undulations, as the sides swelled and flowed unexpectedly. Geysers of sulphurous gas spewed from the fissures which spread along its degenerating span. Soon, they would be forced to retreat to more stable ground as the spells which held the bridge intact finally failed for good. He was tempted to do so now, but there was no way to hold the plaza behind them. The ever-swelling numbers of the daemons would overwhelm them more easily there than on the bridge, which acted as a chokepoint.

But it will not hold forever, he thought. Eventually, they would have no choice, especially if daemons continued to pour down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel. He looked at the distant structure, and wished that he stood beside Orius and Moros. He shook his head in annoyance. No. Someone had to stay and hold the foe back. If the daemons swarmed over Uryx, there was no telling how many more innocent folk would die. The blood-tide would sweep all before it, and drown Klaxus, as well as the other crater-kingdoms, in the flames of war.

The bridge shuddered as the combined force of daemons and mortal servants of Khorne charged towards the battered shield wall. ‘Judicators – loose,’ Gorgus cried, extending his halberd. Judicator retinues plied their deadly trade, shooting arrows until it was impossible to tell where one volley ended and another began. But the enemy did not falter. The Bloodbound drove on, through the murderous storm of crackling arrows, as if the presence of the daemons among their ranks was enough to drive all mortal fear from them.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus said. ‘Second rampart, raise shields.’ The shield wall was staggered, with three rows of Liberators between the Judicators and the approaching foe. As the front rank readied themselves to receive the charge, the second rank lifted their shields to ward off the daemons. The unnatural creatures had shown themselves more than capable of scaling the shield wall and attacking those who sheltered behind its gleaming length. ‘Third rampart, make ready,’ he bellowed, as the enemy closed in.

The Bloodbound struck. As ever, the mortals died in droves, but the bloodletters clawed their way over the shields and lunged for the warriors behind. The second rampart met them, but Gorgus knew that even they wouldn’t be enough. At his signal, the third line moved forward, not as one, but in individual retinues, to better isolate and destroy the daemons that had breached their lines. He spotted the gruesome bulk of the bloodthirster, Skul’rath, moving through the horde as if it were wading through a river of blood.

The greater daemon was massive. It was war made flesh. It towered head and shoulders above its lesser kin, its rust-hued limbs clad in armour of black iron, marked prominently with the rune of Khorne. Skul’rath of the First Gate, he thought. Skul’rath the Broken, first of the Ruinous Powers’ servants to feel the wrath of Azyr. First to fall to the Hammers of Sigmar in battle. There wasn’t a warrior in their Stormhost who did not know the tale of Skul’rath’s taming. Or of the vile oaths which the bloodthirster had sworn, even as it was banished back into the infernal realm which had spawned it.

Gorgus’ grip on his halberd tightened, and his free hand fell to the warding lantern hooked to his belt. It would take more than the lantern’s light alone to banish such a creature. At least it could be hurt. As evidence, the creature’s wing hung limp and tattered from its back. Sigmar keep you, Tarkus… You hurt the monster before it sent you back to the forges of Sigmaron, at least, he thought. The Knight-Heraldor had crippled the daemon before he’d fallen to its axe. As if reading his thoughts, Skul’rath reared back and roared in fury. Its axe slammed down, shearing through an unlucky tribesman, even as its barbed lash tore vainly at the air.

At his side, Shrike chirped. Gorgus turned at the Gryph-hound’s warning and saw a bloodletter, its scaly form covered in wounds which dripped molten ichor, charge towards him. Shrike sped to meet it, its beak tearing at the back of the daemon’s leg. The bloodletter staggered and slashed clumsily at the Gryph-hound, but Shrike deftly avoided the blow. While it was distracted, Gorgus brought his halberd down on its head, silencing its hisses.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high, so that its golden rays washed across the Stormcast shield wall. ‘We shall hold!’ he cried. ‘We shall push them back. We shall be the bastion upon which they break. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. Would you bring shame to our chamber? We are not broken – we are the breakers and no foe shall bar our path. Grind them under, Adamantine!’

As the light bathed the Stormcasts, faltering arms stiffened, and bleeding wounds dried. The light of the warding lantern could heal as well as harm, and in its glow, no Stormcast would suffer unnecessarily. Daemons are another matter, however, he thought, as bloodletters cowered back from the light. Where it touched them, their unnatural flesh bubbled and steamed, and they surged rapidly backwards with shrieks and wails. Bloodbound were left bereft of support as the light drove the daemons from the shield wall. ‘Paladins – forward,’ Gorgus shouted.

Decimators and Retributors charged through newly opened gaps in the shield wall, and their great two-handed weapons reaped a red toll. But just as Gorgus thought that the enemy might be thrown back, Skul’rath charged the wall of sigmarite with bridge-shaking strides, smashing aside an unwary Decimator as it drew close. Then, with a snarl that froze the blood in Gorgus’ veins, Skul’rath leapt into the air.

Shrike gave a shrill cry, warning Gorgus of the descending nightmare. He stepped back as the bloodthirster slammed down just behind the shield wall. The greater daemon spun with a roar and swept its axe across the backs of three Liberators, severing their spines and killing the Stormcasts instantly. It turned back as Gorgus lunged forward, his halberd slicing down. The bloodthirster smashed the blow aside, nearly wrenching the Lord-Castellant’s arms from their sockets, and snapped its lash at his head. Gorgus ducked back, shoulders aching.

