SHORT STORIES THE CYCLE INTERRUPTED

Horticulous Slimux frowned, the slick skin of his ‘Any moment now,’ he said, ‘and we’ll bring some forehead furrowing like a well-ploughed field. The lovely life to this place.’ He chewed on a splintered bone ancient daemon had been thinking pleasant thoughts and peered with an expert’s eye at the earth, but it re- about running down the last survivors of Zintalis Old mained cracked and dry. How could it be? His skill as a Town, his lolloping Beasts of Nurgle driving the citi- cultivator was such that even the most arid desert was zens into the open so their corpses could bring soon rich compost for the blessings of the garden, and Grandfather’s fecundity to the meadows and plains his seeds were the finest in all the lands. beyond. It would be a welcome and hard-earned change from desperate battle against that cursed axe- Up ahead, some of the scattered townspeople had no- woman Blacktalon and her Rangers, that much was ticed that Horticulous and his entourage had halted in sure. But to his frustration, his quarry was escaping. their pursuit. One of the humans gave a strange laugh, his tone somewhere between relief and madness. ‘Perhaps runnin’ ’em down is a bit of a stretch,’ droned Slimux – given the sluggard’s pace of his mollusc-steed ‘Not havin’ that,’ grumbled Horticulous. ‘Mulch! Lead Mulch, the humans would outpace them for days yet. the charge!’ The daemon molluscoid shambled forward, But there was something to be said for doing things but as soon as his front set of legs touched the cracked slowly, steadily and properly. ‘Run, my little hares,’ flatlands, he screeched and recoiled as if stung by a pala- muttered Horticulous. ‘The snail always wins in the din-wasp. ‘That ain’t right,’ said Horticulous. He peered end.’ But there was something on the wind that made his down once more at the spore-seeds. Instead of bursting usual certainty ring hollow, into glorious life as they should have, they had shriv- elled away to black ruin. Nurgle’s magic was not taking. A scent of death blew from the cracked plains to the north of Zintalis, with another smell cutting through it. ‘We made it!’ shouted one of the Zintalis humans. Was that the cold, nostril-scouring tang of sterility? ‘They’re not coming after us!’

Slimux shuddered at the very thought. Death was all fine Horticulous ground his crumbled molars, his choler and well by him, an integral part of Grandfather’s great souring with every passing moment. He took a greenclay cycle and a necessary prelude to the birth of glorious urn from Mulch’s shell, the one containing his most new life. He had brought that gift to millions of souls prized plague flies, and cracked it open with his lopping over his long existence, and extensively travelled Shy- shears to release a cloud of fat-bodied insects. ‘Swarm ish, the Realm of Death, in his time. But as he always ’em, little ’uns!’ he cried out, but the insects just buzzed told his wide-eyed Nurgling helpers in the Plague God’s around him, not trespassing so much as a foot onto the Garden, a creature’s demise was always followed by re- cracked lands. birth, whether of body or spirit, and from the tiniest forms of life blossomed vast and malodorous entities ‘He can’t touch us,’ came the call from up ahead. One of that pleased Grandfather with their foulness – until one them took out a shortbow, and a moment later an arrow day they, too, died and the cycle continued. struck Horticulous right in the chest. It caused a momen- tary flicker of pain as it pierced his heart. The daemon ‘Ah well,’ said Horticulous, snorting at his own intro- plucked out the arrow and snapped it, his anger rising up spection. He could still see the town’s survivors ahead, to consume all reason. He slid off Mulch’s shell, took up crossing the plain with his Beasts in gleeful pursuit. ‘On his shears, and stepped out onto the flatlands, grimacing with the great labour.’ He kicked his steed hard in its at the stinging pain he felt in the soles of his feet. slime-clotted shell and waggled the Nurgling he had tied to his stick as bait. ‘Get ’em, Mulch.’ The molluscoid daemon sighed heavily, rolled its eyes and pulled itself forwards as fast as it could, accelerating from the pace of an asthmatic Nurgling to that of a leper at a danger- ously fast walk.

THE CYCLE INTERRUPTED

The cracked earth shivered and shook as if revulsed, and a hundred skeletal hands thrust upwards from the earth with a noise like a thousand earthenware jars shattering at once. Those closest were grabbing at Horticulous but could not quite reach him, for they were repelled by the spore-seeds scattered on the ground. ‘Huh,’ he grunted, slashing one of the hands with a backhand swipe of his shears. It came apart in a scattering of bones.

Those hands bursting out nearest the human survivors experienced no such obstacle. They clawed at Zintalis’ survivors in ever-greater numbers, the earth around them crumbling away to reveal an entire layer of juddering skeletons beneath. Bony fingers sank into soft skin and ripped away chunks of pink flesh as the townspeople were dragged screaming into their graves.

Horticulous raised his eyebrow, drinking in the spectacle with a mixture of satisfaction and disquiet. ‘Strange times indeed,’ he muttered, climbing slowly back into Mulch’s saddle-shell. ‘But this old dog has plenty of tricks yet. Come on, my fine little lads, back to the gar- den with you. We have work to do.’ DEATH AT THE DOOR

Verric’s mouth was dry and his heart hammered like to see his strong, courageous lad laid so low. So many a forge-piston, but his hands were steady. Fear was had been lost to the plague that had spread like wildfire an old friend. It had kept him alive this long, through throughout Sorrowcreek, but still Julen fought on. two decades in the free guilds and another raising a boy alone out on the frontier. “Upstairs, son,” Verric whispered, and the ragged croak of his voice sounded unnatural and repulsive even to He pulled back the curtain and peered out into the lash- himself. “Find a place to hide. Don’t move until I tell ing rain. Sorrowcreek’s makeshift palisade of vine- you.” lashed timbers loomed out of the mist, and beyond that the canopy of the Chiltus forest, writhing beneath a gan- “I can fight with you!” Julen said, shaking his head and grenous sky. Screams and pitiful wails echoed in the dis- stumbling down the stairs towards Verric. Even as he tance. They had come again, the depraved tribes of the reached the floor, his strength left him, and he tripped deep forest. Rotskins. Bringers of disease and ruin, wor- and sprawled into the hall, landing hard. He coughed a shippers of unspeakable gods. trail of black phlegm that stained the stone floor. Verric rushed to his son, and hauled him to his feet, placing a He could see an orange glow in the distance, flickering hand on each side of his face. faintly in the downpour. Was that the old Fhendel place aflame? At least the fires would claim no fresh victims – “I know you can fight,” he said. “But there’s a time for Goodman Fhendel and his wife had passed weeks back. blades and a time for good sense, my boy. You can He choked back a bitter laugh. The Rotskin tribes would hardly stand, much less swing a sword. Look at me, find naught here but emaciated bodies and maggot- Julen. Look at me now.” ridden timbers. The able-bodied had long ago abandoned this cursed place, taking their chances upon the long, Julen’s sunken, bloodshot eyes met his own. dangerous road back to Greywater rather than facing the slow decay of the Weeping Ague. Verric would have “You go and hide,” he said. “Whatever’s coming, you joined them himself, were Julen well enough to travel. leave it to me. I’ve dealt with heretics and savages. A Death had already visited Sorrowcreek, and it had left well-aimed bolt or two will send them running, mark my only the ill-fated and the foolish in its wake. words.”

Another scream cut through the storm, piercing and Julen nodded, lips quivering just a bit. Verric ruffled the ragged with terror. youth’s sweat-slicked hair, and gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. With a last, pained look back, Julen Verric crossed the room and reached for the varnished retreated back to his room. repeater that hung above the fireplace of his humble homestead. He hefted the heavy bow and cranked the Verric turned back to the heavy door. Brackish rainwater lever, then checked the chamber and saw five gleaming seeped under the frame, soaking his boots and running bolts of steel stacked and ready. Simply holding the re- between the cobbled stones. Verric grasped the wooden peater seemed to steady his frayed nerves. A duardin- charm that hung at his neck, a simple image of the Ever- forged piece, it had been with him since he had donned queen he had whittled himself from the shining sprig of his first uniform. In all that time, it had never failed him. goldwood on a sun-washed afternoon long ago. So long ago it seemed another life entirely. “Da?” came a thin voice from the stairs. There stood Julen, wrapped in an old, frayed blanket, his face pale as “Our Lady Alarielle,” he muttered. “Hear my words. snow, eyes wide with fear. The ague had robbed the Guide my arm this night. And watch over my boy, strength from his body, and his skin was blotchy, with should I fall.” the sickly sheen of meat gone bad. Julen had entered his seventeenth season as a strapping lad, well-muscled from his work in the timber-fields, hacking open gold- wood pine in search of priceless amberdew. Verric hated DEATH AT THE DOOR

Not much of a prayer, but then Verric had never been eloquent in his faith. He snapped the stock of the re- peater to his shoulder. Let them come. Let them dare invade his home, these devils. Verric Gheiser had built this place with toil and blood, and he would not yield it. Not to anyone.

He sensed movement at the window again, and snapped off a hail of bolts. The glass shattered, and the curtain whipped and fluttered like an angry spirit as the wind and rain rushed in.

“Get you gone!” he shouted into the darkness. “This is a house of the faithful, fiends. You will not enter here.”

A beam of light seared through the keyhole of the door, growing in intensity with every moment. There was a crackling, tearing sound, and Verric felt his skin writhe and tingle as if pricked by a thousand pins. The light grew stronger and stronger, and fingers of forked light- ning reached through the latch to cast a spider’s web of flickering light across the ceiling.

The front door exploded into a storm of wooden shards, as if struck with a cannon round. Verric stumbled back- wards, slipped on the rain-slick floor and fell. His head struck the cobbles hard, and he almost lost his grip on the repeater. Ears aching from the blast, vision swim- ming, Verric stared up at the shattered entranceway. It was no fur-clad savage that loomed over him, but a statue forged from gleaming metal, rain pouring in rivu- lets down its stark, white armour. Rippling arcs of light- ning swirled around its form, and the warhammer it clutched in one enormous fist. The shadowed sockets of its unforgiving war mask seemed to gaze through Ver- ric’s very soul.

As the living statue took a single stride forward, raising its hammer high, Verric began to scream. A BOUNTIFUL WAGER

A gnawfly droned lazily through the Garden of Nur- ‘Alright you lot, time to earn your keep,’ said the dae- gle. Spores drifted around it on the miasmal airs. mon. ‘I haven’t been around this long without gettin’ a Moanwillows sighed and rustgrass creaked below as nose for when something don’t stink right, and after that the fly buzzed along, its simple mind filled with business outside Zintalis, all I smell is ashes. Get out thoughts of filth, food, and where it might find the into the realms and get searchin’. I don’t care how or two combined. The gnawfly settled for a moment where, just fly as far as you can, then come back and tell upon a stone arch that rose from a shallow lake of me what you seen. Signs, omens, walkin’ cadavers, bubbling foulness. It ruffled its wings, humming whatever it is, I want to know about it, right?’ shrilly and tonelessly as it added its own generous offering to the noxious waters. His flies gave a resounding buzz, thrumming their wings in answer. They burst from Horticulous’ body like a Emerald light flared, causing the fly to squeak in sur- cloud and shot away in all directions, making for the prise as the arch filled with flickering energies. A fleshy corrupted Realmgates that dotted Nurgle’s garden. mound spilled from the portal, something large and slug- like with a slime-slick shell on its back. A gnarled claw The Grand Cultivator nodded to himself, then gave reached out and closed around the gnawfly as it tried to Mulch a firm kick. ‘Alright sluggard, enough marinatin’. take flight. It gave a last squeal of alarm before it was It’ll be a span before them flies start coming back, and in tossed into a daemon’s stinking maw. the meantime you can just bet the Plaguebearers won’t have pared the rot-blossoms right. Come on lad, culti- The gnawfly popped like a zit in Horticulous’ mouth, vatin’ to be done.’ and he pulled a sour face. Mulch gave another long-suffering sigh before hauling ‘Bloomin’ empty, just my luck,’ he muttered. himself off through the slime with Horticulous perched thoughtfully upon his back. Mulch squelched down into the foetid lake, emitting a sigh of relief as gelid filth washed over him. The snail- Time had always passed strangely for Horticulous, if he beast swiveled one eyestalk and shot Horticulous a ques- noticed its passage at all, wheeling around him in fluid tioning look. cycles one moment and flowing turgid as a clotted river the next. All the same, the Grand Cultivator was sur- ‘Well I don’t know, do I?’ said the plague daemon irrita- prised by how soon the first of his flies returned. Barely bly. ‘The dead have their place in the cycle, that’s well had he found time to berate his assistant gardeners, and good. But if they’re forgettin’ what that place is…’ plough the lower festerfields and attend to the wyther- blooms before the insects started flitting back. Mulch blew out a heavy sigh of concern, bubbles of filthy lake-water frothing around his mouth. Most bore a fresh message of alarm, some strange sight or unnatural encounter having left the daemonic insects ‘I know, lad, not good at all,’ said Horticulous. ‘That’s buzzing with panic. Some of Horticulous’ little familiars the sort of thing that’ll get Grandfather all in a lather- returned with legs brittle and thoraxes graying with boil.’ patches of ashen sterility.

Mulch submerged his head further, until only his eye- Some did not come back at all. stalks protruded above the sludge. He burbled morosely. As each fresh tale was told to him, Horticulous’ concern ‘Truth, that’s what we need, and time to make sense of deepened. ‘Ghasts and haunts, blackenhounds and wail- it,’ said Horticulous. He stuck two gnarled fingers into ing bogies,’ he muttered to Mulch after an especially the corners of his mouth and whistled messily. His vivid account from the Jade Kingdom of Verdia. ‘Dark plague flies swarmed in answer, gathering upon him in a omens and darker visions. There’s bad business comin’, thick carpet, their legs and wings tickling Horticulous’ you mark my words. I think it’s time I had a word with leathery flesh. the Rainfather.’ A BOUNTIFUL WAGER

Mulch belched in agreement and snapped lazily at the Satisfied that the show was over, Horticulous urged giggling Nurgling that dangled from a pole before his Mulch forward. Rotigus saw him coming, the beetle- face. The mite swung tantalisingly out of reach as it re- black eyes that stared from beneath his rotted cowl leased a string of flatulence and poked out its tongue. marking the Grand Cultivator’s approach. Leaving his Grunting with annoyance, Mulch set off through the gar- daemonic foot soldiers to smother the crystal shards in den towards the pestilent pastures, the last known loca- corpse-compost, Rotigus lumbered to meet Horticulous tion of the mighty Great Unclean One known as Rotigus. half way. The Great Unclean One settled on his haunches, looming over Horticulous like a mountain of Horticulous heard the sounds of battle long before he flyblown flesh. saw Rotigus himself. Clashes, screams, and the wet rush of jetting foulness echoed between the trunks of a with- ‘Hgh… Horticulous,’ he said, nodding. Rotigus’ deep ered copse as Mulch dragged himself between the trees. voice was a bubbling, liquid horror, the sort of sound a Emerging from the eaves of that noisome wood, Hor- mudslide might make if it could speak. The Great Un- ticulous tapped Mulch’s snout, pulling his steed up short clean One sounded as though he were constantly striving atop a ridge of bone that overlooked the pestilent pas- to choke back mouthfuls of vomit, with black slop spill- tures. ing from his lips in noisome spatters. Horticulous nod- ded in turn, chewing nonchalantly on his bone splinter. Sitting back and chewing on a splinter of bone, Horticu- lous watched Rotigus work with professional apprecia- ‘Rainfather,’ he said. ‘Fine gamekeeping there. Can’t tion. Down amongst the muck of the pastures, the have the Changer’s vermin springin’ up all over, can ground had been heaved open by great shards of blue we?’ crystal that danced with varicoloured flames. ‘What do you… ugh… want, Slimux?’ asked Rotigus. Horticulous recognised a spur of the Crystal Labyrinth, ‘This business has… hgh… taken up too much of my the ever-twisting realm of Tzeentch that sometimes in- time already. There’s ways to wander, and gifts to be truded upon Nurgle’s bountiful domain. From within given. Always more… urgh… gifts.’ that strange maw had spilled a tide of Tzeentchian dae- mons, no doubt intent upon claiming the Plague God’s ‘Where’ll your wanderings take you next?’ asked Hor- pastures for their master’s realm. ticulous.

The heaps of rotting ectoplasm and writhing, fungus- ‘Ghg… Ghyran, not that it concerns you,’ replied covered flesh strewn about the battlefield showed that Rotigus. ‘Why? Would you like to wander with me, lit- Rotigus had other ideas. As Horticulous watched, the tle cultivator?’ cowled Great Unclean One led his Plaguebearers in a last, resounding charge against the battered remains of ‘Mayhap,’ nodded Horticulous. ‘But nowhere of as little the invading host. Rotigus swatted kaleidoscopic dae- import as that.’ mons aside with swings of his twisted stave. He crushed them under his huge bulk, and vomited streams of brack- Rotigus’s belly maw heaved and sputtered with sloshing ish filth from the maw in his gut, drowning Tzeentch’s laughter, but his true expression congealed into a heavy servants and extinguishing their unnatural fires. frown. Mucous crawled in trails down his flabby chins.

