SACRISTY

‘Quick-quick! Open the tunnel, worthless minions!’

Clawlord Rikkit’s demands, backed up by the presence of hulking Clan Mekkrit Stormvermin, were enough to see the exhausted slaves redoubling their efforts in breaching reality’s tightly stretched skin. The Gnawhole’s walls throbbed with sickly light as warpstone-tipped pickaxes struck repeatedly, each slave labouring to avoid catching their master’s eye.

Ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice like any self-respecting Clawlord, Rikkit’s gaze remained locked on the growing split at the tunnel’s end. Digging even small Gnawholes had always involved risks; the sorcerous mayhem unleashed by the dead-things’ king only intensified them.

Yet the Horned One was watching over Rikkit – not that he’d ever doubted that. Sudden sharp crackles heralded the gateway snapping open. Slaves squealed as errant warp-lightning bolts disintegrated the unluckiest. The Clawlord subtly shied away from the wild magic before barking at his Clanrats to shove the closest slaves out through the Gnawhole’s mouth. His Stormvermin soon did the same to the Clanrats. Only when satisfied that the immediate risks had passed did Rikkit dart after them.

Blade raised, fangs bared in challenge, Rikkit leapt from the Gnawhole into conventional reality. The Clawlord suppressed the discomforting tremors of sub-realm passage, though his tail spasmed erratically. Deafening silence stopped him dead. Long corridors stretched into darkness on either side. Faint twinkles of almost-starlight from the vaulted ceiling pierced the gloom. The skaven lord’s whiskers twitched suspiciously as a dangerous frown developed on his sloping brow.

‘Fool-thing!’ Rikkit snarled, rounding on the Gnawhole dig’s cowering Clanrat overseer. ‘I know every realm’s scent! This is not Aqshy!’

‘A thousand pardons, most masterful of masters!’ The hapless skaven squeaked, fumbling with a hastily scribbled map. ‘Th-the dead-things’ doom-scream, it—’

The Clanrat’s body thumped to the ground, its severed head joining it, as Rikkit’s blade descended without warning. The closest slaves swiftly prostrated themselves, squirting musks of fearful deference.

The Clawlord nearly slew them anyway. Clan Krank had been very specific when hiring Clan Mekkrit’s services in storming the workshops of Vulkus Mont and bringing their contents – man-thing engineers and all – back to Blight City. Failure meant considerable loss of prestige, though Rikkit was already compiling a mental list of underlings he could shift the blame onto.

‘Oh mighty Lash-Liege! Come quick-quick!’

The Stormvermin’s cry disturbed Rikkit’s scheming. Tail twitching curiously, the Clawlord scurried closer as the dark-furred skaven gestured to a shrouded alcove in the wall.

Within a glass case sealed by arcane-looking locks, a pendant lay upon a velvet cushion. The gem hanging from it on a short chain glittered with internal brilliance. Realmstone. Rikkit would know it anywhere. Faceted Hyshian aetherquartz to be exact, if his greedy intuition was correct, and a flawless example at that. The Clawlord’s avarice briefly outweighed his caution as he reached for it; only as the concentrated magical potential straining against the case’s wards spiked and sent a stinging jolt up his arm did he snatch his hand back. Shaking off the unpleasant prickling aftershocks, Rikkit shot a dark look towards any would-be challengers who had witnessed the fleeting lapse. Judging them suitably cowed, the Clawlord cleared his throat and turned to truly explore where he had ended up.

The slaves and more unfortunate Clanrats found themselves herded before Rikkit as the skaven scampered along the dim corridors. Aqshian blaze-oak, packed into crude brass tubes while the Gnawhole was under construction, was now set alight and strapped to muzzles to provide beams of focused illumination. The vault seemed endless, twisting back and forth, opening into larger plazas only to branch off into shadowy passageways. Outside the torch-beams the darkness was so total that even the skaven struggled to adapt.

It was an artificial darkness, Rikkit thought, intended to confuse and disorient. Yet the murkiness seemed also like the last desperate countermeasure of a system that should never have been breached in the first place. The endless soft whirring that ghosted down the corridor further fed the Clawlord’s suspicions. Rikkit had spent enough time in the presence of machines to recognise the sound of one failing.

Spiralling across the walls and floors were the hated symbols of Azyr. Stern man-thing faces watched the skaven’s intrusion, but these were not the storm-things. The style was older, reminiscent of ages lost.

Rikkit cared more for the immediate treasures anyway. Clockwork armies stood to stiff attention in a pit below a walkway, caged orbs of fire crackled with sentience as they swung suspended from the ceiling, while a sword hung in mid-air between two pillars. Black flames occasionally rippled along its length, revealing twisted runes worked into the metal.

‘Clan Krank will offer many claw-pacts for this, yes-yes,’ Rikkit murmured. Occupied in congratulating himself for his cleverness in diverting the Gnawhole, Rikkit’s finely honed danger-senses missed the low wailing that echoed down the corridor. The slaves did not, tails flicking nervously. Several Stormvermin drummed their claw-tips uneasily against their halberd grips.

The Clawlord turned to accept his minions’ congratulations for his masterstroke. He paused as he did so, bemused. Where before had been total darkness, a softly glowing light now emanated from around a corridor’s corner, brightening with each passing instant.

The light rounded the corner. The predatory phantasm bearing it was no living being, nor a dead one, though it took the appearance of the latter. Sailing upon a wave of amethyst magic, the skeletal gondolier’s empty gaze transfixed Rikkit. Upon its oar’s handle a lantern swung with mesmerising slowness as the spectre glided towards the skaven.

The deathly boatman’s hand extended in almost languid fashion towards the nearest, petrified-with-fright slave as it passed. The skaven crumpled like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut. The survivors watched, horrified, as the slave’s shimmering soul-stuff coiled around the apparition’s fingers. It struggled momentarily before being discarded into the spirit-tide forever compelled to bear the gondola onwards.

A panicked shriek escaped Rikkit as he reached fruitlessly for his blade. He had just enough time to consider that perhaps this vault of wonders had not been built only to keep intruders out.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

Sacrisity © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Sacrisity, Forbidden Power, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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

Certain Citadel products may be dangerous if used incorrectly and Games Workshop does not recommend them for use by children under the age of 16 without adult supervision.
Whatever your age, be careful when using glues, bladed equipment and sprays and make sure that you read and follow the instructions on the packaging.

Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom

games-workshop.com