‘You bear a burdensome light, gnat,’ the bloodthirster hissed loudly. ‘Let Skul’rath relieve you of it.’ Its lash snapped out again and knocked the lantern from his grip. As the lantern tumbled away, the daemons surged forward once more. They struck the shield wall with a roar, nearly overwhelming the Stormcasts arrayed there. Caught between the bloodthirster and the lesser daemons, Liberators fell, consumed by lightning. Judicators turned their bows on Skul’rath, loosing volley after volley of sizzling bolts into the bellowing colossus. Retributors and Decimators, momentarily cut off by the sudden advance of the foe, fought their way back towards the shield wall.

‘Go – retrieve the celestial beacon,’ Gorgus said, looking at Shrike. The Gryph-hound screeched and bounded off through the press of battle. Gorgus turned, and was almost split in two by Skul’rath’s axe. Sulphur jetted up as the blade smashed into the bridge, momentarily obscuring the daemon from sight. Then its lash snaked out to wrap around the haft of Gorgus’ halberd. He was nearly yanked from his feet by the beast as it sought to jerk the weapon from his grasp.

Gorgus twisted, hauling back against the tension of the lash with all the strength remaining to him. The surface of the bridge cracked and pooled beneath his feet as he fought desperately to avoid being hauled forward, through the cloud of sulphur.

‘You fight well,’ Skul’rath growled. ‘But not well enough. I will have my vengeance, golden one. I will claim a hundred skulls for every moment since my defeat at the hands of your kind. Khorne shall raise me up anew, and I shall ride with the Fifth Host once more.’

‘You’ll claim no more skulls, beast,’ Gorgus said, as he struggled to retain hold of his halberd. ‘No more Stormcasts shall fall to you. You were broken by warriors of our Stormhost once before, and we shall break you again.’

Skul’rath howled and the heat of its rage beat at Gorgus, blackening his armour. He tore his halberd free of its lash with a heave and spun the weapon about. The bloodthirster slashed at him, and he swayed aside, barely avoiding the blow. His halberd struck out in return, drawing boiling ichor from the daemon’s muzzle. As he backed away from the beast, Gorgus looked around for Shrike. But the Gryph-hound was nowhere in sight.

Everywhere, the orderly line of battle had broken down into a swirling melee. Stormcasts fought alone, or in small groups, surrounded on all sides by enemies both mortal and daemonic. Even the steady fire of the Judicators had faltered at last, as the archers were forced to draw their swords and engage the foe in hand-to-hand combat. Liberators were trying to regroup beyond the edges of the melee, but the daemons followed them and struck them down. Blue flashes of lighting streaked upwards, signalling another warrior’s demise.

‘Fall back,’ Gorgus shouted. ‘Fall back to the plaza – fall back!’ A few Stormcasts followed his orders and began fighting their way back towards the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, but the majority were in no position to do so. The enemy were all around them, and in no mood to let them go. A blood warrior, his beard slick with froth and blood, charged wildly towards him, axes raised. Gorgus drove the ferrule of his halberd into the berserker’s chest, knocking him back a step. Before the blood warrior could recover, Gorgus removed his head. Two more of the bloodthirsty warriors lunged for him over the body of a fallen Decimator, their blades encrusted with gore and their eyes burning with battle-madness.

Before they could reach him, however, Skul’rath smashed them aside with a blow from its axe.

‘NO,’ the greater daemon roared. ‘He is mine – his skull belongs to the Prince of Chains, son of the Devouring-Light-Which-Does-Not-Fade!’

The bloodthirster’s lash hissed out, and Gorgus chopped through it. Skul’rath tossed the remnant aside with a snarl and reached for the Lord-Castellant. His halberd slashed across the daemon’s palm, and Skul’rath roared in pain. Gorgus swung at the daemon’s head. Skul’rath twisted aside, so that the blade of the halberd became lodged in its cuirass. Its axe slammed down, nearly cleaving Gorgus in two and sending him sprawling. As he flew backwards he lost his grip on his weapon, and it remained jutting from Skul’rath’s chest-plate.

The daemon plucked the weapon free and tossed it aside with a contemptuous snort. Gorgus tried to get to his feet, but a massive hoof dropped on his chest, pinning him to the bridge. He screamed in pain as something inside him splintered, and pounded futilely at the daemon’s hoof with his fists.

‘Now, little storm… you die. Your living skull shall decorate my cuirass, and your false godling shall weep for your end,’ the bloodthirster leered, as it lifted its axe in readiness for the killing blow.

Gorgus could only watch as the axe fell.

In the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, Lord-Relictor Moros ducked a whirling shape. The brazen anvil tore a chunk out of the wall and filled the air with flying debris. Moros backed away as the skullgrinder paced after him, still swinging the anvil. With a flick of his wrist, the skullgrinder sent the anvil shooting out as if it weighed no more than a feather. It smashed through pillars, walls and Stormcasts alike, never falling still.

Everywhere, the chamber pulsed with the sounds of death. Stormcasts fought desperately against the never-ending tide of daemons which spilled from the pulsing facets of the Black Rift. Isolated and badly outnumbered, the warriors of the Adamantine nonetheless held their ground. Fighting alone or back-to-back, they did their best to staunch the flow of the daemon-tide. Moros risked a glance in the direction of the rift, and saw Orius pursue the Scarlet Lord into the obsidian portal. ‘No,’ he roared, turning to aid his Lord-Celestant. It was death to enter such portals, for they led directly to the domains of the Ruinous Powers.