At last, the few surviving Horrors turned and capered for ‘The War of Life is…hwugh… somehow unimportant to the mouth of their tunnel. Rotigus raised his staff and the great Horticulous Slimux, is it?’ he asked. ‘Too old bellowed words that caused the daemons to convulse and wise for Grandfather’s war are you, first-spat?’ with the raw power of unstoppable fecundity. One by one they were torn apart by fungal growths that billowed from within their flesh, until at last a new copse of nod- ding mushrooms the height of trees stood before the en- trance to the Crystal Labyrinth. A BOUNTIFUL WAGER

‘The War of Life is a single enterprise, one that Grand- Eventually, the Great Unclean One gave another rumble father’s interests have branched out from,’ said Horticu- deep in his chest and turned away. lous. ‘Why do you think he sent me out a-sowing? All the realms need to feel his generosity, not just one. ‘Squamglut, Mulgus,’ he bellowed, catching the atten- Leave the fixed obsessions to the Skull Lord, is what he tion of his subservient Poxbringers. ‘Ghugh…gather the says now, and I agree.’ Tallybands! We make for the Crackenbone Realmgate! The Deluge has… hgh… business in the lands of the Rotigus shifted wetly. He rumbled deep in his chest. dead!’

‘You know something, don’t you? What… hugh… Horticulous gestured to his surviving flies, sending them hgh… is it?’ winging away to gather his own followers. He smiled a sly smile to himself and sucked the last marrow from his ‘I’ve seen things, heard ’em on flies’ wings, smelt their old chewing bone. Two of Nurgle’s mightiest daemons, charnel stink,’ said Horticulous. ‘There’s somethin’ bad and all those who would follow them to battle, amounted coming, Rainfather. The dead are on the rise, and if I’m to a prodigious force indeed. Whatever was stirring in right, the cycle’s under threat.’ the Realm of Death, he almost felt sorry for it…

‘If you are right,’ echoed Rotigus. ‘And whence do these… ugh… these winds blow? Where do you plan to ride that gastropodal steed of yours in… suhgh… search of answers?’

‘Where else?’ asked Horticulous. ‘Shyish. And I don’t look to go alone. Let the other fly-eyed fools scurry through Alarielle’s pretty fields. If you and I lead the Tallybands to the lands of the dead, and we put an end to whatever infecund mischief is brewin’ up, think how glopsome-glad Grandfather will be.’

‘A reward shared is a reward halved,’ said Rotigus.

‘Hah!’ barked the Grand Cultivator. ‘Alright, says you, then let’s make it a wager, eh? Surely even the barrens of Shyish can’t long stay dead with your powers of plenty to coax their generosity?’

‘He…ugh…who first discovers the source of your belly- aching and puts paid to it is declared the winner,’ said Rotigus, nodding his boulder-like head.

‘Aye,’ said Horticulous.

‘And if your…ghg…your fears prove baseless, little cul- tivator, and my time is wasted?’ asked Rotigus, his voice menacing.

‘They shan’t, and it won’t,’ said Horticulous, his eye locked steadily with Rotigus’ black orbs.

GRIM DELIVERANCE

‘Sister!’ her take him away.’

The distant call for aid rose above the groaning din in ‘Sister,’ said the pale woman, her voice as calm and cold the makeshift pesthouse. Gosma ignored it. She tied off as a glacial lake. ‘This man is beyond your help. I will the stitching she was working on and quickly assessed take him from your hands before his illness births more her current patient. The infection had spread into his or- disease.’ gans. He probably wouldn’t last the night. ‘Don’t let her do it,’ cried the soldier. ‘She kills the ones ‘Sister!’ cried the voice again, louder and more em- she takes! I hear them screaming as she wheels them phatic. Gosma picked up her few remaining ministration away, then they fall silent in an instant.’ supplies and pushed her way towards the voice, past the pallets, cots and rows of incense braziers. The waft of ‘I am ending their suffering,’ said the pale woman. ‘It is rot and burning spice filled her nostrils. In all her sea- a kindness for those beyond salvation.’ sons, she had never seen plague like this before. Gosma didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding Like everyone else in Grovenheim, Gosma thought the before her. She was exhausted, her mind clouded by the festering Daemons had been driven back from the val- endless gruesome work she had been performing. Per- ley, off to ravage some other poor town in the Heaving haps it was better if this patient was taken. From the Peaks. The townsfolk had celebrated and given praise to look of him, he didn’t have much longer to live anyway. Sigmar – a banquet had been held in this very hall, and Gosma drunk orchid-bud wine alongside the Freeguild Just then the man in the barrow let out a gurgling moan. guardsmen who had fought so long and so bravely. She Gosma looked down and saw a fist-sized cyst protruding woke up to screaming the next morning as the plague from his thigh. The skin on the cyst was undulating, the took hold of its first victims, and she’d barely slept or pressure within causing it bulge outwards. Gosma had eaten since. Truth be told, she could no longer remember seen this before – it was ready to burst, and she had only how long it had been. Days and nights blended together moments left to act. into a single nightmare, from which she would give any- thing to be awoken. Gosma lunged over to the nearest brazier and pulled the poker from the embers. She spun back to the man in the ‘Sister!!’ barrow and plunged the red-hot metal into the heart of the cyst. The reek of burning flesh and evaporated pus Gosma pushed through a throng of people and saw who hit Gosma like a battering ram, taking the air out of her was calling out to her. It was a soldier lying on a cot, his lungs in an instant. The man screamed in anguish as the left leg missing from the knee and his right shoulder poker seared into his leg, and as he arched his back in criss-crossed with stitches. She recognised him – she pain, his muck-encrusted jerkin split down the middle. had worked on him several days ago. She remembered Gosma’s heart sank as she saw his exposed abdomen, sawing his leg and gouging the rot from his shoulder, swollen to hemispherical proportions by another, far- but she hadn’t held much hope that he would survive. larger cyst. Yet here he was – wan and thin, but without the clammy complexion of the morbidly infected. The man’s belly burst open with a wet pop, sending a shower of maggot-filled pus flying outwards. The putrid It took Gosma a moment to notice that he was clutching eruption blasted Gosma to the floor. As she hit the the rim of a barrow, inside of which lay another man ground, she saw the soldier she had saved – he had been wracked with pain and fever. A woman dressed in black covered in plump maggots, each the size of a swollen and purple robes was trying to pull the handcart from the finger, and they were burrowing through the stitching on soldier’s grasp. Though her skin was corpse pale, she his shoulder and into the saw wound at the end of his was clearly strong and showed no sign of illness. leg. He was screaming. Gosma saw the pale woman moving towards the soldier, her black and purple robes ‘Help,’ said the soldier through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t let untouched by the contents of the cyst, and her fingers glowing with amethyst light…

GRIM DELIVERANCE

Jagged teeth sunk into Gosma’s skin and she cried out in ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just tell me what I need to do.’ pain. Her heart raced as she realised she too was covered in slime-coated maggots, and they were tearing at her by Gosma felt a grave chill spreading throughout her body. the score with their rows of razor fangs. She grabbed at the maggots and tried to pull them from her body, but ‘There is nothing you need do,’ said the pale woman, her they were already too far embedded in her flesh. Her lips curving into a thin smile. ‘Be still, sister, and your hands burned when she touched the grotesque pupae, end will come.’ and she could feel the infections carried by them spread- ing through her palms and fingers.

A purple light washed over Gosma. The maggots re- coiled and began to shrivel, each letting out a screeching wail. The cystic filth that covered Gosma started to evaporate, and her racing heart slowed to a crawl before – for a brief moment – stopping completely. The pale woman was looming over Gosma, her fingers splayed and her eyes glassed over. Gosma sat up, and the desic- cated husks of the maggots fell harmlessly to the floor. She looked over at the soldier. He too had been saved from the carnivorous worms. He lay dead on his cot, still and peaceful, the grimace of pain gone from his face.

‘By Sigmar,’ said Gosma under her breath.

‘No,’ said the pale woman. ‘Not by Sigmar.’

Gosma looked up at her saviour. There was an endless well of strength in the woman’s cold and piercing stare.

‘Sigmar has forsaken this place,’ the woman continued. ‘But Nagash sees your struggles.’

Nagash. Gosma had heard that name as a child, in the bedtime stories that had been told to frighten her.

‘Nagash can end the torments of these people,’ said the pale woman. ‘Nagash can end your own nightmare. He offers his help to you freely.’

The woman extended her hand down to Gosma. Gosma took a deep breath and looked around her. No one in the packed hall had noticed her ordeal; they were all too busy enduring their own woes and maladies.

‘Will you accept Nagash’s help?’ asked the pale woman, her hand still outstretched. Gosma took hold of the woman’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled up from the ground. THE HANGMAN’S CURSE

Lord Slougous leant on his bubotic hammer and Throughout the journey their crop of bodies ripened, and breathed a bubbling sigh of satisfaction. The battle Lord Slougous’ anticipation grew. With a connoisseur’s had been magnificent, the corpse-harvest bountiful. eye, he selected those that would yield the finest thrice- All around him lay fallen Freeguild soldiery, their ripened death’s heads, already mentally mixing the rot- uniforms torn and filth-spattered, their flesh swelling mulch and alchemical plagues he would add to perfect and rotting at an accelerated rate. His surviving war- their foulness. riors picked their way between the carrion heaps, selecting the finest specimens and hefting them onto Only when he and his warriors crested Fester Crag and creaking wooden carts. began their winding descent into the Valley of Biles did Slougous begin to feel an edge of disquiet. The sensation Above the mud and ruins of the battlefield, thunder rum- was wholly unfamiliar to him, and he could not place its bled through yellow-brown clouds. They opened like source. Yet as the turgid mists above the valley parted seeping wounds, drizzling rain as thick and clotted as and his stronghold was revealed, Slougous felt shock gruel. race through him.

‘Grandfather drools with delight at our deeds,’ Slougous Last he had seen it, the Valley of Biles had seethed with bellowed. His sonorous voice rolled across the carrion life, carpeted end to end by the fecund putrescence of field, and his Rotbringers raised their weapons and the Leper’s Wood. Now it was silent and still in a way roared back at him in triumph. ‘Now hurry swift, my he had never seen. Not a single fly droned through the pretty lads, and bring in the crop. There are bodies to air. Neither daemon mite, lolloping Beast nor hunched plant and nooses to sow, eh?’ and crooked gor-kin moved amongst the trees. Even the festering boughs were as unmoving as stone, with not a The hulking Blightkings redoubled their efforts, tossing drip nor creak nor squelch to disturb the sepulchral si- bodies into their carts with rambunctious cheer until the lence. mouldering wagons groaned under the weight. At last, Slougous judged that the harvest was done. Turning his At the forest’s heart lay the Hangman’s Orchard, the rusted helm up to the rain, he chanted a prayer to Nurgle centre of Lord Slougous’ power and the place where he in the old tongue of fallen Ghokoria. Foul waters driz- ripened his beloved death’s heads. Only there did the zled into his mouth, and he gladly swallowed them down mist still cling, yet as he strained his eyes, Slougous as the blessing they were. Then he turned, beckoning for could swear that he saw spectral shapes drifting amidst his warriors to follow, and began the long trudge back to it. Fleeting impressions of skulls and screaming faces the Leper’s Wood. Slougous left his own dead where swam through the vapours, there and gone in a heart- they had fallen; their putrescent corpses would seep Nur- beat. Slougous felt outrage replace his surprise. gle’s bounty into the soil, a last gift of fecundity to turn this barren plain into a garden of fungal delights. ‘What manner of interlopers are these, that have slipped wilesome into my wood and stilled its lively squirm,’ he The march back to Slougous’ stronghold took the best growled angrily. ‘Onward to the Hangman’s Orchard. part of two days, but never did he nor any of his warriors There shall be a reckoning they will not relish.’ slow their relentless pace. Nurgle’s blessings gave them endless succour, and Slougous reflected that they had The Blightkings made haste down the rocky path, haul- not toppled Ghokoria by taking their ease. They passed ing their carts of corpses behind them as they moved be- fallen duardin statues furred with muttermoss and crawl- neath the forest’s eaves. Here they found fresh cause for ing with gholb-slugs the size of cattle. They marched fury. Every rotted leaf and coiling liana, swollen tuber through the cadaverous ruins of cities that he remem- and fatted fungus had dried out until it was little more bered sacking so long ago, their streets now drowning in than brittle dust. Those plants the Blightkings disturbed bubbling swamps, their murals obscured by waving simply crumbled away, forming drifts over time that fronds and clouds of thrumming flies. Lord Slougous led looked for all the world like trickling black sand. his Rotbringers in song as they travelled, a droning dirge that echoed across the lands they had despoiled for Nur- gle. THE HANGMAN’S CURSE

The closer Lord Slougous and his warriors came to the Slougous turned and swung again, and again. Anger and forest’s heart, the more pronounced the desiccation be- disgust consumed him, drowning rational thought. came. At last they waded through sand and dust that piled up to their waists. By the time the Hangman’s Or- ‘This is a place of blessed life, not sterile undeath!’ he chard loomed ahead, Slougous’ wrath filled him up like bellowed. ‘You have no right!’ boiling bile. The Leper’s Forest was his garden to tend. Slougous’ rampage continued, but now he realised that It had stood for generations, always swelling and grow- the bodies were clawing at their nooses with mindless, ing, always burgeoning with fresh foulness. Some bale- mechanical strength. Some managed to tear through the ful force had sucked its vitality dry in a matter of days, hemp, dropping from the trees like flyblown fruit. Oth- destroying the labours of centuries. ers dangled lower as muscle and flesh tore, vertebrae popped loose, and heads messily parted company with Bubotic hammer clutched firmly in both hands, Lord bodies. Corpses thumped down amidst the tree roots, Slougous strode purposefully into the mist. Instantly he only to stir and stagger upright again. was alone, cut off from his surroundings by a soft and muffling blanket of icy vapours. Half-seen shapes Lord Slougous wheeled at the heart of his orchard, see- whirled around him. Twitching things flickered into ing corpses stumbling towards him from all around. sight and were gone again, all tattered rags and waving Their clawing hands reached for him as though beseech- hair. Slougous’ warriors had vanished behind him as ing. Their torn flesh leaked waxy slime. Even those he though they had never been, yet still he pressed on. had smashed out of sight came staggering back through the mists. ‘Great Nurgle watch over me,’ he muttered, his words falling dead amidst the smothering fog. If Slougous’ pa- ‘Rotbringers, to me!’ he shouted, but his words echoed tron heard his prayer, he gave no sign. back to him, distorted into ghastly screams. Still there was no sign of his warriors, just more dead men, and Suddenly the orchard loomed up, its thorned boughs more, more than could possibly have hung from the gal- emerging from the mist like a skeletal claw closing lows trees. Some wore Freeguild uniforms. Some wore around him. This was where the Rotbringers had planted the garb of old Ghokoria. Planting his feet, swinging his the dead with nooses strung around their necks, that the hammer in tight arcs, Lord Slougous prepared to meet gallows trees might hoist them high and ripen their cra- them. nia into death’s heads. It was his inner sanctum, his lov- ingly tended garden. Now it seemed strange and alien, ‘Come then, corpses,’ he snarled. ‘Let me show you and Slougous’ wrath turned to doubt as he saw the dan- your proper place in Grandfather’s endless cycle.’ As gling cadavers amidst the fog. one, the dead lunged for him, and he swung his hammer with a fearsome roar. It took him a moment to recognise what was wrong; the bodies were writhing, kicking and clawing as though Grulgoch had fought under Lord Slougous’ banner for deep underwater. Their bloated faces turned towards him many years. Always he had been loyal. Yet in this battle, as one. Stitches popped and tore as their eyes opened, he had been unable to serve his master. Grulgoch had empty sockets weeping viscous green tears. Their plunged into the mists right behind Slougous, only to mouths yawned wide, disgorging dead maggots and find himself wandering lost and alone amongst its va- ropey plague-fluids. The cadavers’ jaws worked, but pours. Now, at last, the unnatural fog parted, melting whatever words they meant him to hear emerged as away like ice before a flame. As it did, he saw his com- nothing more than a dusty croak. rades, stumbling in confusion around the orchard.

‘Sacrilege!’ roared Lord Slougous. He swung his ham- Whatever sorcery had misdirected them and held them at mer with all his might, smashing it into the nearest bay, it was dissipating at last. But as it did, Grulgoch’s corpse. The body crumpled beneath the thunderous eyes alighted upon his lord and a groan of denial bub- blow, its noose tearing free from the bough that bore it. bled from his lips. The cadaver flew across the clearing and vanished amidst the mist. THE HANGMAN’S CURSE

Every tree in the Hangman’s Orchard was empty, corpses vanished, nooses dangling like intestines from a ruptured corpse. Every tree, that is, bar one, the greatest of them all, whose branches had twisted and deformed until they wove the shape of a leering skull fifty feet across. From that towering gallows tree hung Lord Slougous, helm torn away, nooses looped around his neck in profusion. His body was rent and torn, nameless fluids soaking into the dry soil below. His head was des- iccated and shrunken, its flesh papery, eyes white and dead.