The anvil smashed into the floor before him, nearly knocking him from his feet. He whirled, his reliquary staff spinning in his grip to smash into the crude helm of the skullgrinder. The brute stumbled back with a laugh. A bloodletter sprang for Moros, its black blade screeching across his armour with bone-rattling force. The Lord-Relictor faltered as the daemon struck him again and again, carving great gouges in his sigmarite war-plate. A second bloodletter, sensing easy prey, joined the first. Soon, a pack of the hissing beasts surrounded him. They attacked from every direction, striking at him faster than he could see.

‘Sigmar, give me strength,’ he cried. He dropped his hammer and clutched his staff in both hands. Bellowing the Invocation of Strength, he swung the staff out in a wide arc. Lightning rippled from the eyes of the skull set into the reliquary, and daemons convulsed in agony. They reeled back as he whirled the staff about and slammed its haft hard against the floor. It shook and cracked. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling, crushing several of the bloodletters. Moros stooped and snatched up his hammer. He struck the ground with his staff again, and the sacred lightning blazed forth, brighter than before. Daemons crumpled into smoking husks.

‘A mighty lightning indeed,’ the skullgrinder growled, as he stepped over the smoking remains of a bloodletter. ‘Still, only the weak seek aid in sorcery.’ He hurled his anvil at Moros, forcing the Lord-Relictor to back away.

‘Says the creature who needed the aid of a sorcerer to achieve his goals,’ Moros said. He glanced towards the diseased body of the creature slain upon their arrival by Orius. He’d hoped that with the sorcerer’s death, the Black Rift would close. Unfortunately that did not appear to be the case. He strove to recall everything he knew about such apertures in reality, every scrap of lore, every fragment of wisdom.

But even if I can close the rift, can I do it with Orius on the other side? The thought was a painful one. The rift had to be closed, but at the cost of his Lord-Celestant? He glanced upwards, at the remains of the great dome above. A mural of Sigmar stared down, meeting his gaze. What must I do, Heldenhammer? Show your servant the path he must follow…

‘Stop looking to your man-god for help, wearer-of-bones,’ the skullgrinder roared. ‘He is not here, and I will not be ignored by such as you.’ He swung his anvil out, nearly taking Moros’ head off. The Lord-Relictor ducked aside. ‘There is no help for you there. Khorne strides the black skies above, and the fires of war will consume this crater and all of the petty kingdoms which nestle within it.’ The anvil slammed down, spattering Moros’ war-helm with slivers of stone. Striking swiftly, he thrust the end of his staff through one of the wide links and pinned it in place. He wrenched his staff about, and the skullgrinder stumbled. Moros drove his hammer into his opponent’s head again and again, and the brute sank to one knee, breathing heavily.

The skullgrinder’s muscles swelled, and with a cry he tore the anvil and its chain free of Moros’ staff. Still on one knee, he watched the Lord-Relictor warily. ‘Your chieftain will fail, shaman,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘Anhur was made for this moment – forged in war and slaughter, so that he would be a fit blade for Khorne’s hand.’ He rose to his feet and began to circle Moros, his chains clinking menacingly.

‘And who are you, to forge anything?’ Moros said. Though he recognised the being before him for what he was, he had never faced such an opponent before. Skullgrinders were rare beasts indeed, and this one seemed to be more than a mere berserker. A Bloodbound that can think, Moros thought. Sigmar preserve us from such madness.

‘I am Volundr. I am the Skull-Cracker and the Brass Hand of Hesphut,’ the skullgrinder said, letting his brazen anvil dangle from one wide hand. It left ripples of heat in its wake as it swung. ‘It was by my whisper that the millions of Cinder, and the hundred-millions of the Magmatic Crescent, were offered up to the Lord of Skulls by the hands of Anhur’s followers.’

The skullgrinder spoke without boastfulness. ‘I am one of the eight forgemasters of the Soulmaw, and the crafter of the daemon-blade Marrowcutter.’ He began to swing his anvil in a slow arc. ‘It was I who forged the chains of star-metal which bind Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun, in her bower of bone and shadow. I have wrought a masterpiece of murder in this place, and I shall not allow the broken toys of a feeble godling to undo all my labours.’

‘Save me your speeches, dog of horror, for I well know you, whatever your name,’ Moros said, setting his staff, even as his heart grew heavy within him. A forgemaster of the Soulmaw, he thought, chilled to the core by the mention of the greatest of Khorne’s own forges. This was no mere warrior-smith, but instead one of the Blood God’s chosen.

The Lord-Relictor fought back a shudder. Whatever the pedigree of his foe, he would not yield. I am the Storm Summoner, he thought, the Bearer of the Bones of Heroes. And I am Adamantine. I shall not break. He raised his staff. ‘I see your corrupt path, stretching back along a road of history, and I see the shadow of your darkling god’s hand o’er you, Skull-Cracker.’ He turned, following the skullgrinder with his gaze. ‘You are lost to the dark, more daemon than mortal, and your soul is in agony.’ He thumped the floor with the haft of his staff. ‘Allow me to guide it to what I’m sure is a long-overdue oblivion.’

Volundr paused, head cocked. The skullgrinder gave a bark of laughter. Then, with a twist of his shoulders, he yanked the anvil up and sent it sailing down towards Moros’ head. The Lord-Relictor stepped aside, and felt the heat of the anvil’s descent as it crashed down on the stones. He swung his relic hammer at his opponent, catching him in the side.

The skullgrinder bellowed and lashed out at him with a meaty fist. Moros ducked aside and struck again. His hammer slammed down, denting Volundr’s helm. Volundr snarled and hooked a loop of chain about Moros’ neck. He dragged him forward and their skulls connected with a brutal clang. Moros swayed. The skullgrinder caught him about the torso and picked him up, only to fling him at a pillar.

Moros struck the pillar hard enough to shatter it, and hit the floor beyond in a cloud of debris. Bones grated within him as he rolled to his feet with the help of his staff. Somehow, he had kept hold of his weapons. As he rose, Volundr charged towards him, smashing aside what was left of the pillar with a sweep of his thick arms.

The skullgrinder slammed into Moros at full tilt and carried him backwards into a second pillar. The ancient stone disintegrated at the point of impact as the two warriors hurtled into another pillar, and another, tearing through each in an explosion of stone and dust. Pain ripped through Moros as he fought to free himself from his foe. At last, a flailing blow from his hammer caught the skullgrinder on the knee and the war-smith staggered. He spilled Moros from his clutches. The Lord-Relictor, his lungs aching, his chest a mass of pain, shoved himself upright and faced his dazed opponent.

Broken fragments of masonry pelted his war-plate from above as he raised his reliquary staff. ‘Sigmar take you, beast,’ he roared. Lightning hammered down, piercing through the great dome overhead to ground in his staff, and filled the air with a searing light.

The skullgrinder stepped back, one big hand thrown up before his face. Moros lunged forward, his hammer raised. Volundr caught the head of the hammer on his palm. Moros heard bones break in his foe’s hand, but the massive warrior gave out no more than a grunt as he tore the hammer from his opponent’s grip and sent it sailing away.

Moros staggered, off-balance, and Volundr jerked forward, driving his other fist across the front of the Lord-Relictor’s helm. Sigmarite creaked and nearly buckled even as the force of the blow sent Moros flying backwards to slam into another pillar, his reliquary flying from his hands. His head was full of thunder, and he could not breathe.

He fell forward, onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he heard the pillar crack. The skullgrinder strode towards him, dragging his anvil. ‘Well? Where is this oblivion you promised me, lightning-rider?’ Volundr said. ‘Perhaps you misspoke.’

The world spun around the Lord-Relictor. Daemons crept closer, padding through the noxious mist spewing from the rift, their eyes glowing with eagerness. He saw several of his Protectors, free from the daemons, hurl themselves at the skullgrinder. Their stormstrike glaives struck like lightning. Volundr spun with a roar, and a Protector was crushed by his anvil even as the others attacked. For a moment, the world was lit by blue fire. Volundr plunged through the flames and caught a Protector in either hand, his anvil dangling by its chain from his wrist. He hefted the two Stormcasts by their throats.

Moros forced himself to his feet, the words of the Incantation for the Fallen running through his head. By the bones that I bear and call my own. He launched himself at the skullgrinder’s back. I bid ye heed now, heed the Call Celestial. He wrapped an arm around Volundr’s throat, and the skullgrinder bellowed and dropped the Protectors. Heed only the call of the God-King. Brutish fingers clawed at Moros’ forearm as he and his opponent staggered backwards into the cracked pillar. Godspeed to Sigmaron. Stone buckled and groaned. Chunks of debris began to rain down as the skullgrinder slammed them back against the pillar again and again. Godspeed back to the stars that bore ye.

Lightning shrieked down, demolishing the dome above and streaming down to envelop Moros and his opponent.

‘Mine… is… the Power Aetheric, and… I bid thee rest in peace,’ the Lord-Relictor roared as he wrapped a lightning-shrouded hand about the skullgrinder’s face-mask. And, with an elemental roar, the holy lightning of Sigmaron, the wrath of the God-King made manifest, thrummed through his hand and into the struggling form of his foe.

Volundr shrieked as bolt after bolt of lightning struck him. With a resounding crack, his great anvil split. The chain holding it burst asunder, and its wielder sank to one knee, clutching at his blackened helm with blistered, useless fingers as the lightning continued to scream down, striking him with a fury unseen since the days of myth.

And when it at last ceased, Volundr, forgemaster of the Soulmaw, was gone.

A tower of lightning struck the dome of the Sulphur Citadel, and cast its fierce glare across the city of Uryx. Daemons shrieked and cowered as the blazing light seared their flesh. Skul’rath turned from its prey with a snarl, its gaze uncomprehending, its axe hanging forgotten in its talon. As the daemon drew its hoof from his chest, Gorgus hauled himself to his feet. He saw Shrike loping towards him, his warding lantern clutched in the animal’s beak.

‘Shrike – my lantern,’ he cried, stretching out a hand.