His jaw hung open, and from within spilled a slow, steady stream of night-black sand… TO TRULY EXCEL

The bloated, tentacle-limbed warrior’s head burst his sword upon the hardwood. ‘Open the gate.’ apart under Hyphor’s hammer. A putrid eruption of brain and bone splattered across the Liberator’s They heard a shuffle of movement on the other side of breastplate, blemishing its cream-white sheen. He the wall, and the gate yawned open to reveal a group of smashed the dead thing aside with his shield and thin, sallow-looking humans dressed in tattered uni- sought his next quarry – a horn-helmed brute wield- forms. The Stormcast Eternals tramped across the cause- ing a rusted cleaver. That one’s spine was shattered way and entered the town, where they were met with the with a backhand swing. Next was a grotesque with a overpowering stench of death and decay, the scent of leering, black-toothed grin, battered to bloody pieces, bodies trapped together for days without food or rest or then a capering plague-sprite, crushed to paste be- clean water. Holmspear was home to no more than a neath Hyphor’s boot. On all sides the wretches were hundred souls, and it seemed barely a fraction of that dying too fast to count. Soon, the Stormcast Eternal number still lived. Corpses lay piled here and there was wading through a morass of torn and shattered amidst a tangle of root-carved shacks and modest stone corpses, and the last of the Nurgle-worshipping filth cottages, covered only by a few pitiful rags. were attempting to flee into the coiling lash-fronds of the deep forest, scuttling back to their putrescent ‘God-King bless you, my lords,’ said the apparent leader lairs like roaches exposed to sunlight. of the town guard, a stick-thin fellow whose eyes were crusted with yellow grime, and whose hands trembled Not a single one made the woodland edge. Though sev- noticeably as he made the sign of the comet. eral of their own number fell to the heretics’ rusted Hyphor gazed upon the emaciated creature. So small and blades, the Knights Excelsior cut their foes down with weak. So susceptible. Once, such weakness might have merciless efficiency, cleaving heads and shattering inspired pity in him, but Hyphor had fought and died bones with every strike. Before long, the sounds of bat- and been reborn in the soul-forges of Azyrheim so many tle ceased, and all that could be heard were the driving times that he only dimly recalled the concept. The sear- rain and low growl of approaching thunderclouds. ing crucible of the Reforging process had robbed him of doubt and hesitation, and opened his eyes to a stark truth ‘That is the last of them,’ said Liberator-Prime Rygos, – in the realms there existed only the savagery of un- wiping ichor from his warblade. ‘For now, at least. Be trammelled chaos and the security of pure order. Justice on your guard. These forests crawl with the Plague and anarchy. The righteous and the afflicted. God’s foul vermin.’ The man shrank beneath Hyphor’s appraising stare. In truth, it had hardly been a battle worthy of the Knights Excelsior. The plague-ridden warband was a The Knights Excelsior formed up in ranks in a cramped mere splinter of the great hosts that despoiled these clearing that passed for the town square, standing still as lands. The filthy deviants had not even managed to statues in the downpour. The storm clouds were so breach Holmspear’s palisade walls, protected as they heavy that the land was smothered in shadow, though were by a sturdy ring of spitebranch trees. Caught be- the hour was not late. Thunder rumbled overhead. From tween the hammers of the Stormcast Eternals and the the doors and windows of nearby buildings, a few thin, foot-long thorns of the settlement’s fearsome natural pale faces peered out at the newcomers. barrier, the Nurgle worshippers had been swiftly dis- posed of. Flyblown bodies filled the perimeter trench, ‘We are too late,’ said Hyphor, taking in the corpse- bobbing against each in a soupy quagmire of blood and strewn township and its wretched inhabitants. ‘You slime. The rain continued to lash down. Soon the moat sense it, Liberator-Prime? Rot has seeped into the life- would overflow, spilling its rancid contents into the blood of this place.’ town’s streets.

‘The enemy is routed,’ shouted Rygos, striding across a narrow causeway that led over the trench and met the main doors of Holmspear. He slammed the pommel of TO TRULY EXCEL

In the center of the square stood a statue of a Sigmarite what was fear but the final admission of a guilty soul? saint, a stern patriarch with hammer held high and a Despite his revulsion, he vowed that justice would be prayer scroll clutched in his other hand. The monument swift. The mortals’ stubborn resistance had earned them was cloaked in sickly green slime, and Hyphor saw fat- that, at least. bodied maggots crawling across its surface. More of the revolting things writhed in the window frames and gut- Liberator-Prime Rygos drew his blade from its scabbard. ters of nearby hovels, and across the bodies of the fallen. It shone brightly, even in the gathering darkness. Circling the base of the statue was the remnant of what must have once been a wellspring, now choked and ‘Bar the gates,’ he said. clogged with viscous, bubbling fluid. The entire place reeked like an infected wound.

‘We are tasked with scouring the corruption from Holmspear,’ said Liberator-Prime Rygos. ‘It seems our work is not yet done.’

‘The walls may have held the Plague God’s servants at bay,’ said Hyphor, ‘but Holmspear is in his foul grasp nonetheless.’

‘If even one of these mortals bears the taint of impurity, then soon will the rest,’ said Rygos. ‘And it will not stop here. It will spread, village to village, township to town- ship. Eventually, to the very gates of the Living City. That is the way of corruption. It cannot be tolerated or ignored. It must be burned out, root and stem.’

Rygos’ eyes were shards of ice blue, without pupils or irises. They shimmered and flickered softly within the depths of his war mask, like a flame caught in the wind. The endless cycle of death and Reforging had left its mark on their leader, as it had so many of their number.

‘We will earn no prestige or honour this night,’ he said. ‘But a Knight Excelsior craves not such things. He seeks only to excel at the task for which he was forged – to destroy the servants of the Dark Gods, wherever they may be found. Whether they serve willingly or no. For the glory of Sigmar.’

‘For the glory of Sigmar!’ the Liberators chanted as one, clashing their shields against the rain-slick stones.

The ragged remnant of the town guard stared at each other, and their confusion turned slowly to unease as they realised something was dreadfully wrong. Hyphor could smell the bitter reek of their rising fear, which only girded his soul for what must come next – after all, DELUGE OF LIFE

Rotigus Rainfather waded through the lake of in- There were people up there on the border-cairn, and liv- fected waters that, only three days before, had been a ing ones to boot. He couldn’t wait to hear their screams bone-dry plain. Stretching to the horizon was a vast of joy, their little faces twisted in animalistic gratitude as patchwork tapestry of pitched battles, brawls, skir- he showed them who had brought them a chance to live mishes and last stands fought between his blessed again. minions and the skeletal creatures of the Great Nec- romancer. Rotigus’ Plaguebearer attendants sur- ‘Come on, you… blurgh… slubberdegullions,’ called rounded him, with tentacled Beasts splashing in the out Rotigus to the army of Plaguebearers slouching waters alongside. through the waters behind him. ‘To the hill!’

The Rainfather glanced from under furrowed brows at As Rotigus grew close, the people on the crest of the rise the skies above. They were still grumbling like unquiet lit torches with amethyst flame, transferred the fires to bowels. The dank green clouds of Nurgle’s Deluge cloth-bound arrows and opened fire, the projectiles arc- veiled an evil, skull-like moon that had glowered down ing through the air to plop and hiss around him. One upon the invading daemons since the moment they had struck him in the torso, eliciting a sizzle of burning fat come through the Portal of Thorns. and a flash of pain.

Those grim clouds were mustering yet another squall to ‘Ho!’ he rumbled, ‘is that any way to treat your sav- soak this desiccated land in fecund filth. The Innerlands iour?’ of Shyish had not proved so barren they were immune to Rotigus’ magic, as that old dotard Horticulous Slimux Another two arrows shot in, slamming into his flabby had claimed. As far as Rotigus was concerned, his com- gut. One landed right in his belly maw, crackling on his ing had heralded the salvation of this life-forsaken do- nether-tongue. ‘Right!’ shouted Rotigus, bristling with main. So why were its denizens resisting him so? indignation as his gut spat out the steaming arrow. ‘You’re… baruugh… in for it now, my pretties!’ Suddenly a clutch of skeletons burst from the water, their little claws grabbing at his blubbery hide. He swept High on the hill, Rotigus could see a robed human – one them away with his gnarlrod, sending bones plopping of Nagashizzar’s cursed necromancers, by his ghastly and scattering everywhere. ‘You breakers of the great aura and the wisps of amethyst light flying from his cycle,’ he rumbled. ‘Foul and wrong. But still you need mouth as he cast his spells. A wedge of skeletal knights a… urgh… burial of sorts, that the worms may grow burst from the waters in response, their fleshless steeds fat.’ screaming as they bore down upon Rotigus. The greater daemon swept aside their lances and barrelled through As if summoned by the words, a skeletal serpent burst them like a battering ram through a wicker gate. He had from the water. It rose up high, giant skull dripping and to save the people up on the hill before the necromancer bony jaws agape. An impressive specimen, thought got them, too. Already he could see armoured skeletons Rotigus as he heaved up a river of bile from his guts. He clambering out of the barrow holes that gaped around vomited out a vast stream, the geyser of watery slurry the hill’s periphery. hitting the bone serpent with unremitting force. The skeletal creature fought hard for a moment, then came ‘Not this day,’ shouted Rotigus, yanking out a length of apart altogether. ‘You’ll have… ghrurp… to try his lower intestine and hurling it like a giant, wet bolas harder… brahrp… than that,’ dribbled Rotigus, swal- at the necromancer atop the hill. The tube-like length of lowing a mouthful of clotted puke. putrid gut sailed through the air to slam into the gaunt human with a satisfying splat. It coiled around his Rainwater swilled around Rotigus’ immense thighs as he stunned form, crushing the life out of him. made for the hill in the middle distance. It was one of the many cairns that marked the borders of Nagashizzar – Rotigus could clearly see that vast black citadel pro- truding from the horizon like a blackened, jagged nail. DELUGE OF LIFE

Rotigus was at the base of the hill now, a pack of lollop- ing Beasts of Nurgle at his side. He stamped a wight into the dirt, the glowing balefires in its eyes snuffed out in an instant. Part of the hill fell away in a landslide, a usu- ally pleasing sight for Rotigus – but not this time. In- stead of unearthing writhing worms or corpse-eater ter- mites, the crumbling cairn was lousy with animated skeletons.

Rotigus felt more flaming arrows pierce his blubbery hide as the barrow skeletons clawed and stabbed at his legs, gut, backside and spine. ‘What are you… hurggh… doing?’ he bellowed. ‘I have come to save you… ha- ruggh… from dryness and sterility! Don’t you realise what these things are?’

As if in answer, the rain of arrows intensified. He saw two of his Beasts riddled with arrows, mewling pitifully as they discorporated in puffs of stinking, green-brown mist. Rotigus felt more blades and arrows dig into his hide, and a cold, hollowing sensation as the ichor-slop of his blood flowed away to join the floodwaters lapping at the base of the hill. ‘No!’ he roared, sweeping a dozen skeletal warriors away with one swing of his staff. ‘You cannot stop the Deluge!’

The Rainfather saw a clutch of human marksmen gain the crest of the hill, resting their crossbows on the shoul- ders of the skeleton shieldsmen that protected them from the Plaguebearers gaining the hill. The order to fire went up, and they levelled another volley even as a rain of flaming arrows struck Rotigus in the face and chest.

The last thing the Rainfather saw before he lost cohesion altogether was a baleful skull leering down from the pal- lid, fat moon, with the spires of Nagashizzar reaching up to clutch at it like a skeletal hand. THE OFFER

My Lord General, this missive was discovered by poons and settled our telescopes on the Realmgates. chance, and I felt it demanded your immediate atten- tion. It was found by a wildlands patrol some thirty We had been pushing the fort hard, and the engineers miles from the eastern ramparts of Hammerhal were glad of the rest. None for the soldiery though; we Aqsha, scrawled upon mouldering parchment and dropped drawbridge and the scouts rode out, eighty men tied to the leg of a dead messenger-hawk that the and steeds vanishing across the dusty steppes towards scouts described as an ‘age-rotted husk’. I do not those distant glowing arches. pretend to understand the full horror of this message or the strange circumstances of its discovery. How- The first day was quiet, I remember that. The night too. ever, I will have my fellow captains make ready their regiments should you deem it necessary to deploy the It was on the second night that we saw the Realmgates Freeguild in haste. glowing brighter. A cold light it was, and a cold wind that followed it, flowing steady and endless out of the For the immediate and most urgent attention of Lord gates. General Estimion, Hammerhal Aqsha Chamber Strate- gic. An hour or so after dark, the sentries gave a cry. I thought perhaps our scouts were returned. Hastening to My Lord, forgive a doomed man his presumption, but the lower ramparts, I instead saw a spectral figure what I say here cannot wait for slow passage through astride a ghastly steed. As I made the rampart his the ranks. This is the last operational report of the cog- helmed head snapped up to regard me. fort Light of Hope. In a whispering voice that all could hear, he made us an Our cogfort was proudest amongst all the mobile bas- offer. I cannot forget those words, my Lord. They echo tions of Hammerhal Aqsha. On her piston-driven legs, still. she carried us ever eastwards from the city walls, and the light of civilisation dawned anew in her wake. Chaos ‘Nagash claims these lands, as he claims all lands, as warbands broke like waves upon her ironclad flanks. death shall always have its due. The dark gale rises. I The scourging processions followed her, while the sor- offer you one chance. Give yourselves over willingly. cerous shield that protects our great city crackled ever Serve, and endure. Or refuse, and die.’ from her highest vanes, linking her with the other cog- forts that form the Outer Web. It was a proud duty, and I am proud to say that my answer was as swift as it was one we did well. profane. I ordered the wizard, Taggandorph, to banish the foul ghast, yet already the thing was fading away. I am rambling. No time for that. Still the ill wind blew. Forgive me. By the next day we had to admit that the scouts were It is hard to overdue. The wind blew ever stronger from the gates, bringing now a stench of open graves. No man exposed We skirted the arterials of the Heartblood Sea. I think it to its chill could warm himself, and all felt weak and ex- was a week ago. It may have been longer. Our orders hausted. were to press ahead, and to secure the Realmgates known as the Gates Below, which lead to Shyish. We I knew even without Taggandorph’s urgings that this were to watch over their approaches, prevent anything wind was cursed. I ordered the boilers lit, and the men untoward slinking through them while the duardin to prepare to withdraw. pushed up with stock and stone to build permanent forti- fications. Then came cries below decks.

We settled a mile from the gates, fired anchoring har- THE OFFER

The engineers found the boilers rusted shut. Upon wrenching them open, vast quantities of cold ash bil- lowed forth. Those men that breathed it ailed within minutes. I ordered the engine deck sealed at once. Better some than all.

Two choices remained: dig in, or evacuate. The wind had become a gale. Fell voices carried upon it. I knew we were cursed; that we could not remain. Yet upon or- dering the men to abandon the fort, it was found that every hatchway had rusted shut as though not opened for a thousand years. We were forced to lash lines and send men over the ramparts, to abseil to the ground be- low.

By that time the men were greying in their hair. Teeth were black, eyes paling with blindness and skin wrin- kling as though dotage had come upon us all. Weak limbs cannot hold like those strong and young. Private Kellin was halfway to the ground when he lost his grip and fell. A kindness, perhaps. I hope he was dead before the soil erupted around his fallen body and the hands of my lost scouts dragged him down.

What could we do? A moat of grasping hands sur- rounded a cogfort that could not move, that was rusting around us even as we aged and fell to dust. It was then that the figure appeared again, even as my brave lads perished and crumbled away around me, one by one. What could I say? What would I not have said, to stop this horror?

Sigmar forgive me and hear a dying man’s confession: I cried out to that grim figure and begged mercy, that we would offer our fealty if only he would stop this mon- strous assault. He simply shook his head, and whispered above the screaming gale.

‘The time for willing service has passed.’

He has watched since, from below the walls, as we transform to dust and bones amidst this hideous gale. So do I scribe this last warning with the hands of an an- cient, barely gripping the quill, my skin already peeling away. I ache. But it must be sent. You must be warned.

The ill wind blows, and all before it are damned. THE GREAT TOIL

Lord-Ordinator Vorrus Starstrike heaved open the low sockets fixed ahead as they marched without pause door to the arcanoscope chamber, releasing a gentle to some predetermined destination. A visceral chill draught into the stairwell. He inhaled deeply as the seeped into Vorrus’ mind. What was this legion, and air flowed past him. Though the foul scent of the rat- where was it headed? Had it been raised by one of Na- men pervaded the rest of the Warscryer Citadel, the gash’s morbid generals to lay waste to the living, or had Lord-Ordinator detected no trace of it here. The ar- it been formed by the Great Necromancer himself for canoscope’s enchanted locks must have held them at some other cryptic purpose? An instinct just beyond his bay – thank Sigmar. consciousness told him that this deathly horde had to be destroyed. Vorrus walked into the chamber. Through his seer’s sight he could see the incandescent rivulets of Azyrite The celestial streams surrounding Vorrus began to inten- energy pouring from the veins of celestium that ran sify as he drew the arcane power of the Warscryer Cita- through the masonry. These lines converged beneath the del into his mind. The Lord-Ordinator shaped the energy apex of the arcanoscope’s dome, forming a large, glow- into a crackling cloud of Azyrite lightning, then pro- ing ball of cerulean lightning. This was the eye of the jected this mighty thunderhead through time and space, arcanoscope, the locus of futures through which the willing it into existence within the world of his vision. A skeins of fate could be glimpsed and steered towards the shadow loomed over the skeletal legion, and as one the path of Sigmar’s righteousness. It was for this that the ranked dead turned their grim faces towards the heavens. Lord-Ordinator and his fellow Stormcast Eternals had Vorrus looked back down upon them, a tempest of right- fought so determinedly, cleansing the citadel of the rat- eous fury building within his soul. The force of a thou- men infestation so that Vorrus might interpret the por- sand heavenly stars burnt within his spirit, and with an tents of what was yet to come. almighty boom he unleashed the storm upon the wretches below. His mind steeled, Vorrus stepped into the crackling orb. The energy held in the arcanoscope jolted through his An enormous fork of lightning lanced down to ground, sigmarite-clad body, and in an instant the world around blasting apart the dead earth and sending the shattered him was gone. The dome that had arched above him was remnants of a trio of skeletons flying. Another crackling no more, and in its place he saw the heavens in all their salvo ripped great swathes through the unliving line, set- majesty, extending ever outwards toward the bounds of ting bones ablaze and transmuting the soil to glass. Vor- eternity. Celestial bodies beyond counting were scat- rus howled in pain and rage as he channelled the energy tered throughout the endless void, each a single point of of the citadel into each strike, sending bolt after bolt to light in a vast desert of darkness. Every star walked smite the undead. He could no longer see the skeletons, along its long and circumscribed path followed by ten only the billowing clouds of dust that had been ripped up hundred thousand more of its kind, forming an unbroken from the scorched ground, yet he continued to fuel the line that stretched beyond the horizon of mortal compre- storm. The agony it caused was unbearable, the will- hension. They were all part of a singular grand design, power required untenable, but this was the task for and they marched to the beat of one unerring drummer. which he had been reforged. But these were not stars that Vorrus was seeing. With a bellow of defiance, Vorrus drained the last of his The Lord-Ordinator wrestled with the prophetic vision, strength to shape a single, blinding sheet of lightning straining to bring its true meaning into focus. A long that cracked across the land. A score of decrepit warriors procession of white orbs moving through a lifeless ex- were ripped apart by this blast, the remnants of their panse – not in the heavens above, but in the underworlds bones fused into the soil by the intense celestial heat. below. Vorrus could see that the dark desert was Shyish, Exhausted, mind and soul, Vorrus looked down upon the and that each of the gleaming orbs was a desiccated destruction he had wrought. The heart of the skeletal skull bestowed with cold and malefic vigour. It was a army had been ripped out. Hopefully that would be skeletal legion with numbers beyond counting, stretched enough to change the path of fate along which these un- out in a single-file line as they trudged across the barren dead minions were marching. flats. Each skeleton moved in perfect unison, their hol-

THE GREAT TOIL

But those skeletons still standing continued to trudge across the blasted landscape, and soon they stretched once more from horizon to horizon. With his vision rap- idly fading, Vorrus looked beyond the horizon, and there he saw the horrifying truth. Though he had destroyed dozens of undead, they were but the first in an unending line that stretched all the way to the Realm’s Edge. Looking further still, he saw hundreds – no, thousands of processions such as this, each marching its way in- exorably towards the same destination.