The Gryph-hound leapt over a crouching bloodletter and raced towards the Lord-Castellant, swerving to avoid daemons and Stormcasts alike. Skul’rath caught sight of the animal and roared in fury. The bloodthirster’s axe swept out and the Gryph-hound skidded beneath the blade. Shrike tumbled head over heels, the lantern falling from its beak. Gorgus snatched up his halberd from where Skul’rath had tossed it. He charged towards the greater daemon, even as it raised a hoof to crush the fallen Gryph-hound. He caught the daemon in the side, and then in the chest with his reclaimed halberd as it lashed out at him. Shrike struggled to his feet and lunged, tearing at Skul’rath’s leg.

The bloodthirster stepped back, eyes bulging with fury. It slashed at the Gryph-hound again and again, trying to kill the animal. Shrike nimbly avoided every blow as it darted to snap at the bloodthirster’s hamstrings.

‘Cease, beast,’ the daemon roared in frustration. ‘Your skull is of no interest to me!’ The daemon’s axe tore great furrows in the bridge as Skul’rath raged.

While Shrike kept the monster busy, Gorgus reclaimed his celestial beacon. He heard a yelp and turned to see Shrike dragging itself away, a gash in one flank. The bloodthirster loomed over the fallen Gryph-hound, its back to Gorgus. ‘Now, creature, I shall break your bones and eat your heart,’ the daemon hissed.

‘You will not. If the great bears of the Borealis Peaks couldn’t kill him, what chance do you think a creature like you has?’ Gorgus said, as he threw his halberd like a spear towards the bloodthirster’s legs. The weapon struck home, and the greater daemon bellowed as it stumbled forward. It caught itself with one hand, but before it could untangle its hooves and rise, Gorgus was on its back, his warding lantern in hand.

The Lord-Castellant caught hold of the daemon’s horn as Skul’rath rose with a snort. The daemon kicked his halberd aside. Shrike lunged with a shriek and tore a chunk from the bloodthirster’s wrist, forcing the daemon to drop its axe.

Gorgus rose with the daemon and avoided its grasp as it clawed for him, trying to drag him from its shoulders. ‘You wished to snuff the light of the Heavens, beast? Then here – let me help,’ Gorgus roared. Skul’rath clawed vainly at him as Gorgus lifted his warding lantern and tore it open, exposing the daemon to the full force of the sacred light contained within.

Skul’rath shrieked and stumbled, finally throwing Gorgus off. The bloodthirster screamed in agony as it tore at its own flesh, trying to escape the light.

The Lord-Castellant hit the bridge hard enough to release a geyser of sulphur, but rolled into a crouch, lantern still extended. Whatever else happened, he had to keep the daemon within the light. Otherwise, they would have no hope of banishing it. Shoving himself upright with his free hand, he lunged for his halberd where it jutted from the surface of the bridge. Skul’rath grabbed at him, but he avoided the daemon’s flailing to uproot his weapon and whirl it about. He chopped into the bloodthirster’s arm, forcing the creature to jerk back in a spray of burning ichor. As he drove the daemon back with halberd and lantern, he saw that the eye of every daemon, Bloodbound and Stormcast was locked on the duel.

With a shout, several Liberators moved forward, as if to confront the daemon. Skul’rath lashed out blindly, crumpling sigmarite shields and armour with its fists. The warriors fell, bodies reduced to crackling streaks of lightning. But Gorgus saw to it that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He swept his halberd out, carving a wound in the distracted bloodthirster’s back. It spun, and Gorgus thrust his lantern forward, catching the daemon full in the face with the glory of Azyr.

Skul’rath staggered back, clawing at itself as the light permeated its form. Strange red cracks appeared and ran along its monstrous shape, and a stinking smoke rose from them. The magical energies of Gorgus’ lantern had punctured the bloodthirster’s form at a hundred points, seeping into its pores and blazing in its wounds. It stumbled towards its axe, but Gorgus interposed himself, slashing new, bright wounds in its arms and torso. The daemon sank to one knee. Greasy smoke rose from its skull as the light burned it. Soon, its whole head was aflame with a pale, blue fire. Its body shuddered and quaked as it tore fiery gobbets from its own flesh, as if seeking release from a greater pain.

Skul’rath the Broken reared back with a thunderous scream. It was a sound of rage, of denial and, at the last, of fear, as the monster came apart with a sigh of drifting ash. Gorgus strode through the cloud of ash, lantern held high. ‘Stormcasts,’ he said, casting its light over the ranks of the Adamantine, ‘reform the lines ten paces behind me. Lock shields, you sons of Azyr. Or do you expect me to do all your fighting for you?’

Stormcasts streamed past him. Precious few of them remained. Many had returned to Sigmar’s hand. But there were enough. We have not broken, he thought. They’d come close, though. And the daemons were still flowing down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, like blood flowing from a wound. Skul’rath’s defeat had given them a momentary pause, but no more. Sigmar lend you strength, Orius, for I have none to spare you.

Everything hurt. The bloodthirster had tested him. He was still alive, though. And while he lived, he would hold the place where he stood. Shrike, limping, leaned against him and whined. Gorgus stroked the Gryph-hound’s head. ‘And not alone, eh? Good boy,’ he murmured, before turning his attentions to the remaining Bloodbound and daemons.

Several of the bloodletters paced forward hesitantly, obviously wanting to pursue the retreating Stormcasts, but unwilling to get too close to the warrior who had banished Skul’rath. Before they could find their courage, Gorgus stepped forward. He set his warding lantern on the ground and stared at them, meeting their inhuman gazes with his own stony one.