Vorrus awoke with a jolt. He was lying on the cold stone floor of the arcanscope chamber, the ball of celestial en- ergy at its centre now little more than a dull mote. His body ached as though he had just fought a century-long campaign, and the final, terrifying images from his vi- sion continued to flit through his mind. What horror had he just witnessed? As he pondered the omen, Vorrus heard a faint, almost imperceptible sound echoing through the arcanoscope. thd thd thd

The distant marching of millions of bony feet. THE PARADISE BELOW

Warboss Naglig surveyed the carnage littered across ‘Who’s sneakin’ about back there?’ screeched Kizik the the cavern of the Black Worm Tribe. His already foul squig-herder, peering through narrowed eyes into the mood blackened even further. Dozens of his fellow swirling mists. grots lay dead amidst the fungus-covered stalagmites, torn and bludgeoned to bloody ruin. A figure hobbled out of the gloom. At first, Naglig thought that one of the great shadowcap mushrooms that ‘A curse on them big ’uns,’ he spat, brandishing his tri- littered the cave had come to life. As the newcomer forked moon-prodder with helpless rage. ‘Let da Bad came closer, however, Naglig saw that it was a grot. Moon fall on ’em and crush their stinkin’ heads!’ What looked like a broad, flat hat was in fact a fungoid growth that protruded from the creature’s skull. Beneath ‘It’s da Cracked Skull lot,’ hissed one of his remaining this impressive canopy was an angular, pinched face warriors, kicking one of the few orruk corpses that lay with a chin that curved into a point sharp as a fish hook. amidst the sea of grot dead. Its flesh was bare and cov- ered in grey-black soot, aside from the face, which bore A Cave-Shaman. The figure waddled up the slope to- the purple outline of a grinning skull. wards the wary grots, a wide grin smeared across his face. Naglig felt an awed reverence as he looked into the There was a chorus of curses and bitter invective from priest’s manic eyes, which blazed with shroom-addled the surrounding tribe, those who had managed to sneak intensity. It was said that the Cave-Shamans spoke di- away from the ambush unscathed. rectly to Gorkamorka whenever they feasted upon their sacred deffcaps, and their holy visions always led to a It had been too long since the tribes of the Smokescar fine festival of slaughter. A visit from one of the Great had had a proper fight to keep them all distracted, and Green God’s roving war-seekers was a blessing from the when the orruks got bored, it was the Black Worm who Bad Moon all right. In all their long and not often glori- suffered. The Moonclan Grots had been happily throw- ous history, the Black Worm Tribe had never received ing their last few prisoners into the squig-pits when the such an honour. skull-faces had struck. They had been bellowing and hollering something fierce as they bounded into the cav- ‘Well you is a sorry lot, ain’t ya?’ the mad-eyed priest ern, clubbing and smashing everything in their path. cackled. ‘Trapped in these here caves, hunted by storm- gits and battered by big ’uns whenever it takes their Naglig spat a lump of black, viscous matter that splashed fancy. Bad Moon ain’t shining down on you, no boss.’ across the face of the dead orruk. At this rate he would hardly have any warriors left come raiding season. Despite his awe at the Cave-Shaman’s presence, Naglig felt a bitter ball of irritation building up inside him. How he longed to sneak up through the smoke vents and pay a visit to those cursed skull-faces while they slept, to ‘Ain’t our fault,’ he hissed. ‘Them big ’uns is all over da open a few throats and put out a few eyes until his toes place. They—’ were splashing and squelching in blood. He entertained himself with the vision for a while, but it swiftly faded The Cave-Shaman held up a long, crooked finger. into bitterness. The orruks were too big and too many. The Black Worm had no choice but to suffer their atten- ‘Bite yer tongue, Warboss,’ he said. tion until the snows melted, and the orruk tribes were once more able to turn their axes towards the long-ears The mad-eyed priest began to shuffle and twirl with a in the valley below. madcap flourish, stamping his feet and brandishing his crooked staff. The wriggling centipede creature atop the He heard the shuffle of movement off to the left and stave’s tip writhed and hissed in irritation as the priest spun, raising his moon-prodder. Snort hissed and shuf- whirled and cackled and kicked his iron-capped toes. fled its feet at his side. The squig’s jaws already dripped with black blood and trails of stringy grot-flesh. THE PARADISE BELOW

‘Da Bad Moon hangs over the land below,’ bellowed the Something slammed into Naglig’s jaw, and he awoke to Cave-Shaman as he cavorted madly. ‘Above a desert of find himself sprawled in a puddle of his own drool, his greenskin dead, all split and poked and stung by arrows. chin aching from where he had struck it upon the cavern No orruks left down there. No big-toofed ones to clobber floor. He was dimly aware of his warriors stirring awake and bellow and whip you bloody-raw. Only glory for with wild-eyed confusion upon their ugly faces, some grots!’ vomiting streams of bright yellow bile. Naglig felt as if he had been entirely hollowed out, his guts and bones Choking spores began to spill from the Cave-Shaman’s replaced by blazing light. mushroom crown. Naglig blinked and retched as the cloud seeped into his enormous nostrils, setting his brain He staggered to his knees. The Cave-Shaman loomed alight with painful yet tantalising fire. over him, eyes gleaming with mad moonlight, his mouth fizzing with tangled stalks of fungus. ‘Witness da true power of Black Worm Tribe!’ roared the shroom-priest. ‘Witness what awaits you all in the ‘So,’ the Cave-Shaman said. ‘You followin’ me or lands below, where grots rule all!’ what?’

And with that, he blew a cloud of sparkling powder into Naglig’s stomach lurched and groaned as the swirling the Warboss’s face. vortex spat him out into empty air. He landed, stumbling and cursing, on a mound of jagged bone fragments. Naglig’s mind was torn forcibly from his spindly body, Chipped skulls and rotting finger bones crunched be- sent soaring out across a burning dreamscape of sour- neath his boots. More Black Worm grots were pouring green skies and rolling amethyst dunes. He saw himself through the whirling portal of green energy, spilling out at the head of an immense army of hooded grots baying and rolling down the hill before clambering, grumbling beneath a outsized moon that leered down at them with and unsteady, to their feet. The sounds of battle and sadistic glee. Before this mighty army were arrayed le- slaughter met Naglig’s ears, and he looked up eagerly, gions of rust-clad skeletons. Even as Naglig took in his expecting to see the same billions-strong tide of grots he new surroundings, he saw more of the restless dead had witnessed in his shroom-summoned visions, dancing marching forth from ancient tomb-cities hidden beneath and killing beneath the Bad Moon. the sands, assembling in unthinkable numbers. Instead he saw a valley of the dead come to life. On all Yet as numerous as the dead were, Naglig’s army was sides, rib-shaped arcs of yellowed bone curved away even greater. A living carpet of bounding squigs swept towards a sky of deepest purple. Within the valleys and towards the skeletal horde, a tidal wave of red flesh canyons formed by these mountainous bones, scattered sweeping across the ashen plains. Naglig shrieked his bands of greenskins were surrounded on all sides by a prayers to the Bad Moon, and his endless mob screamed surging horde of skeletal warriors, so vast that it seemed along with him, the clamour of their voices reaching the valley floor itself was writhing. Great swooping such a pitch that distant mountain ranges crumbled to clouds of bats whirled overhead, and within the thick nothing, and blazing, sickle-shaped meteors rained from flock of leathery wings Naglig could see massive, hu- the maddened sky to crush mausoleum cities and barrow man-shaped figures with wide, fang-filled mouths. The -mounds to dust. The grot army began to run towards screams of the dying filled the air. Naglig saw the ban- this most glorious battle, this gift from the great god ners of other Moonclan tribes protruding from within the Gorkamorka, and Naglig followed. As he charged, faster sea of shifting bones, isolated islands of black-clad fig- and faster, his feet left the ground and he was soaring ures slowly being torn down and shredded by the relent- out over the ocean of black-clad bodies, as the skies ex- less pressing of the dead. Some tried to flee, only to be ploded in flaming spirals of lurid colour. His own name snatched up by the bat-like predators, which wheeled rolled across the desolate wastes, bellowed by a billion away with their prize clamped between razor-sharp grots as they leaped into this battle at the end of all claws. things.

THE PARADISE BELOW

‘’Ere we are then,’ came a voice behind him, and Naglig turned to see the Cave-Shaman brushing bone-dust from his robes. The portal whirled and spat behind him, unleashing trails of sparkling energy that illuminated the shroom-priest’s immense fungoid crown.

‘What’s this?’ shrieked Warboss Naglig, jabbing his moon-prodder at the apocalyptic scene before them. ‘You said we was kings down ’ere. You said we’d have glory and power and all that, away from the stinkin’ or- ruks.’

The Cave-Shaman flashed him a toothy grin.

‘Maybe you will or maybe you won’t,’ the priest chuck- led. ‘First, you got some scrappin’ to do, I reckon.’

With that the Cave-Shaman stepped back through the sputtering portal, and both disappeared in a crackle of emerald lightning. No sooner had the vortex collapsed in on itself than skeletal hands began to thrust out of the bone-pile all around the Black Worm grots. His blood turning to ice, Warboss Naglig looked around for an es- cape route, but saw only the dead dragging themselves upright, clutching rusted swords and ancient, iron- rimmed shields.

Something firm and sharp locked around Naglig’s ankle. With a screech of horror, the Warboss found himself be- ing dragged down into a churning grave. DUEL UNDER A BLOODY SKY

The warlord’s court lay amidst the ruins of a cres- ‘You think to come here and make demands of me?’ he cent-shaped colonnade, its marble columns cracked roared, red-flecked spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Of and splintered by time and smeared with brownish Tarvak the Flayer, Scourge of the Plains, Butcher of the trails of dried blood. Corpses were impaled upon Iron Forest?’ these columns, lit torches stuffed into their mouths, forming a ring of flickering light. Yellowed skulls ‘Your dreams have been troubled of late,’ she said. and shattered bones were stacked in great piles around a throne of beaten iron, spiked and hunching His sunken eyes twitched in surprise. He had indeed in the centre of the arena like a metal spider. It been visited by unsettling visions in recent nights, not at smelled of ashes and the sickening, copper-sweet tang all like the vibrant memories of slaughter and conquest of spilled gore. The court was open to the skies above, that usually found him in the twilight hours. where ragged streaks of cloud hunted each other be- neath the ravenous gaze of a blood-red moon. ‘I know what you saw,’ she continued. ‘A desert of the grave spread across the Eight Realms. A wasteland, The woman stood before the throne, one hand resting empty of life. Empty of blood and passion and honest upon a wicked war axe, the other bearing a rune-marked battle.’ targe. She wore a horned helm, and her leather and scale armour was bedecked with skulls and hard-won trophies. ‘How do you know this?’

‘The deathly winds rise, and the corpse-moon waxes ‘It must not come to pass,’ she continued, ignoring his high,’ she said, her dark eyes shimmering in the light of interruption. ‘The Blood God sent you those visions to the corpse-braziers. ‘The dark pantheon calls us to the warn you of what is coming, and the pantheon sends me lands of the dead. You must answer this summons. You to see its will done. Fight for me, and I will bring you will march to Shyish beneath the banners of the Bloody the glory you seek. Khorne’s raging eye will be drawn to Sky.’ you, Tarvak, and you shall be the instrument of his wrath.’ The warrior woman was tall and broad-shouldered, but even she was dwarfed by the man upon the throne. His Tarvak bent his enormous head, mouth locked in that body was grotesquely swollen with power. Even seated, ugly leer. he loomed over her, his arms rippling with muscle, his bull-like head sat upon a thick, corded neck. Tattoos and ‘I bend my knee to no one,’ he said. ‘Neither man nor ritual scarring covered every inch of his flesh, and his woman is worthy of my fealty, for none have ever de- mouth was split into a gruesome leer by two deep, feated me in battle. I care not for your soothsaying, crusted gouges that ran from the corners of his mouth to witch. Serpent lies and trickery hold no sway over the his eyes. Even sat still, the savage king radiated a terrify- Blood God’s faithful.’ ingly intense energy. His fingers twitched and caressed the haft of his spiked greatsword – a weapon that had The woman was unmoved. ‘The Dark Gods demand tasted the blood of thousands of challengers in a long your fealty,’ she said. ‘I am merely the servant of their and gore-splattered reign. immortal will. The Flayed Legion will follow me to Shyish, whether you march at their head or not.’ Tarvak the Flayer. A name feared across the Plains of the Bleeding Sky. A name synonymous with death, pil- Tarvak’s Gorechosen laughed in amused disbelief at this lage and suffering. His Gorechosen, the most feared and provocation. They had seen foolish warlords make simi- deadly of his killers, lurked in the shadows around the lar threats before, and the bloody dismembering that al- throne, hounds waiting to be thrown fresh meat. ways followed made for good sport. The warrior met their gaze with supreme indifference, her war axe held The warlord rose from his throne, his head throbbing steady in her hands. Tarvak snarled in outrage. The with pumping blood, hands quivering with the need to reaver lord leapt down from his dais, landing on the dry- bury his blade in this arrogant wretch’s throat. cracked earth with his immense blade in hand.

DUEL UNDER A BLOODY SKY

‘You dare?’ he growled. There was a long silence, broken only by the spattering of blood upon the sand. The woman did not move. She eyed the oncoming war- lord with something approaching contempt, her long hair By nightfall the Flayed Legion was on the march. Rav- sweeping from beneath the crown of her helm, a blazing ening hordes of Bloodreavers loped ahead of the main halo lit by the fiery moon. advance, chanting and howling their battle-hymns of praise to mighty Khorne. Behind them marched rank ‘No more talk, then,’ she said. ‘We settle this with steel.’ after rank of ebon-armoured Blood Warriors, their ar- mour caked in days-old gore, their relentless stride filled With a roar Tarvak leapt at the woman, his blade sweep- with eager malice. Warqueen Marakarr had addressed ing across at chest height to bisect her. There was a rea- them mere hours ago, and her promises of what awaited son why Tarvak had ruled the Flayed Legion with an them in Shyish had filled every warrior’s soul with un- iron hand for so many years. Despite his huge size, the holy fervour. They now made with all haste for the warlord moved with blinding speed. Abyssal Fires, where they would begin the long, danger- ous trek to the Realm of Death. The woman was faster still. Her shield flashed up to in- tercept the blade, and instead of folding under the mon- The Warqueen observed her new allies depart from the strous blow, it stopped Tarvak’s greatsword still. The crest of a nearby ash-ridge, watching as the snaking col- reaver king stumbled, wrong-footed by the sudden halt umn of torches passed beyond the horizon. The Flayed in his momentum, and the woman lashed her axe into his Legion would be a formidable weapon in the war to knee. There was a sickening crunch of bone, and the come, but she had seen the enormity of the coming bat- Flayer staggered, growling with pain and outrage. He tle under night-black skies, and she knew her work was whirled and came at her again, his blade singing as it not yet done. She would travel to the far marshes next, carved through the air. She ducked, swayed, stepped and seek the blight-spreaders who dwelt within. The aside from every thrust, her every move perfectly Plague God’s faithful would prove less truculent than judged, her expression passive, almost serene. It was as Khorne’s worshippers, she believed, though in truth it if she was enacting a dance she had performed a thou- made no odds. Her axe would speak eloquently enough, sand times before. if words proved unproductive.

The warlord tried to catch her with a backhand swing, Her eyes narrowed as she felt a rising sense of unease. but she swayed back and let the blade whistle past an The hairs upon her arms stood up, and she felt as if a inch from her stomach. Her axe scythed out, and dark thousand eyes had suddenly turned upon her. The air blood sprayed across the floor. Tarvak staggered for- grew still, and for a moment the swirling clouds above ward several steps, blood spraying in a wide arc from an converged to form the image of a skull, its jaws hanging opened throat. His eyes rolled over white, and his head open in mocking glee. Thunder rolled in the distance. toppled free from his shoulders and rolled in the dirt. Marakarr Blood-Sky laughed, a harsh and cruel sound The woman stopped it with her foot, reached down and that echoed like a whip-crack across the empty plains. grasped a handful of the dead man’s lank hair. She raised Tarvak’s bloodied head high, letting the dripping ‘Save your omens for frightened whelps,’ she roared, gore wet her fingers before smearing a bloody handprint though there was nobody nearby to hear her words. ‘I upon her shield. The blood-red skies thundered in ap- am coming. And I bring the fury of the Dark Gods with proval, like the rapturous applause of watching gods. me.’

‘I am Marakarr Blood-Sky,’ she roared. ‘Warqueen of the Reaver Wastes. You fight for me now. The Flayed Legion is mine. Anyone who would challenge my rule, step forward.’ THE CRIMSON CONNOISEUR

My Queen Neferata, first-blessed and most exalted lady Blood Knights to crucify the remaining living about the of darkness and splendour. I pray that this missive fortress walls, and raised the rest as Deadwalker thralls finds you well. for their comrades to discover at a later date. After some remonstrating and grumbling, Helvir and his warriors Be assured that the reach of the Nulahmian Court ex- acceded to my demands. Honestly, my Queen, while I tends ever further into the heart of the Twin-tailed City. admire their martial skill, I continue find the order’s ob- My blood-children are scattered all across this ugly session with honour and ‘proper duty’ most tiresome. place, from the courts of the Twelve Lords to the parade grounds of the Acadamae Martial. Courtiers, foppish Our little surprise for the goldjackets was discovered noble duellists, ash-sweepers and dull military men – all several days later, and I hear it caused much consterna- are turned to stuttering fools beneath my gaze, con- tion amongst the ranks. This fear and confusion swiftly sumed by a desperate longing that has them risk death carried to the populace of Hammerhal. Though the or worse for the slightest hint of my favour. I have agents of Azyr have spread word of extended regimental agents, willing or otherwise, embedded in nearly every drill and emergency postings throughout the populace, stratum of Hammerhal’s ruling bodies. few believe these obvious and amusing lies. The people know that the city has suffered a grave loss, and they They feed me such sweet whispers. obsess ever more vociferously over tales of ill omens and deathly portents. Predictable, but no less amusing This very eve, for instance, I arose from my velvet-lined for that. sepulchre to the news that fifty-four regiments of Ham- merhalian foot have received their marching orders, and A spate of gory killings across the Cinderfall District (I by the time this missive reaches you will have arrived at pray you forgive this minor indulgence, my beloved the Realmgate of Sanctor Armalis. From there they shall Queen) is the latest subject of tattletale and gossip, travel to Port Valadan, in Athanasia. What could the though other equally delicious rumours are spreading as goldjackets possibly be planning that requires such an swiftly as the weeping plague. I hear whispers of entire enormous reserve of manpower, I wonder? Needless to border-towns disappearing overnight, of a grinning say I have delicately plucked the strands of my web here skull-moon rising in the east, and tales of the recently in Hammerhal, and my little spiders now rush and scut- dead scratching upon the doors of their living relatives tle about in the shadows, seeking answers. Doubtless, at midnight, begging to be allowed entrance. The sense Eternal Majesty, you have already turned your scintillat- of fear and confusion all this has whipped up is quite ing mind towards unravelling the enemy’s intentions, but intoxicating. I shall nonetheless endeavour to assist in my own hum- ble manner. Of course, the city’s wardens are greatly concerned, and they worry and scheme within their golden towers. Infil- There is an air of tension within the city. A smell of trating these secret sessions is a delicate task; the noble dread upon the wind. The fall of Blackcliffe has only ex- districts are rife with the witchfinders of the Stormcasts acerbated the mortals’ unease. It was an entertaining and their wretched Gryph-hound beasts. Yet, even with diversion to round up and slaughter the inhabitants of my limited access, it is clear that the armies of Hammer- that miserable fortress, and a fine opportunity for Lord hal are mustering in numbers not seen since the last Helvir’s Blood Knights to indulge their lust for carnage. days of the Realmgate Wars. They sense something, my The mortals fell in droves, crushed and broken beneath Queen, though their dull little minds still cannot grasp grinding hooves, or spitted by bloodlances. I surveyed the true scale of what is coming. Nevertheless, I would the carnage from my palanquin, opening throats every advise caution – the tremors from Nagashizzar have not now and then as the mood caught me. Unfortunately the gone unnoticed. soldiery were a rather grubby band, quite lacking in grace or good breeding. After draining the blood of sev- eral fleeing humans I was left with an unpleasantly bit- ter aftertaste, a hint of smoke and ashes that did not abate for several hours. In my irritation, I ordered the THE CRIMSON CONNOISEUR

Regardless, I continue the important work you tasked me with. I have a new enterprise, which is proving most re- warding. One of the richest mortals in the city – Lord Juvis Arcona – is now a plaything of mine, and under my subtle guidance his rise to political prominence is the talk of the noble districts. Arcona is an old and well- respected Azyrite name, and it opens doors the tedious creature could never breach with his imbecilic glad- handing and paltry intellect. There are already rumours that Lord Arcona may earn a seat upon the Council of Twelve. It seems to me sometimes as if these mortals take a perverse pride in their mediocrity.

As soon as I know more regarding the Sigmarites’ plans I shall write again, my beloved Queen. It is my fervent hope that one day the groundwork I lay will be fit for another to inherit, and I can once more return to your wondrous court.

My heart aches to see Nulahmia again, to dance beneath skies of darksome violet, and to partake in the great rev- elries of the Scarlet Fountains at your side. To once again lay eyes upon your immortal beauty would be a taste far sweeter than any I might sample within this soot-smeared slum the God-King’s whelps presume to call a city. Yet be assured that although I pine for the magnificence of your unholy grace, my resolve is un- shaken, and my commitment to our cause as firm as in- victunite.

I remain eternally in your service,

Doyenne Dalvia, Red Widow of Toursonne

Addendum – Along with this message I enclose two echo -crystal vials of my finest vintage, a sweet-spiced and piquant blend drawn from the veins of the Seven Saints and blended with a few drops taken from the firstborn progeny of Houses Arcona and Demetron. I am assured by my favourite antiquarian that the echo-crystal will ensure my concoction reaches your lips in as fresh a state as when it first seeped from my victims’ unwilling bodies. Please do let me know if this is not the case, so that I may have him excruciated. REAPER’S REVELATION

Cerrus Sentanus, Lord-Veritant of Excelsis, strode ‘Then you are a fool,’ said the White Reaper. ‘You and I through the shadowed dungeons. He ignored the will spend many hours together, soul-blighted thing. screams and moans that echoed around him. Pale You will proffer all of your secrets, in the end.’ eyes stared out from between thick, black-iron bars as he passed, but swiftly shrank back when they saw ‘I am a scion of the ancient bloodlines. I have walked the white lines of his armour, and the blazing lantern the realms since before your wretched kind was forged. I -stave he carried. They knew well the tools of the have tasted the crimson wine of kings and emperors. White Reaper. One deviant with a raw, burn-marked You think your petty tortures impress one such as I?’ face was foolish or deranged enough to meet the Lord-Veritant’s gaze as he passed by, barking insults ‘Your arrogance is predictable. But you have strayed in some crude tongue. Sentanus’ hand shot out, light- into the wrong city, beast.’ ning-fast. The human’s eyes bulged, bloodshot and terrified as he clawed pitifully at the metal gauntlet The corpse began to shake and shudder. Sentanus real- around his throat. Sentanus twisted hard, and there ised that it was laughing. was a sickening crunch. He let the dead body fall, and walked on. ‘Strayed?’ it said, its face contorted into a rictus grin. ‘Oh, you deluded fool. We have always been here, from Sentanus had travelled to the deepest levels of the Con- the very moment of this city’s founding, and we will be secralium, many leagues below the streets of Excelsis. here long after you rot away to dust.’ These miserable sub-levels were home to the very worst heretics and monsters captured by the agents of the The creature leered at him, its angular face lit by the soft Knights Excelsior, too wretched to be allowed to walk blue glow of the storm-cage. free under the light of the heavens, but far too useful to be purified on the holy pyres – until every last scrap of ‘The great Cerrus Sentanus,’ it continued. ‘The Saint of useful knowledge had been dragged from their withered the Purge. For all your empty threats, you truly have no bodies, at least. Ahead, at the end of the hall, the steps idea what lies at the heart of Excelsis, do you? All those rose to a pair of enormous double doors, their surface lives you have ended in the name of your holy war, and sculpted in the image of a blazing sun. Faint streams of never once did you sense our presence.’ white light flickered along the smooth stone floor be- neath. There was a powerful smell of decay spilling out ‘I sense it now,’ said Sentanus. from the room beyond, like spoiled meat. Sentanus climbed the stairs and pushed open the doors. ‘Too late, witchfinder,’ said the beast. ‘Far too late.’

Sentanus entered a small, high-ceilinged chamber that ‘We shall see.’ was empty and featureless aside from a dangling cage of chain lightning that hissed and spat. Within this prison Sentanus raised the Lantern of Abjuration high, and of energy hung a corpse, pallid and skeletally thin, sus- blazing light flooded out to fill the room. The creature pended in mid-air. retched and howled in pain, unable to stand before the power of that radiant glow. Maddened twitching caused The corpse’s eyes opened. its limbs to crash against the lightning cage, and there was a loud crackling sound followed by an eruption of As the Lord-Veritant circled the lightning prison, the foul-smelling smoke. dead thing’s eyes tracked him. The orbs were wide and luminescent, like those of a hunting cat. The vampire’s screams rose to a deafening pitch.

‘So you come at last, lightning lord,’ the corpse hissed. When Sentanus left the prison chamber, more than a day As it spoke, Sentanus could see the telltale curve of later, the air was thick with the stench of burned flesh. elongated incisors pressing over its bloodless lips. ‘I The cleansing light of the storm-cage was gone, and have been looking forward to this.’ once more the halls of the Consecralium were smothered in darkness.

REAPER’S REVELATION

Liberator-Prime Kronis, warden of the underlevels, met saluted the Lord-Veritant by clashing an armoured the Lord-Veritant as he descended the stair to the main gauntlet to his chest, and made for the stairway leading dungeon. to the ancillary barracks.

‘What secrets did the creature spill?’ asked Kronis. Sentanus stood alone in silence for a long while.

‘Enough to greatly trouble me,’ replied Sentanus. For the first time in many years, he felt uncertainty. Ap- prehension. The dead thing’s words had unsettled him Kronis was stunned by this admission. He had never greatly. For so long had he guarded Excelsis against the heard the White Reaper admit to a moment of unease. depravities of the Dark Gods, only to discover another He had thought such weakness simply not in the Lord- breed of infection had spread all but unchallenged Veritant’s nature. throughout the City of Secrets.

Sentanus noticed his companion’s surprise, and turned to ‘There is much work to be done,’ he muttered to him- face him. self. ‘Many questions that must be answered.’

‘We have been deceived,’ he said. ‘We have allowed our He swore that he would have those answers, even if he tireless pursuit of Chaos worshippers to blind us to an- had to drag every mortal soul in the city to the darkest other foe. An ancient enemy that even now spreads its depths of the Consecralium. foul influence into Sigmar’s free cities. They walk amongst us, feeding upon the lifeblood of the populace, using illusion and our own ignorance to obfuscate their evil.’

‘Of whom do you speak?’

‘I speak of the dead,’ said Cerrus Sentanus. ‘Ready your warriors, Liberator-Prime. Tonight, we take to the city streets in search of this infection. The creature’s will was strong, but before it burned to ashes it whispered several names to me. Lords of the city. High-ranking officers in the Freeguild. Pact-sworn agents of the Sanguinary Choir.’

Kronis’ brow creased in confusion.

‘I have not heard that name before.’

‘Nor have I. Yet the vampire howled those very words as its flesh began to crumble away. I believe it was laughing as it died its final death.’

Sentanus slammed the pommel of his lantern-stave against the stone floor, sending a gunshot echo rippling along the cavernous halls of the Consecralium’s dun- geon. Kronis stood still, unsure of what to do. He had never seen the Lord-Veritant like this before.

‘See to your orders,’ Sentanus growled at last. Kronis BEYOND THE WALLS

Moonsday, 7th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, of a sack, and passers by were buying them! He had told Crowswatch Barracks them the bones were those of a saint, and their holiness would ward off the dead. Today has been a good day. Sergeant Doskin took us on patrol along the banks of the Purewater, up past Now we must find his customers. Johan dug his bones Weaver’s Gate to the Tallhallows. We stopped to check up from paupers’ graves on Wither Heath, and we must wagon tolls, and caught a smuggler attempting to hide make sure no citizen has caught graverot. Excelsian glimmerings beneath a mound of henkha furs. Voidsday, 19th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, That will be an extra crown for each of us come payday. Crowswatch Barracks I can finally afford that necklace for Gyseyl. I have not seen her since Sunsday, as her father has been most More farms. More patrols sent. I shall not write what watchful. He would not approve of her seeing a young they found. It is not for decent eyes. man of the Freeguild. I’ll need a commission first, if I am to marry her. Refugees from the plains speak of the dead on the march, hordes of them. The Seers on Tally Hill tell of Perhaps I may earn one soon, though, as I believe danger dark omens and prophesy a terrible darkness bearing threatens our city. Word is the fortified farms along the down upon us. People claim to have seen haunts within Shifting Highway have not sent crops for three weeks. the walls, though I think that they are lying, or scared. Dark raiders again, most likely. A patrol is going out Rats spilled from the sewers on Tallow Street and tomorrow, led by Callos Mourne of the Anvils of the amidst the Tangles – big, mean rats like hounds. Hunt- Heldenhammer. They will see how great a threat we ing, or running from something worse? There is fear. face. War may follow. People are restless. Johan was the first to sell bones, but more have followed. Starsday, 10th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, Crowswatch Barracks I believe the seers are right. This city is in dreadful dan- ger. Sigmar preserve us from whatever lurks beyond our What they found at those farms, it is not right. Sigmar walls. preserve us! People half eaten, others eating at them. Corpses that walked. Crops withered and black. Starsday, 24th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, Hawkswatch Tower I know because I was drinking with Varnil and McKeed when one of the longscouts came into the Seven Moons. Haven’t heard from Gyseyl. The Old Families have He dived into his cups, and he ranted and he raved to locked their estates up like castles, extra guards, priests, any that would listen of what he had seen. nothing in or out. I hope she is safe. I wish that I could see her. The Anvils came right into the pub! They took him away. They are so big and powerful close up – frighten- The city is going mad, waiting for an enemy to fight. ing. People are so afraid of the dead that they are turning to dangerous superstitions. Cleansing by fire, eating salt- I have sent word to Gyseyl. I have told her to lock her coals, cutting the hammer, ducking so-called moonborn door at night, and to wear her gold hammer. Sigmar will in the Purewater, boarding the marked in their homes, keep us safe from these terrors. black-hooding, the list goes on. The Brothers of Repen- tance are leading it all, mad bastards. Cometsday, 13th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, Crowswatch Barracks

Today we arrested Johan the Grift at his usual patch on the corner of Sandway. He was selling human bones out BEYOND THE WALLS

We arrest them or move them along, but it makes them man’s Wall and Hawkswatch Tower. The dead lie in the angry, and why not? The Council is superstitious too! streets where they fell. Too many to move or bury. Ser- Patrol routes have become so complicated since the geant Doskin, Varnil, McKeed – all dead. The living run ‘never-thrice-widdershins’ rule. The holy water we carry mad, or take their own lives rather than wait for the dead is heavy and, so far, useless. Worse, we had to stow to march through the gates. those duardin-made swords they gave us. Now we carry heavy iron clubs. Clumsy, blunt, but better for fighting Still they haven’t come. haunts, they tell us. What haunts? It’s panicked towns- folk I am worried about… Why haven’t they come?