Then, with a great cry, he swept his halberd down to strike the bridge before him. He struck it again, creating a massive fissure which spread quickly across the width of the bridge. It was not wide as gaps went, but it was more for symbolic purposes, than strategic. He lifted his warding lantern and hooked it onto the blade of his halberd, then extended it out before him.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not break,’ he said. ‘I tell you that wherever I stand is my rampart, hounds of abomination,’ he continued, as he stared at the massed ranks of daemons on the other side of the gap.

He spread his arms, as if in invitation. ‘Cross it, and see what it profits you.’

Orius staggered as he stepped through the Black Rift, only to find himself knee-deep in ash and dust. His head throbbed with the roar of uncountable screams, and his eyes stung from the crimson glare of the world he found himself in. He sucked in a sour breath. Harsh smoke abraded his aching lungs and stung his weary eyes.

Every limb felt heavy, and his heart struggled in its rhythm. He was bitterly cold and terribly hot, all at once, as if he had suffered a deep wound. His breath fogged and swirled before his eyes, and he could see faces in it. The faces of daemons, of foes he’d slain and those he might yet slay, if he survived the next few moments.

There was blood on his face and hands, and his gilded armour was stained with the tarry excretions and reeking ichors which rained from the thick, scab-coloured clouds overhead. The smoke that enveloped him stank of a million funeral pyres, and he could hear the roar of distant battle. Weapons crashed against shields and bit into cringing meat.

The air swelled and cracked with a riot of voices echoing from unseen places. Screams of agony mingled with pleading voices and howling cries of pure animal terror. The air was choked by the deep red smoke that curled about him, and he could see strange witch-lights pulsing within its depths. Horrible, ill-defined shapes moved around him, either too slowly or too quickly. Some were larger than others, and these roared in a hideous hunger. He could not say where they were going, or why. Something crackled beneath his foot.

The smoke swirled clear for a moment, and he saw that he stood on a carpet of bones, picked clean. Old bones and new bones, brown and white and yellow, clad in the shapeless remnants of clothing and armour from a span of centuries undreamt of. He saw weapons and tools the likes of which he had only seen depicted on the most ancient of murals within the halls of Sigmaron, and those that seemed far more advanced than the ones he was familiar with. It was as if someone had emptied out all of the graveyards of history, of all the times that had been and were yet to be, and left them wherever they fell.

In the distance, he could see something else – a monstrous edifice, rising out of a brightly burning sea of flowing lava. He could hear the thump of great war-drums and the crash of forges, and for a moment he was lost to the cacophony.

‘The Brass Citadel,’ a voice said from behind him. He turned to find Anhur waiting for him, axe hanging by his side, his sword sheathed on his hip. ‘It is some distance away – a continent’s length or perhaps an aeon’s span, I cannot say. It is different for every man.’ The red mist rose up, and voices whispered urgently in Orius’ head, urging him to attack, to slay his enemy. He closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer to Sigmar.

‘I remember those words. Once, we spoke them together, did we not? On the eve of battle, we would kneel and beg him for victory, like mongrels begging for scraps,’ Anhur said. He spread his arms. ‘And now, here you are, still begging.’

‘Where are we?’ Orius said, his voice hoarse. It was hard to speak above a whisper. The air burned his throat and he could taste blood. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Field of the Slain, where the bones of all those killed by Khorne’s followers come to rest,’ Anhur said. The red mist swirled up around him, and Orius thought he could see the forms of mutilated warriors within its coils. The broken shapes struggled against one another before they vanished once more into the mist.

Orius shook his head and lifted his hammer. Behind him, he could hear the sour hum of the rift. It pulsed hungrily. Lean shapes loped past them through the mist. As they moved, it cleared momentarily, revealing rank upon rank of bloodletters. The daemonhost stretched as far as Orius’ eye could see to either side of Anhur. They moved so swiftly he could barely tell one rank from the next. They paid him no heed, galloping past with hideous screams which stung his ears to hear. Where they originated from he could not say, and he thought perhaps they came from the red mist itself.

‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions of the damned march into Klaxus through the wound I ripped in its heart,’ Anhur said. Orius heard the crunch of bone and turned, his mind and reflexes still sluggish. Anhur’s black axe slashed down, carving a gouge in his breastplate. Orius staggered back, belatedly bringing his weapons up. ‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions, at my command if I but take the reins of power,’ the Scarlet Lord said, slashing at him again. ‘A far cry from the pitiful scraps we led from Ytalan, eh Oros?’ Orius parried the blow with his runeblade, but only just. He felt as if his limbs were wrapped in weighted chains.

‘Fight back, damn you,’ Anhur roared. He smashed Orius to one knee, and knocked his runeblade from his hand. ‘Why do you not fight?’

Orius shook his head and forced himself to his feet, hammer in hand. With a cry, he lunged. Anhur avoided the blow and caught the Lord-Celestant’s hammer just behind the head. With a snarl he tore it from its wielder’s grasp, before backhanding Orius off his feet. ‘I’ve chosen my ground too well, it seems. You cannot bear the weight of Khorne’s realm,’ Anhur said. ‘No man can, without being – ah – without being changed.’

Orius clambered to his feet. He was weaponless. Behind him, the rift pulsed as daemons flowed through it to assail his warriors and the kingdom he had once called his own. The lethargy he’d felt began to fade.