Sigmarsday, 28th of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Helde- It’s the waiting that killed us. The fear. I decided not to lium, Hawkswatch Tower wait any longer. I got my things and went to Glimmer Way to rescue Gyseyl, by force if I had to. She wasn’t Torrential rain, streets flowing. Good news anyway. The there. None of them were. The houses stood empty, the Anvils are marching out, taking the longscout regiments guards lay dead. The priests too. with them. Reports of the dead massing on the Shifting Highway. An enemy to smite! The Anvils will break Where did you go? them, and banish the shadow over our city. Wish I could march with them, but the garrison is needed here. Rain What about me? doing little to put out the fires of panic. Nothing to do now, no officers, no plan. I’m the last one So tired today. in my barracks. I don’t know where they went, either. Everyone has left me. I’ll bar the gate, sleep, then I’ll Starsday, 31st of Azyr’s Gleaming, City of Heldelium, plan my next move. Gyseyl, I’ll find you. Crowswatch Barracks Cometsday, 2nd of Golden Harvests, City of Heldelium, They’re not coming back. No sign of them. No sign of Crowswatch Barracks the dead. Sigmar, what do we do now? They came at last, overnight, while I slept. Not the dead. Riots in the streets. The Brothers of Repentance are We are the dead, now. We hollowed out our city, made leading the mob, rooting out repatriates. They say they our own nightmares real. ‘lived too long in the cursed lands’. They claim by burn- ing them, we will appease Sigmar and he will return his Skaven. Thousands of them, must be. I hear them out- gaze to our city, his protection to our walls. I believe side, scurrying, screeching, chittering at each other, turn- they are murderers, that it is their madness that will ing terrible weapons on anyone they see. damn us, not the outwilders. But the people are angry and scared. The wells have dried up. More rats have I will do my duty. I have cast aside my cudgel, found my come, eating the homeless in the alleys. The Purewater fine sword. I’m going to fight. has turned black. If you read this. If anyone ever reads this. Sigmar aban- Sigmar, forgive and preserve us. The Garrison regiments doned us, and so did hope. Don’t linger here. Heldelium are taking to the streets today. We shan’t be fighting the is cursed. We feared the dead so much that we became dead, but the living. This has to stop. them, and now our city’s corpse is fit for naught but the rats… Voidsday, 2nd of Golden Harvests, City of Heldelium, Crowswatch Barracks

Heldelium is dying. We are dying. We bested the Broth- ers of Repentance, but the mobs broke through at Hang- TRESSPASSERS IN THE LAND OF MIST

The column of risen dead wound its way along the tain pass. The Necromancer peered into the gloom, try- vast length of the obsidian canyon. Glowing torches ing to ascertain the reason for the delay. were held aloft by lumbering skeletal giants, their slow strides keeping pace with Deathrattle spearmen Slowly, the mists began to abate, revealing a rising shelf marching in tight lines. The corpse-lights cast an of obsidian stone, slick with rainwater. Spiralling high amethyst haze through the thick fog, which curled into the mountainside was a carved stairway, upon about the marching ranks like the coils of a hunting which stood a single figure. A statuesque aelven woman, snake. At the centre of the macabre procession was a her raven-black hair whipping in the breeze. Gleaming, monstrous creation of bone and sinew, a pentagonal metallic wings curved back from her shoulders, and she platform held aloft by scores of rotting cadavers. wore a sweeping headdress of burnished gold. In her hands she carried a wicked spear that glimmered in the The palanquin was stitched together from corpses, en- umbral pall. There was a regal indifference to her poise, closed by curtains of stitched hides. Two thrones shaped even stood alone before this army of the dead. from twisted ogor ribcages stood in the centre of the construct, and upon each reclined a black-cloaked fig- ‘None but Khaine’s faithful may walk within the Umbral ure. Both wore masks of silver, and carried skull-tipped Veil,’ the woman said. She did not raise her voice, but staffs. her words echoed out across the valley with thundering force. ‘I offer this one chance to tell me why you tres- ‘We are close, brother,’ said the rightmost figure, his pass here. Before the truth is flayed from your wretched voice a rattling whisper. He was the smaller of the two; bodies.’ so slight he seemed almost childlike. ‘Do you sense it, Lhusim?’ The brothers exchanged an incredulous glance. Lhusim stood, leaning upon his staff. ‘I do, Rhedgar,’ said the other, his skeletally gaunt frame swallowed by his long robes. ‘These mountains reek of ‘These lands are claimed in the name of supreme Na- illusion and deceitful sorcery. The Mortarch of Sacra- gash, he who is the master of death,’ he shouted. ‘It is ment was correct. That which we seek is surely near at known that the so-called Shadow Queen resides within. hand.’ He Who Sees All Things names her soul-thief. Betrayer and deceiver. Tell us where Morathi cowers, and you The Necromancer sought solace in the thought. Their alone shall be spared.’ venture through the mists of Ulgu had stretched on far too long, with no sign of progress. He had come to de- ‘You address her, dullard,’ answered the woman. She spise this land, with its treacherous shadow-mires, in- raised her spear high. ‘I am she, the High Oracle of vidious predators and constant pall of darkness. Soon, Khaine and loyal servant of his iron will. You have cho- Lhusim hoped, he would return to the comfort of the sen the path of agony. I cannot say that I am disap- Sanctus Mortem, where he could once more lose himself pointed.’ in his experiments and studies. She let the spear fall. ‘What glory the Lord Arkhan will lavish upon us when our task is done,’ said Rhedgar. ‘What profane secrets he might reveal. You and I, Lhusim, first amongst his Black Disciples, as is only right and proper.’

The diminutive man giggled. His laughter soon turned into a hacking cough.

Lhusim held up a hand, and his brother fell silent. Ahead, the front ranks of their vanguard had halted, forming a wall of shields along the width of the moun- TRESSPASSERS IN THE LAND OF MIST

Shrill cries filled the air. The darkness surrounding the are nothing before the power of Shyish.’ undead column twisted and reformed. Where before im- passable cliffs had surrounded the Necromancers’ pro- He recited an incantation of terrible provenance, words cession, now they were stood in a labyrinth of jagged that would have damned his black soul if he had not al- stone, tunnels stretching away into the shadows. Pale ready sacrificed it many years past. A scythe of spectral figures boiled out of this maze, screeching blood- light swept towards the matriarch of Khaine. She raised curdling oaths. Brandishing wicked blades, they hurled a gauntleted hand to protect herself, but it was too late. themselves into the ranks of the skeletal army. Dust and The blade of soul-stuff struck home, and the High Ora- shattered bones filled the air as they whirled and leapt in cle staggered backwards. Her body convulsed, spilling a deadly dance. The Deathrattle vanguard closed ranks, ink-black clouds of shadow that enveloped her entirely. bringing their shields to bear. Spears thrust out with There was a piercing scream of rage and pain, and Rhed- murderous precision, and many aelves were spitted upon gar gave a cackle of delight. their rust-tipped points. Yet the enemy had breached the undead line, and robbed of their cohesion the undead ‘Oh, we must raise her to join our ranks, brother,’ he warriors were being taken apart. crowed.

‘No!’ shrieked Rhedgar, appalled at the destruction of Lhusim’s blood froze. There was something gigantic his favoured pets. He thrust out his skull staff, which moving, shifting in the darkness. Rippling coils of spat a bolt of amethyst fire. The flames enveloped a trio shadow lashed the air, and in the heart of the eldritch of aelves, who thrashed and danced as their flesh crum- mists blazed a pair of hate-filled eyes. Bat-like wings bled to ash. unfurled with an awful tearing sound.

Lithe forms slithered into view on the crest of the ridge, Morathi the Shadow Queen rose into the sky, unveiled in half-serpent archers with arrows nocked and ready. her full and horrifying glory. Their missiles rained down upon the column of pallid flesh and bone with uncanny precision, each smashing a Her half-serpentine form towered above the Necroman- skeletal warrior apart or piercing the skull of an oblivi- cers’ palanquin, her formerly lustrous hair now a hissing ous Deadwalker. Shadows flitted through the skies bed of snakes. Her massive tail lashed out and snatched above. Winged she-aelves dived down with breakneck Rhedgar into the air. The Black Disciple screamed as he speed to spear and slash at the Necromancers’ undead was enveloped in shimmering scales. servants, then wheeled away with peals of mocking laughter. Lhusim turned, thinking to order more of his ‘Brother!’ screamed Lhusim, but it was too late. The thralls into the fray, but saw only a rippling wall of coils constricted violently, and Rhedgar’s skull burst in a shadow magic, swiftly encircling the palanquin. Half- shower of crimson. Morathi hurled his crushed form glimpsed shapes moved beyond that impenetrable cur- aside, and rushed forward at the palanquin with a deaf- tain, but no relief came marching through. ening screech of fury.

The creature Morathi descended the winding stair. On She struck with terrible force. The entire structure all sides a fierce battle raged, but her expression of con- rocked, slamming into the far wall of the canyon and temptuous boredom did not change. The High Oracle grinding its undead bearers into dust. Lhusim tumbled, extended a graceful hand and tendrils of night-black floundering across the surface of polished bone. He felt smoke lashed at those skeletal warriors in her path, himself flying free, the world spinning and whirling smashing them into a thousand splinters. around him, and then he struck hard stone with shatter- ing force and knew no more. She met Lhusim’s eyes, and her smile showed a row of perfect white teeth.

‘I have studied at the hand of the Mortarch himself, witch,’ the Black Disciple snarled. ‘Your paltry magics TRESSPASSERS IN THE LAND OF MIST

When Lhusim finally woke, he found himself adrift in worlds. The skies above the Black Citadel blaze with an ocean of agony. Every inch of his body burned. He amethyst fire, and the great work approaches comple- lay at the foot of the canyon wall, amidst a wasteland of tion. An end is coming, witch-kin. Death will have its broken bone and piled carcasses. He could not move. due.’ Breathing sent wracking spears of torment stabbing through his flesh. Morathi lowered the tip of her spear to rest upon Lhu- sim’s chest. Shadows loomed over him. Lithe figures, clad in skirts of metal and wearing leering war masks. His eyes ‘Mend this one’s flesh and have him brought to my flicked to their blades, slathered with unclean blood. chambers,’ she said. ‘We have much to discuss, before I tear out his beating heart.’ Their ranks parted. Another figure gazed down upon him contemptuously, her scarlet-black lips curled into a sneer.

‘Pitiful,’ Morathi said. Her monstrous visage had disap- peared, replaced once again by an image of stately beauty. Yet her eyes were the same, thought Lhusim. They spoke of ancient cunning and limitless malice.

The Shadow Queen nodded, and one of her warriors stepped forward to wrench Lhusim’s silver mask free. He felt himself being dragged to his feet by strong hands.

Morathi leaned close. She smelled of bitter spices and freshly spilled blood.

‘You angered me, human,’ she whispered. ‘That was unwise. In return, I shall make your death an exquisite spectacle. But first, I would hear more of your masters, and the reason for your presence here.’

The Necromancer choked out a bitter laugh.

‘You think that Great Nagash does not sense every soul pilfered from his domain?’ he spat. ‘You think your crimes will go unanswered? No, no, no. He has found out your little game, queen of lies, and he is coming for you.’

‘Many have sought to invade Khaine’s domain,’ said Morathi. ‘All have failed. We have filled lakes and oceans with their blood.’

‘You will see,’ the Necromancer growled. The words were agony, but he choked them out with hateful relish. ‘Oh yes, you will see. The barrow-kingdoms are emp- tied, and unquiet spirits rise in every corner of the under- LOST SOULS

She lashed them to the ground by their arms and legs ing clouds. They are lithe and terrible, and have marked so that the coarse gravel dug into the skin of their me for slaughter. But in aloof arrogance they do not see backs. Every last hunter in the settlement was to be my reason for being here. I have come for them. sacrificed. She told them this much, and the memory of it has lingered in their bones ever since. I can feel ‘Arise,’ I say to the buried dead beneath my feet. ‘You it. are owed vengeance, and those whom the Shadow Queen formed from your blood will soon be within She had come with the spring mists, when murk flowed reach.’ The ground quivers. in from the plains to shroud the village huts. They knew the stories of the Shadow Queen – who is called Mora- I look up and see the Lifetakers still speeding towards thi, the Blood Taker, and a thousand other names – and me, hurling curses into the wind as they prepare for the knew to fear her, but not how to fight her. She was an kill. enchanting embodiment of dread, and wielded magics beyond their imaginations, spitting spiteful oaths like ‘These Lifetakers are the inheritors of your lives,’ I say venom as she subdued them one by one and staked them to my morbid audience. ‘Each of their souls belongs to to the cold, black earth. Brave people wailed in terrified another’. The earth around me splits, and I see the first desperation. They prayed to the empty void in the hopes bony protrusions beginning to poke from the fallow soil. that they would be granted salvation, or at the very least the chance for revenge. ‘Your age-old prayers are now answered,’ I continue. ‘The time for vengeance is now. Arise! ARISE!’ One by one she plunged her knife through their hearts, releasing their blood. Through their agony and panic Hundreds of skeletal hands burst up from the ground as they saw the Shadow Queen standing over them, whis- the awakened dead stab outward from their graves. As pering that by their lives she would bring her children they scrabble free from the earth, clods of black dirt fall into the realms. As she completed each sacrifice she away from their bones. Above us, the Lifetakers spread withdrew her blade, and her victims were left to drift their wings, halting in mid-flight as they catch sight of into oblivion. But they did not fade completely. Few the freshly-risen horde. They are still above me, hover- ever do. She had taken much of their souls for her own ing out of reach, but they shall not escape the death that rituals, but remnants of hatred still echoed within their now comes for them. I raise a finger towards my quarry bodies. and utter my command.

Over long centuries the flesh of those sacrificed rotted ‘Kill.’ away, and their bones were slowly buried beneath the gloom-blown dirt. The last lingering spiritual motes that All around me the arisen warriors begin climbing up the remained were adrift in an endless and unchanging sea spines of one another, hands and feet slipping between of malice. There they waited for an eternity – sightless, ribs like rungs on ladders, those on bottom digging their formless, without will or thought. They waited for re- osseous feet into the earth. More and more follow suit, venge, for their dying prayers to be answered. Now I am forming a thick column of bodies directly below the here, and their wait is about to be over. winged fiends. The Lifetakers see the skeletal column reaching up like a creeping vine and flap their wings to From the skies comes a piercing screech, telling me that rise higher, but my vengeful dead climb faster. I watch the Khinerai have sensed my presence. Lifetakers will with joy as the will of my Lord is made manifest, and be swooping down from on high now, barbed sickles soon I see the first fleshless hands grasping at the feet of bared, ready to cut me down. I understand why they are the Lifetakers. They hack at the reaching skeletons, coming for me – I am a trespasser in their lands, an in- splitting bones and sending hails of desiccated marrow terloper sent by the lord of another realm, and I am flying, but the dead do not relent. walking through the site of their ancient sacrifices.

A trio of winged Khainites bursts through the overhang- LOST SOULS

The first of the winged trio is dragged into the tower of bones, her agonised shrieks drowned out by the clatter as she is torn limb from limb. Then the second is sub- sumed, her wings ripped from her back and her falling body grabbed by many outstretched hands. At the crest of the tower, skeletons latch onto the ankles and wrists of the final Lifetaker. She struggles to pull away, crying out hateful oaths and shouts of defiance, but her words mean nothing to the fearless revenants. The dead rip at the inheritor of their blood sacrifice, clawing savagely at her flesh until her bones are freed from their sheathing. From the wet remains of her corpse, I see a thin stream of amethyst light pouring down to the ground below, seeping through the soil on its way to Shyish.

Their work now down, the dead fall motionless. I look upon my risen army with pride, and they look back at me, grim visages fixed, waiting for me to speak.

‘You now have your vengeance,’ I say to them, ‘and the souls of these Lifetakers have been returned to their rightful owner. But Nagash’s work has just begun.’ CAUSE CÉLÈBRE

‘Order! Order!’ The aelven delegation was some three days late, but Sevastean Mench banged his ceremonial hammer on the clearly for good reason – some amongst them still had polished surface of the wyrmwood debating table. The clotted gore upon their blade tips. Morathi strode toward priceless antique had taken quite a beating these last few the assemblage, the click of her footsteps quick and defi- days, but it seemed to be the only way the Master Patri- nite on the cold marble floor. ‘Welcome at last, my arch could get the two hundred and forty-four Lords of queen,’ said Mench as she drew close. ‘In the name of the Heavenhall to keep their peace. Hammerhal’s grand conclave, please feel free to rest your—’ ‘This is getting us nowhere!’ he shouted. The delegates of the Grand Conclave stared at him in various states of ‘Oh do shut up,’ said Morathi, her scarlet-black lips in a affrontery or contempt. ‘We cannot meet this new era of moue of distaste. ‘I am in no mood for platitudes. This darkness divided, or we will be picked off, whittled council must put aside its differences immediately and away, and slain in our beds!’ send every available army to Shyish, or the forces of death will overwhelm us.’ ‘We will indeed,’ said Osrua of the Gilded Abacus, ‘if the Artisans keep all the wealth for their pretty castles.’ ‘That is what I have been saying for the last fourteen hours,’ said Mench, looking around the delegates. ‘But ‘This is not some savage horde that can be held back my peers seem ill-inclined to listen.’ with walls and war machines,’ roared Barragust, the High Despot of the Order of Azyr. ‘This is a supernatu- Excelsis’ Alumnus Verita, Hennerdorf, bristled so much ral scourge. It will claim us all unless we meet it with that his dense moustache quivered like a scared vole. faith and fire!’ ‘You know as well as I do, Mench, that we cannot—’

‘So you have no need of our defences,’ said Evandelle, Morathi whispered something inaudible. Hennerdorf Wallmistress of the High Artisans. ‘Nor the cog-forts, made a strange choking sound, eyes bulging, but did not nor the magma canals.’ say another word.

‘That is not what I am saying,’ said Mench, inclining his ‘We cannot,’ said the queen. ‘That is the unspoken head towards the beringed doyenne as her steam-cherubs motto of this ungainly, soot-stained sprawl. Always, ‘we clucked and muttered in disapproval. ‘I am saying that cannot’. We shall reverse that, my friends. We, the without a set of laws and principles, we will be isolated champions of progress, can achieve lasting victory. It is and slowly destroyed.’ the will of Khaine.’

The clarion sound of the herald’s trumpet rang from out- ‘Khaine?’ said Elethrus Vinx, the Supreme Pontifex’s side the hall. Its jarring fanfare was cut abruptly short, chins wobbling in disdain. ‘The aelven god of war? Is he and a moment later the chamber’s doors were flung not long—’ open. A statuesque female stood silhouetted in the arch- way. ‘But how to unite our efforts?’ said Mench, interrupting Vinx before she said something she would regret. Two hundred and forty four mouths hung open, agog at the grandeur of the visitor as an entourage of hauntingly Morathi stared long and hard at Vinx, her eyes wide, be- beautiful witch aelves slunk in behind her. The digni- fore replying. ‘Lend me your hosts,’ she said. ‘Put your tary’s shoulders were framed by a pair of metallic wings, efforts toward mine, and I shall do the same.’ each rendered in wrought gold and stylised to make her appear like a goddess of elegance made flesh. ‘You want us to simply give you our armies,’ said Evan- delle flatly. Finally, the auditorium knew silence. Morathi, the High Oracle of Khaine, had arrived. CAUSE CÉLÈBRE

‘Of course not,’ said Morathi, her tone arch. ‘We shall a new order to Shyish.’ march to war side by side. And what I wish for is irrele- vant. I am the Oracle of Khaine, his high priestess and the mouthpiece for his divine will. I translate the desires of the Bloody-Handed One. He wishes us to coordinate our attacks on the heartlands of Shyish, before this pall of death suffocates every one of us.’

Mench looked pointedly at Hennerdorf, who by this point was turning a delicate shade of mauve.

Lord Aventis, Magister of Hammerhal, spoke up. ‘Say we march tomorrow, and make for the Abyssal Fires. What guarantee is there you stay to the bitter end, and do not abandon us as soon as the hour grows dark?’

‘The hour is already dark,’ said Morathi. ‘But that is a fair question.’ She gestured with one fair hand to her followers, all alabaster skin and sculpted armour. ‘Look at us,’ she said, gesturing with her other hand at the obese mountain of velvet and peacock feathers that was the Lord Vintner. ‘In form we are different. But we all live. We all want to live, to feast, to love, to grow old in the service to our gods. These things unite human, aelf and duardin alike. And what does Nagash want?’

‘Death,’ said Mench.

‘No,’ said Morathi, ‘he wants undeath. He wants the realms to be reshaped in his image, to be little more than clockwork machine of bone, sinew and magic that obeys him and him alone. And he is every bit as dangerous as the warlords of Chaos.’

‘So we divide our forces between the fight against Chaos and the rising tide of death,’ said High Castellan Brutar. ‘Divide, and be conquered.’

‘No, idiot,’ spat Morathi. ‘We unite, bolstering our num- bers, then divide as necessity demands. The sum total is the same. By working together, by giving free access to hard-won Realmgates, we can stop Nagash in whatever dire work is sending visions of doom through every cul- ture and creed.’

None spoke out against her.

‘This way,’ she said, smiling as she realised the audi- ence hall was hers, ‘we invade, we destroy, and we bring THE SCENT

Reshevious clung to the rail of his chariot, enjoying lus lead? Dullsome drab is’t hereabouts; stale grows the the delicious sensation of its inset needles piercing his revel!’ palms. The Champion of Slaanesh was tall and pow- erfully built, clad in interwoven strips of leather ar- Reshevious flexed one powerful arm, his bonewhip mour that clung to his perfumed flesh. Piercings fes- slithering wetly from his wrist. He lashed the weapon tooned his body. Tattoos wound across his quivering sideways, raising a savage welt across Bacchinux’ chest. mutations, while his lustrous mane of silver hair The banner-bearer howled with a heady mix of pain, an- flowed behind him like a comet’s trail. ger and glee.

‘Faster,’ bellowed Reshevious, hurling a handful of psy- ‘Never question,’ snarled Reshevious. ‘Never deliberate. chotropic incense into the brazier on his chariot’s run- Simply act. This you know.’ ning board. ‘Always faster! The Dark Prince awaits!’ ‘’Tis the Prince’s will,’ gasped Bacchinux. ‘And yet…’ The Champion’s chariot was a monstrous construction of gold and silver, encrusted with gems and whirring Reshevious flexed his whip again, knowing full well that steel blades. It was hauled along at breakneck pace by his underling sought and relished the pain of punish- six Steeds of Slaanesh, and mounted a great spike that ment. His blow was stayed by a wordless scream from rose vertical from its foremost yoke. Lashed to this with the Inhilus. The mutant screeched and writhed in its barbed chains was a lumpen mutant, its limbs atrophied, chains, cutting its fat flesh bloody as it strained for- its nostrils and ears massive and grotesque, its eyes re- wards. placed by deep and dripping olfactory pits. Known as the Inhilus, the gibbering thing had been Reshevious’ ‘The scent!’ roared Reshevious, his booming voice car- guide since he had begun his quest to find Slaanesh rying back down the line of the cavalcade. ‘The Inhilus many years ago. has the Scent! Faster, unworthy dogs, always faster!’

Behind Reshevious came his Scarlet Cavalcade, dozens The champion hauled on his razored reins, turning his of twisted mortal warriors adorned with freakish armour, steeds and sending his chariot careening in a long arc that clung to the backs of lithe daemonic steeds. They through the half-seen trees. Flocks of shadows burst screamed and whooped as they rode, battering away at from the boughs as he raced beneath them, echoing sug- barbed gongs that rang like shattering glass. The caval- gestions of carrion birds whose cawing cries teased the cade was a riot of colour and sound, utterly at odds with edge of hearing. A vast ruin loomed up ahead. the shadowed wilds of Ulgu through which they rode. Mist swirled and parted as Reshevious’ chariot swept Reshevious hated this place, with its monochrome mists, towards the gothic carcass without slowing. His sharp its shadowy suggestions of trees hulking all around, and eyes picked out a blurring archway between the rock the ancient ruins that towered up from the forest like the face walls; with a twitch of the reins, he sped into the bones of long-dead cathedrals scraping at the ink-black stone maw. sky. All was silence and stillness here; the cavalcade’s clangour echoed away into nothingness and was swal- It was speed that saved him. lowed by the dark. Reshevious’ chariot burst from the gloomy tunnel into a Yet here was where the Inhilus’ screams had led them, play of silver light, so quickly that the rain of javelins and so here they continued their hunt. which greeted him instead struck the Seekers at his heels. Bacchinux fell, pierced through by a half-dozen Bacchinux, Reshevious’ standard bearer, drew level with bronze-tipped spears. He and his steed bounced and the chariot, urging his steed along while the great ban- rolled to a gory stop. More Seekers went down in that ner’s flesh-streamers snapped and flailed. first volley, but more still burst from the tunnel with howls of glee. ‘Great lord,’ shouted Bacchinux. ‘Whither doth the Inhi-

THE SCENT

Reshevious took in the ambush in a heartbeat. The tun- Yet it was her gaze that held him. Such ferocity, such an nel had led them into the interior of an ancient fane, ironclad strength of will; Reshevious could not remem- roofless and hollow with shattered walls. A wide ramp ber ever feeling such a thrill of superiority from another of black stone stretched up from the ruin’s heart, flanked living creature. by crumbled statues of ancient gods and terminating in a triangular portal of silver light. Hundreds upon hundreds Throwing back his head, the champion gave an ululating of barbarian warriors packed the ruins, massed to either scream that echoed around the ruins. At his signal, the side of the tunnel mouth and gathered thick upon the Seekers stopped their attack, chests heaving as they ramp. It was they that had hurled the javelins, and were waited avidly to see what would happen next. even now preparing to launch another salvo. ‘We fight for the regard of almighty Slaanesh,’ he cried. ‘Darkoath!’ shrieked Reshevious. ‘Dull pantheonites! ‘If madness it be, it is of the most delightful kind!’ Worshippers of all, favoured of none! Into them, Seek- ers!’ ‘You seek Slaanesh,’ replied the queen. ‘And yet you throw your lives away in this fruitless battle against ene- Reshevious didn’t question how these enemies had mies you cannot defeat. An unworthy end to a failed known where to set their ambush. He didn’t consider the quest.’ impossible odds set against him. ‘Your ambush was an invitation we gladly accepted,’ Never question. said Reshevious. ‘What more worthy end could a cham- pion of the Dark Gods know?’ Never deliberate. ‘You could find him,’ she said. ‘Find him and bring with Simply act. you the numbers needed to unleash him once more upon the Mortal Realms. I have those numbers and more to The charge hit home in an explosive welter of blood. spare, armies ten times the size of this horde and more.’ Severed heads and limbs flew as Reshevious’ chariot ploughed deep into the enemy lines. Seekers howled ‘And we have the Inhilus, and the favour of the Dark their glee as their spears punched through chests and Prince,’ said Reshevious. ‘An alliance, you seek then? faces. Steeds trilled and lashed their binding tongues to Why? What do you gain by this? And why greet us with throttle and entrap. blades if you desire our aid?’

For long, glorious moments the ambushers reeled as the ‘My reasons are my own,’ replied the queen. ‘As to the sheer headlong insanity of the Slaaneshi charge over- blades? I did not need all of you…’ whelmed them. Reshevious paused for a moment, then burst into shrieks Then came the slowing, the loss of impetus, massed of wild mirth. He took in the horde around him, imag- bodies pushing back, spears thrusting and axes swinging ined an army vastly greater still marching at his back. So and blades stabbing deep. Reshevious cracked his whip many sacrifices for the Dark Prince, when at last he was and bellowed at the joyous promise of pain. found.

‘Enough!’ ‘Very well, you have your alliance,’ he said. ‘Now clear a path, for the Scent leads us onwards. Keeping pace, The command rang out over the clangour of battle, a that is your own concern…’ woman’s voice, powerful and filled with such unques- tionable authority that even Reshevious hesitated. His quick gaze sought out the source. There she stood, atop the ruin of an ancient statue. She was tall, powerful, clad in barbarous finery, surely a queen amongst her people. THE SCENT

Reshevious flexed his bone whip and cracked it across the backs of his steeds. Barbarian warriors scrambled aside as the chariot surged forwards, and the Inhilus gave a scream of pure need, straining towards the ramp. The Seekers rode out, thundering up the ramp towards the glowing portal at its crest. The queen raised her fist in a single gesture, and as one the Darkoath warriors fol- lowed.

On, to wherever the Dark Prince waited… TIME OF PLENTY

‘Let the feast begin!’ comb, was a monstrous white giant surrounded by grov- elling troglodytes. It was clad only in tatters of skin. It As High King Atheldade gestured grandly at the banquet howled, its voice redolent of despair turned to vicious laid out before him, the silken ribbons of his regalia bil- hatred. lowed in the scented air. He smiled at his reflection in his nearby seeing-glass, then looked upon his gathered Carrion crows quorked, startled into the air, and a few court, as proud and benevolent as a father watching his half-dead vultures ruffled their feathers as they clucked children playing in a meadow. in alarm. They too took flight as the undead dragon squatting above the white king roared in response, flecks Turning his head to look over the Arch of Prophecy to of rotting meat flying from its blackened gums. In the the great eyrie high above, he met the eye of his dragon dirt below, the slimy, wriggling creatures crawling up companion and faithful steed, Illuminas. The skydrake the cliff gibbered and cackled to see their long-revered nodded, just once, in stately approval. The celebration of dragon rear up high. their victory over the Gaudy Blades was looking to be a fine day indeed. ‘Kindsmen! Gentledames!’ shouted Atheldade, project- ing his voice to regain his subjects’ attention. ‘I beg of There were hundreds of his kith gathered, gossiping and you, for one moment, give me your eyes!’ laughing lightly with excitement. Every man, woman and child was hale and hearty, with rosy cheeks and Some of the pale ghouls held up ocular offerings to their gleaming eyes. Doves flitted to and fro in their roosts king, gelid orbs glimmering in the moonlight. A few lit- high above, and to either side of the king’s lavishly up- eral souls even plucked out their own cataracted eyes, holstered throne, splendid white peacocks fanned their gibbering with pain and maniac glee as they raised them feathers. triumphantly to the peak.

Atheldade took in a huge lungful of the night air, and ‘This day is of great consequence,’ continued Atheldade. breathed out pure relief. Despite the rains, despite the ‘We have won a great victory over our arch-enemies, the raids of the vile barbarians and would-be conquerors Gaudy Blades!’ they had hurled back so many times, and despite last winter’s landslide opening their palace to the cold night The king held up a severed arm slicked with blood. The air, the Kingdom of Wendel’s Glory still shone like glit- remnants of its Freeguild uniform flapped in the wind tering jewels in the twilight. Now, with their messenger alongside a sail of tattered skin. It was still holding an patrols bringing word of a bumper harvest to come, the unopened scroll in its death grip, its wax seal that of a future looked even brighter. It made the old warrior’s request for parley. Emblazoned upon it was the sigil of heart pound with pride in his massive chest. distant Lake Lethis.

Down on the mountainside, pallid figures scurried and ‘Better yet,’ said Atheldade with a smile, ‘Our brave slithered through the muck like worms writhing in an scouts, led as ever by the redoubtable Baron Retch ven open grave. They held in their pale arms various human Gizzard, have returned triumphant. They bring not only remains turned grey-black with the ash and cloying mud vittles, but the grandest of tidings!’ of the landslide. Holding high great armfuls of fleshy remnants as offerings to their master, they strove to get At this, a bony freak on the king’s right took a gangling ever higher up the paths and climbways of the peak. bow. Shaking his head in mock exasperation, Atheldade Every few seconds one of them would slip and tumble to grasped his minion’s arm by the wrist and raised it high a slump, or succumb to a ravenous hunger and sink as if it were that of a victorious prizefighter. The freak sharp teeth into his fleshy burden. Despite these lapses, drooled through a horrible approximation of a smile, the throng made slow progress upwards. and the crowd of slithering ghouls screamed in excite- ment. At the top of the peak, standing in the largest of the cav- erns that holed the mountainside like a rotten honey- TIME OF PLENTY

‘We Wendels have been through sad and desperate times WHERE NO MOUTH WILL WANT FOR MEAT of late,’ said Atheldade, his tone suddenly serious. ‘We, who have tilled the fields to exhaustion and been forced AND THE TRUE RULER OF THIS TROUBLED LAND to eat of our faithful steeds and prized oxen alike, came close to starvation.’ At this, his expression clouded fur- WILL RISE UNSTOPPABLE ther, and his confident tone grew choked as tears brimmed at the corner of his eyes. ‘Close to despair, Howling in a horrible mixture of glee and madness, the some would say. I myself even came to doubt, when the king hoisted up the messenger’s disembodied limb he landslide laid this most glorious palace bare unto the had been clutching, and began to eat. stars.’

The white giant’s face contorted once more, and he grinned, exposing rows of shark-like teeth adorned with chunks of gristle.

‘Yet we made it through! The time of the eternal harvest is upon us!’

Rapturous cheers erupted from those gathered below, the ladyfolk waving their perfumed handkerchiefs as the men drew their swords and held them aloft in salute. Atheldade soaked up the adulation, inclining his crowned head in thanks.

‘And to those of you who thought the Wendels would not come through our long trials, shame on you,’ chuck- led Atheldade, waving his finger as if scolding a clutch of errant stable boys. ‘The prophecy has proven itself to be wise and true, after all these years, just as I said it would!’

The ghouls on the mountainside, having stopped to listen to their master’s ravings, held tatters of torn skin and sharpened bones as tribute to their king.

‘The time of the eternal harvest is upon us,’ said Atheldade. ‘We have won through the time of strife, found the promised era, and all the while we did not for- sake our ideals. Not even when times seemed so dark we were rendered blind. Now we see again, and all we need do is feast! Hunt and feast forever more!’

The white giant turned triumphantly to the archway above him, long overgrown with moss and caked with the gore of a hundred cannibalistic feasts. He gestured grandly at the carefully hewn inscription that spanned the arch in foot-tall letters above him.

THERE WILL COME A TIME OF PLENTY THE CLOCKMAKER’S TALE

‘Careful, boy,’ snapped Marvo Carvolian as his as- head in disgust. He would have to cut the youth loose. If sistant painstakingly eased the longcase clock into the fool could not manage such a simple task, how could place at the heart of the clockmaker’s collection. he possibly continue as the clockmaster’s apprentice? Such a clot could never develop the skill and precision ‘Yes Artificer,’ squeaked Ghandrin, sweat pouring from required to etch a pattern of barely perceptible runes his brow. The youth was precariously balanced upon a upon the interwoven levers of an Aqshyan firedial, or set of telescoping metal legs, a dozen feet above the arrange the miniscule gear-chambers and hair-thin ground. On either side, great rows of timepieces led off mechanisms that were the hallmark of a genuine Car- into the gloom of the workshop. There were creations of volian timepiece. Did the boy not realise how fortunate every conceivable shape and variety: Chamonic quick- he was to live in High Azyrheim, to be amongst such silver clepsydras, intricately engraved carriage pieces wondrous creations while the rest of the Eight Realms marked with Azyrite sigils, and rune-etched chrono- struggled against the depredations of Chaos? graphs fashioned in a mock duardin style. There was a reason that Carvolian’s Clockworks was the most famed With a long-suffering sigh, the clockmaker reached for a establishment of its kind in all of Azyrheim. shard of the broken glass. A Shyishan piece, judging by the intricate yet sombre glasswork. One of a haul of rare ‘Hurry up, would you?’ Carvolian said. ‘I should like to pieces he had acquired at the auction halls in Hymnal be abed before my bones rot away to nothing.’ Square, recovered from the heirloom-vault of a Carstin- ian tomb if the seller was to be believed. Ghandrin managed to complete his task without inci- dent, and – breathing a heavy sigh of relief – made to Carvolian let out a yelp of surprise. For a moment he lower his rolling platform to the ground. As he reached thought he had seen a flicker of movement within the for the release lever to close the glass casing that secured curved shard, like a shadow passing over water. Peering Carvolian’s treasures, his trailing sleeves brushed closer, however, he saw only his own narrow, hawkish against a small, amethyst hourglass, knocking it loose. face staring back at him. He shook his head and chuck- led at his foolishness. A trick of the light, nothing more. The clockmaker’s assistant flailed his arms in a doomed Reaching for a broom, he began to sweep the floor attempt to catch the timepiece, but it fell to the floor and clean. shattered into pieces, scattering shards of pink-hued crystal and dust across the immaculately polished iron- The sound of hundreds of working timepieces serenaded wood floor. him as he worked – an orchestra of clicks, tocks and tolls rich in timbre and variety. Many of his former as- What little colour there was in Ghandrin’s childlike face sistants had found the sound maddening, but to Car- drained away. Carvolian fixed the witless youth with the volian it was a relaxing serenade. He could pick out the iciest of stares, his body trembling with rage at this cas- sound of each individual piece in his collection, like a ual act of mindless vandalism. woodsman identifying bird calls.