The Scarlet Lord staggered and clutched at his head. ‘The sound of the drumbeat in my soul grows so loud I cannot tell where my thoughts end and those of the Blood God begin,’ he growled. His armour creaked and he hunched forward with a groan. ‘I grow mighty indeed, though it hurts. Was the pain of your rebirth like this, I wonder?’ He tossed Orius’ hammer aside. ‘Get up, Hound. Stand, so that we might end this as is fitting.’

Orius dived at his foe. Surprised, Anhur stepped back. Orius’ fingers found the hilt of the blade sheathed at Anhur’s hip and he tore it free of its sheath. He swung it, feeling the weight of the Klaxian blade as he drove Anhur back. The Scarlet Lord retreated, putting space between them.

‘Why are you running, Anhur? Did you not lead me here to kill me? Isn’t that what this was all in service of?’ Orius said. The mist coiled about him as he stepped towards his opponent. Anhur raised his axe in warning.

For a moment, the Scarlet Lord stared at him, as if trying to understand the question. Orius was about to challenge him again, when his foe spoke. ‘On this day I see clearly, for the first time since I fled Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Everything has been revealed at last.’ He stepped back, axe lowered. ‘I see the world for what it is. We stand at the crux of all history, Oros. Here in this place, I can see every moment which led us here, every step, every choice.’ Anhur lifted his axe. ‘I can see every failure, every triumph, every regret… I see it all. I have shed oceans of blood and built mountains of skulls, but still… I am found wanting.’

Orius lifted the sword. ‘And?’ he said. He could hear nothing save the dull pulse of the Black Rift, and his own heartbeat. Or perhaps it was Anhur’s. The moment stretched. He could see his hammer, just out of the corner of his eye.

If he could get to it he believed that he could shatter the rift, though it might mean his doom. The hammers made for the Lord-Celestants of the Warrior Chambers were things of great potency, forged by Sigmar himself, and they contained the raw fury of Azyr within them. They could shatter even the mightiest of realmgates, and break the bonds between realms, no matter how ancient or sturdy. But to do so was to risk unleashing a force that not even a Stormcast could survive.

‘You should have let me die that day, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘That was your great mistake. You did not see the monster crouched in my skin, and now it has grown too strong to deny.’ He lunged, axe screaming as it cut through the very fabric of the realm. Orius lifted his stolen sword to parry, knowing that it would not be strong enough to resist the bite of the black axe.

But at the last moment the axe twitched aside, and the blade sawed into his shoulder-plate. Acting on instinct, Orius whipped the sword around. Pulled his blow – why? he thought, as the sword slid easily between the plates of Anhur’s armour, into the inhuman flesh beneath. The Scarlet Lord staggered back with a groan. His axe tumbled from his hand to vanish into the red mist. He clutched at the hilt of the sword and sank down to one knee.

Orius whirled and snatched up his hammer. He sent the weapon flying towards the daemonic portal with every ounce of strength remaining to him. The weapon exploded as it struck the swirling void, unleashing a torrent of crackling blue lightning. Everywhere the bolts struck, blue flames shot up to engulf daemons or else drive them back. The Black Rift thrashed like a wild beast as its swirling darkness became shot through with veins of cleansing light. Through the cracks in its oily surface, Orius could see the citadel, and his warriors still battling the daemons that had emerged from the rift.

But as he started forward, he felt the reverberations of an earth-shaking tread. The Lord-Celestant turned, and saw something impossibly massive looming above him in the raw skies of the daemon realm. Its brass armour blazed like a hideous sun, and its enormous, hound-like muzzle was twisted in a monstrous leer. Eyes like colossal ruptured cysts gazed at him with inhuman hatred. In one talon it carried a black sword which still glowed with the heat of the dying universes in which it had been forged.

A voice that was at once the clangour of weapons striking armour and the screams of the dying bayed in his head, and he staggered. Whether it was the voice of the apparition or merely some strange echo of this place, he did not know. He clutched at his skull as fear and hatred warred within him. A berserk desire to hurl himself at the titanic apparition and die on its blade filled him, and he took an unconscious step forward.

‘No,’ Anhur growled. ‘No. No, Hound of Ytalan. This is not for you.’ A bloody hand fell on Orius’ shoulder and he found himself wrenched back. Anhur had torn the sword from his body and now held its dripping length in one hand. The Scarlet Lord pushed him towards the dying rift. ‘Klaxus-that-was is dead. And so too must its last prince – its last king – die. But not you, Oros. You pulled me from the edge of doom, and now, I do the same for you.’

‘Anhur…’ Orius began. For the first time in a long time, he recognised the eyes that looked at him from within the black iron helm of the Scarlet Lord. They were not the eyes of a blood-mad monster, but those of a true lord of Klaxus – arrogant and cold, but human.

‘This is my apotheosis, my brother,’ Anhur said, as he turned to face the gigantic monstrosity which watched them, its bestial head cocked, as if in curiosity. It had made no move to intervene, though Orius knew that if it had chosen to do so, no force in existence could have prevented it. Instead it waited… and watched.

Anhur laughed. ‘I could not go into the dark of eternity, knowing that our debt remained unpaid. You should have let me die then. And I should kill you now. But I am Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and I pay my debts. Thus, I am purged of weakness. Thus, I prove my worth.’ He held up the bloody sword, as if studying his reflection. ‘I am strong again, for the first time, for the last time. Victory, at the cost of pain. Go, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘My destiny is in this place, in this moment, but yours is not – GO!’

Orius hesitated, but only for a moment more. As he stepped through the contracting corona of the rift, he turned and saw Prince Anhur of Ytalan raise his sword, as if in homage, or perhaps in challenge to the monstrous apparition. He saw that colossal black blade rise and the dog-like muzzle gape in a howl powerful enough to snuff out stars. The blade fell, and the reverberations of its descent shattered the Black Rift.

Time split and stretched about him as he fought his way towards safety. Shards of sorcerous obsidian struck his armour and spun away into the howling void which gaped hungrily behind him. Daemons clawed at him, trying vainly to anchor themselves before they too were ripped shrieking back into Khorne’s realm. Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions worth of Khorne’s foul minions slipped past him and were drawn screaming into darkness.

Orius saw moments from his past and future, all running parallel to one another as he stretched his hand out towards the light of reality. He saw battles he had fought and those he would fight, alongside figures from myth. He heard the voice of doom reverberating through the Eight Realms, and the thunder of Ghal Maraz as it descended from on high. He felt the crush of a blow that had, that would, kill him, and the searing pain of rebirth. He heard the bellows of Khorne, roaring in fury, or perhaps satisfaction.

And then, suddenly, he was falling to crash down amidst the newly laid carpet of ashes which covered the floor of the ruined chamber. Smoke rose from his scorched armour, and he could feel it burning his flesh, even as it cooled. Orius shoved himself to one knee and looked around. The great chamber was in a shambolic state. Only a few of the support pillars remained standing, and vast sections of the roof had collapsed, leaving the floor covered in immense chunks of stone. Only a few Stormcasts remained, leaning wearily on their weapons. They jerked upright at his sudden arrival, and began moving towards him, crying out gladly.

‘I expected to have to say the Incantation of the Fallen for you,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was dented in places and streaked with wide stripes of ash. Smoke still wreathed his blackened gauntlets, and he moved as if in pain. But he was alive. As far as Orius was concerned, that was all that mattered. Moros stretched out one smoking hand and Orius caught it. The Lord-Relictor grunted, and clutched at his chest as he did so.

‘What happened?’ Orius said as he helped Moros to his feet.

‘We won. The daemon-tide is gone, as if it never was.’

‘The rift?’

Moros gestured. ‘You’d know better than I. It too has ceased to be. What of the Scarlet Lord? Did you leave his corpse in whatever foul realm was beyond those black facets?’

Orius hesitated, uncertain of how to answer the Lord-Relictor’s question. Was Anhur truly dead, or did he yet live, in some fashion? He thought of the monstrous shape he’d seen superimposed over Anhur’s form as they entered the rift, and the Scarlet Lord’s talk of debts and worth. He had a nagging sensation that whatever the outcome of the battle for Klaxus, Anhur had achieved the victory he desired. Instead of saying any of this, however, he simply nodded. ‘Anhur is no more,’ he said. ‘The skullgrinder?’

Moros jerked his head towards a blackened crater near the chamber’s centre. Orius saw the remains of a chain and what might have once been an anvil, now warped and blackened as if by a great heat. ‘Whether dead, or spirited away to wherever such abominations go when they are wounded, I do not know. And in truth, I cannot say that I care at the moment. He is gone, and that’s enough.’

Orius nodded and said, ‘But what of the rest of our brethren?’ Gripped by a sudden urgency, he strode towards the shattered doors of the chamber and made his way out onto the high terraces of the Sulphur Citadel. The broken bodies of Bloodbound lay sprawled across the steps and ramparts. Ash stained everything, marking where the daemons had been wrenched from reality. Overhead, dark clouds swelled in the sky, and an untainted rain had begun to fall upon Uryx once more.

Through a haze of rain and smoke, he saw that the storm had at last quenched the conflagration which threatened to consume the city and that, far below, the Bridge of Smoke had been shattered. On the far shore, the battered remnants of a golden host stood unbroken, weapons raised as they cheered their victory. He saw a familiar figure standing at their centre, halberd raised in triumph.

Moros came up behind him and clasped his shoulder. ‘Gorgus held, as he swore. Uryx still stands, and Klaxus with it. Now maybe, the rain can wash away the filth. Whatever enemies remain in this city, we shall root them out. The storm has broken, and the people of this kingdom can rebuild. We will help them do so.’

‘And so we shall. But first, we must free the other crater-kingdoms,’ Orius said. ‘Anhur is gone, but his followers yet remain. There are foes before us yet, Moros. Darkness gathers. Our work is not yet done.’ He stretched out his hand, so that the rain could wash the stained sigmarite clean. ‘We have triumphed here, but there can be no respite. Not for us, not yet,’ Orius Adamantine said. ‘The Black Rift is closed, but our war has only just begun.’

As he spoke, the cleansing rain spilled down across the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, to wash the last trace of the ashes away. Somewhere, distant thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed.

The storm swept on.

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 warrior-sons of Grimnir march from their magmaholds. But will they be fighting to preserve the Mortal Realms, or to bring about its destruction?

A Black Library Publication

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

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Cover illustration by Even Mehl Amundsen.

The Sulphur Citadel © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Sulphur Citadel, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-425-1

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