‘I… I’m so sorry, Artificer,’ stammered Ghandrin. ‘I By the time he had cleaned away every last piece of will take care of it, I—’ shattered glass, his eyes were itching with tiredness. The High Star Sigendil was visible through the arched win- ‘Imbecile!’ Carvolian shrieked, teeth bared with rage, dows high above, bathing the workshop in soft, cerulean ‘Get out of here! Get out! We shall discuss this at first light. As he craned his head upwards to the heavens, he gleaming. Any expenses incurred from your bumbling saw a cloud pass over the distant star, and darkness incompetence will be taken from your earnings. Perhaps swept across the workshop floor. that will teach you to handle my creations with due care and attention.’

Seemingly on the verge of tears, Chandrin hurried from the workshop. Carvolian watched him leave, shaking his THE CLOCKMAKER’S TALE

Carvolian felt a sudden and inexplicable chill, as if The rising gale now filled the workshop with an impene- someone had run an ice-cold sliver of metal down his trable sandstorm. As his teeth fell from his jaws and his spine. With trembling fingers he fumbled in his pocket vision blurred, the clockmaker thought he saw a shape for a fire-taper, and set a flame within the naphtha-oil emerge within that surging blackness – a grinning skull, lamp that rested upon his desk. Raising the lamp high, its jaws opening wide to devour his very soul. he turned to peer into the gloom. It was the last thing Carvolian saw before his body ‘Wh… who’s back there?’ the clockmaker shouted. ‘If crumbled into dust. it’s you sneaking about, Ghandrin…. this is the final straw, do you hear me?’

It was then that Carvolian realised what had so unnerved him.

Every single one of the timepieces lining the walls of his workshop had stopped. In the dim, flickering light, Car- volian saw that thousands of hands, dials and levers were pointing directly to the midnight hour.

‘What is this trickery?’ he whispered, and though the shadows gave no answer he knew that he was watched.

There was a single, ominous boom, as Carvolian’s time- pieces tolled as one. Then another, and another, and with gathering speed the hands of each clock began to whir forwards. As Carvolian watched in mounting terror, sand as black as the space between stars began to pour from the facings of each clock, spilling across the floor in trickling rivers. The clockmaker felt a sudden and ter- rible pain seize his body, running up his arms and lanc- ing through his chest.

Faster and faster the clock-hands spun, and downpour of obsidian sand was whipped into the air by a sudden gust of freezing wind. Carvolian raised one arm high to fend off the choking dust and saw that his flesh had withered and greyed. His fingers were bony claws, his bones visi- ble through paper-like skin. Clumps of grey-white hair fell from his scalp, and his panicked breathing grew strained and reedy. He no longer had the strength to stand and fell to his knees, gasping for breath that would not come. In the reflection of his lamp’s crystal casing, Carvolian saw his own face. It was the visage of a risen corpse – skeletally thin, eyes sunken and lifeless. He be- gan to scream.

The lamp spilled from his trembling fingers and smashed upon the floor. RODBUL’S LAST FIGHT

‘Just one more fight.’ fight was over. Then he heard a heavy iron key slotting into the lock of the antechamber’s door. There was no Rodbul sat in the dim antechamber adjoining the tav- turning back now. ern’s main hall, repeating the words to himself over and over. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d al- ‘Just one more fight.’ ready made himself that promise. Among prizefighters, memory was one of the first things to go. The pain of The door swung open and a portly bouncer beckoned. shattered knuckles and torn muscles drove most to drink, swallowing up what money they won between each bru- ‘You’re up, One-eye.’ tal gladiatorial engagement. Pain and loss – that was the job. He knew it all too well. Rodbul walked out into the main hall and looked upon his final audience. They seemed about the same as every Most recently Rodbul had lost an eye. It had been other crowd – ruddy noses and rotting teeth, each face as gouged out by his last opponent while they wrestled in indistinct as the next. There were about thirty all told, some borderland shanty. He hadn’t seen out of that eye not including bookers and bouncers. More than most get in years, but the agony of it being ripped out almost for their finale. made him faint. Still, he had managed to keep the choke- hold on his foe until the man’s desperate thrashing fi- Another door opened with a clack, and Rodbul turned to nally stopped. The dozen or so spectators had joked see his opponent striding across the pig iron floor. He when it was all over that Old Man Rodbul would have to was twice the size of Rodbul and half the age, his broad spend all his winnings just to buy himself an eyepatch. chest bared and mouth curved into a sardonic grin. The But there was one amongst them that did not laugh, a crowd hushed in anticipation – they were expecting a hooded man shrouded in shadow. swift and brutal show.

As the spectators filtered out, and Rodbul wiped at the A hammer struck an anvil somewhere behind Rodbul, blood that was streaming down his face, the hooded man signalling the start of the fight. His opponent thrust a had approached him. He’d flicked a coin to Rodbul, like foot out towards him with blinding speed, but Rodbul the patrons and pretty courtiers had done when Rodbul leaned sideways just in time to avoid being kicked was first starting out. But this coin wasn’t made of across the room. He shifted his weight and launched a Chamonic metal – it was made of black glass. well-practised jab. His opponent swatted the fist aside, but Rodbul was already following up with a brutal hook. ‘Wager this,’ said the hooded man, ‘and what you earn He caught the larger man square in the temple, causing will last you an eternity.’ By the time Rodbul looked up him to stumble backwards. Gasps from the crowd told from the coin, the man had vanished. Rodbul that many were starting to rethink their wagers.

After a few short weeks of drinking through his win- Rodbul stepped toward his reeling foe and lifted a knee nings, Rodbul had signed up for one more fight. The into the man’s gut, following it with an uppercut to the bookers didn’t know what to make of the glass coin he chin and another hook to the side of his jaw. There was a had handed them, but their narrowed eyes relaxed when crack of breaking teeth and knuckles, but Rodbul didn’t he’d told them he was betting it on himself. Considering feel any pain – odd, he thought. the state he was in, they didn’t expect to pay anything out. The crowd were booing loudly now, but Rodbul ignored them. His opponent was on one knee, with blood and The bet was taken and Rodbul was shown to the ante- bits of tooth dripping from his mouth. It was time to fin- chamber. He was told his fight would be second, after a ish the job. With his remaining eye, Rodbul lined up the pair of captured grots fought a one-axe handicap. weak spot on the man’s neck, the point that snapped eas- ily, and swung an elbow down towards it. A roar of laughter followed by the thud-thud-thud of drunkards banging on tables told Rodbul that the grot RODBUL’S LAST FIGHT

But before Rodbul could land the killing blow the kneel- ing man launched himself upwards, thrusting his fore- head into Rodbul’s nose. Rodbul’s body went limp. He felt the familiar warmth of his own blood streaming down his face, then felt his opponent’s massive fingers wrapping around his neck. The fingers squeezed in like iron rods, crushing Rodbul’s windpipe, but still he felt no pain. He could see his wild-eyed opponent before him, a look of frenzied pleasure on the man’s face as he crushed the life out of another living being. After a loud crack, the man let go.

Something made a thud as it hit the floor. Rodbul looked down and saw his own unmoving body lying there, neck twisted horrendously and eyes glazed over. Confused, Rodbul turned back to his opponent. He saw in the man’s eyes a look of abject terror, and heard a panicked din spreading through the tavern. Those in attendance were unsheathing daggers and dirks and shouting in star- tled disbelief.

‘Geist! Geist!’

There was only one onlooker who remained calm – a hooded man who emerged from the shadows. He stepped unseen through the crowd of frightened men, past Rodbul’s trembling opponent, and spoke.

‘There is just one more fight Rodbul. It is against the living.’

These words penetrated Rodbul’s mind, filling his soul until he could hear nothing else. The pain of his battered body was gone, the memories of his tattered life were no more – all that remained was that same echoing phrase.

‘Just one more fight.’

Rodbul raised his spectral claws, and lunged towards his living prey. THE JOY OF BATTLE

Madzec’s axe struck home, cleaving through bone and smashing aged leather into clouds of choking Another boulder of fused bone from one of the enemy’s dust. The fell magic that knitted his foe together artillery pieces slammed home, tearing free a shower of evaporated, and loose bones tumbled to the ground. masonry and tumbling down into the hall to crush a half- dozen of Madzec’s warriors to gory paste. Scores of The Deathbringer felt something clawing at his leg and skeletal warriors swarmed through the fresh breach. stomped his iron-shod boot through the ribcage of the Many tumbled the three hundred or so feet to the black- crawling figure. In his crimson fury he barely registered stone tiles below, shattering into pieces. Others landed that the squirming form was one of his fellow reavers. heavily upon the piles of bones and dead Bloodbound that littered the chamber, before rising to their feet and ‘He sees me!’ the broken warrior choked, his bloodshot launching themselves into the fray. eyes rolling back into his head as his mouth frothed with blood. ‘He sees me!’ Even as more Blood Warriors were dragged to the floor, slashed and torn apart by rusted blades, the rear doors of Madzec kicked and stamped, again and again, until all the hall burst open. In marched ranks of silver-armoured motion ceased. skeletons in tight formation, their motions so unnaturally synchronised they seemed as reflections in a mirror. The Through the blood thundering in his veins and the fin- gleaming tips of their halberds flashed in the moonlight, gers of red mist crawling across his vision, he took in the and a standard – depicting a dragon pierced through the battlefield. Ahead, ten Scalptakers held the bridge of heart by a barbed arrow – fluttered above their number. sinew that stretched from the fortress’ gatehouse, hold- Bloodreavers charged, howling, at this new foe, and ing at bay a host of rotting, grasping cadavers with axe were cut down by measured sweeps of those wicked hal- and flail. berds, spitted upon the weapons’ cruel, spiked tips, or hacked apart by their axe-like blades. No more than chattel. He turned, seeking worthier prey. Around him, more Blood Warriors held the central At the heart of the skeletal advance were three regal chamber. Above, silver moonlight bled into the pillared forms clad in splendid golden chain. They wore crowns vestibule from great breaches in the roof. A steady bedecked with jewels, and their eyes burned with green stream of animated corpses hurled themselves through fire. Even in death they radiated power and authority, these holes, uncaring of the bone-shattering drop to the directing their minions into the battle with sweeping ges- fortress hall. tures of their blades.

The risen dead had enveloped Coldspite Cairn like a Madzec roared in delight, and charged right at the heart flood. The barrow-tombs of the Harrowed Spine moun- of the gleaming host. His ravening Blood Warriors raced tains had been emptied. There was no end to the en- alongside him, their own demented howls echoing emy’s numbers, and no sign of Marakarr Blood-Sky or across the soaring chamber. her warhost. How long had they held this fortress? Days beyond end. Time had lost much of its meaning in this The Deathbringer saw the halberds sweep across to meet place. this new threat, but the blood rage was on him and no mere weapon could stay his charge. He felt his skin tear Madzec of the Flayed Legion understood well enough open and delighted in the pain, using it as fuel for the that the Warqueen had sent him here to die, to hold back raging fire within him. the enemy as long as he might while her armies pressed onwards into the Grave-God’s domain. The thought tore an ecstatic bark of laughter from his throat. It would be an end worthy of a champion such as he.

‘The eye of the Blood God is upon us!’ he screamed. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ THE JOY OF BATTLE

One skeletal face burst apart under the descent of his tides of amethyst magic. axe. Another swing smashed aside a shield and broke the arm that held it into pieces. So tight was the press that he Madzec swayed, vision blurring yet further. Ahead he found himself staring into the empty sockets of a halberd could see that the entirety of the grand chamber was a -wielding warrior. He headbutted it, and the daemon churning mass of bone, a swarming tide of undead crea- maw of his helm bit deep into the wretch’s skull. Still it tures swallowing everything in its path. More skeletons clung to him, trying vainly to bring its weapon to bear in were pouring from above, and yet more were being re- the close quarters. Again and again he smashed his face constituted from the piles of bones that littered Coldspite into it, until his vision blurred and blood filled his eyes. Cairn. Less than a dozen of his warriors remained, is- lands of blood-red armour amidst the relentless surge. The skeleton’s skull was spider-webbed with cracks, but They were drowning, pulled down by scores of grasping still it fought on doggedly. Abandoning its halberd it hands to be torn limb from limb. drew a short dirk and stabbed it into Madzec’s side, lighting a painful fire in his belly. Madzec leaned back It was the most glorious sight that the Deathbringer had as far as he could and drove his head forward one final ever seen. time, and the skeleton’s skull collapsed entirely, explod- ing into powdered bone. The thing collapsed limply to Surely with this final offering the Blood God’s gaze the ground as Madzec fell to his knees, wracked with would fall upon him. Surely such a bounty of blood and choking gasps of laughter. skulls would earn him a place in Khorne’s eternal le- gions, to fight and slay for evermore. Ahead, the trio of deathless kings were carving apart his Blood Warriors. One carried a colossal two-bladed axe, ‘This is not my end, kings of nothing,’ he said, and which he wielded as if it weighed no more than a willow laughed through strings of bloody drool. The wight lords cane. The others hacked down foe after foe with con- gazed back impassively, circling him with blades raised. temptuous slashes from their heavy broadswords. A mountain of torn and hacked corpses lay at their feet, Madzec staggered forward. A tomb blade sunk into his blood seeping in great rivers. thigh, sheering straight through his gore-encrusted plate, but he barely felt the blow. Still choking with laughter, ‘Khorne claims this place,’ screamed Madzec, raising he hurled himself at his foe, striking the sword-bearing his weapon and aiming it at the wight tyrants. ‘As I wight in the chest and wrapping his arms around the claim your skulls for his throne.’ dead thing in a crushing embrace. They fell together, toppling down a mountain of corpses and shattered With that he charged, barrelling past a row of slashing bone. The Deathbringer felt the chill of the grave seep- halberds and leaping upon the closest of the wights. He ing through his flesh as the wight lord stabbed again and bore the undead lord to the ground. His axe fell, three again, turning his chest to bloody ruin. His axe tumbled times, and the dead king’s armour was rent asunder. from his hands. Still, his adversary reached out a bony hand to close around his throat, its hateful eyes staring into his own. The combatants landed hard. Madzec looked down to He raised his axe again and hacked into the wight’s gor- see a sword impaled through his chest to the hilt. His foe get, snarling in triumph as his weapon cleaved through opened its mouth, and let out a rattling hiss. With the metal and bone and took off the thing’s head. last of his strength, Madzec made his final offering, growling as he tugged the tomb blade free from his flesh The Deathbringer felt a sword slide through the plate and thrust it into the undead tyrant’s glowing eye socket. metal at his back and howled as a rush of grave-cold ag- Finally the corpse-lights dimmed, and the thing shud- ony speared through him. He felt true pain for the first dered and was still. time in years, draining his strength and numbing his limbs. Staggering to his feet, he found himself faced by the two remaining wights. The sword of the nearest was slathered with gore, and the fell weapon pulsed with THE JOY OF BATTLE

The Deathbringer felt bony hands clawing into his back, The Blood God knew a brief moment of satisfaction, but reaching up to dig into his eyes and throat. The skeletal it was swiftly replaced by familiar, burning rage. The tide rose up to swallow him. They tore at his flesh, peel- blood flowed, but not in quantities great enough. Not ing it from his body like the skin of a fruit. He was still nearly enough. laughing as his throat was opened, blood bubbling down his chest. With a bellow he ordered more of his legions forward.

The last of the wight kings approached through the This sterile land would burn in the fires of his rage – and clawing tide, his great black axe held aloft. its pretender tyrant would burn along with it.

Madzec favoured the creature with a final, gore- splattered smile.

‘Mighty Khorne,’ he rasped. ‘Witness my–’

The axe came down, and bit deep into the Deathbringer’s neck.

Upon his great brass throne, the Blood God Khorne saw his faithful bring strife and slaughter to the sterile lands of the dead, and his roar was one of triumph and of ha- tred both. He raised his dread blade high – the Ender of Worlds, Allslaughter. With a bellow he brought it down, and smote reality itself asunder.

A deafening cacophony rolled across the sterile valleys of the Harrowed Spine, the thunderous eruption of a thousand volcanic ranges at once. Mountains crumbled and fell, crushing legions of fleshless warriors to dust. From beneath the catacombs of Coldspite came a rush- ing roar. A torrent of blood erupted into the grand hall, sending fountains of scalding gore rippling through the ancient fortress. Undead chattel were dissolved to noth- ing in an instant as the bubbling liquid splattered across them. A surge became a flood, pouring from ramparts and high-arched windows, becoming a waterfall as it tumbled away into the valley below.

The last wight king of the mountain redoubt stood impe- riously before the flood, staring in silent defiance as the tide of gore crashed down upon him.

Amidst the gushing blood-fountain shapes began to emerge. Rangy, muscled killers with eyes like smoulder- ing coals. Bat-winged horrors as huge as castle towers, roaring in exultation at the slaughter that awaited them. Howling in praise to their master, they crashed into the army of the dead, and the carnage began anew. A RESCUED SOUL

The raw soul rose from endless, sanity-shattering tor- wonder if the twins are finding the same thing.’ ment. Stretched and drawn, it was pulled screaming from tar-like distillations of excess. It writhed like an ‘Of course they are,’ snapped the female. ‘They might abyss-dwelling eel caught on a hook that drew it ever think their skills superior, but we too are gods – or you upward into lighter waters. are, at the least.’ Her tone became bitter and filled with envy at the last admission. ‘The very fact this place has The soul’s new surroundings were still murky, bathed in been held in balance for so long shows that when we act twilight, but they were blinding and glorious in compari- together, we are equals in every way.’ son to the hellish darkness that had devoured it so long ago. The rescued animus was thin, attenuated to a sur- ‘If you say so,’ said the male idly. ‘Do you think I am real extent. But it had substance, finally, and a will of its oblivious to your secret visits? Your armies grow own. Its relief at having escaped its tortuous fate was stronger than ever, the Scáthborn more numerous every intensely profound, just as complete as the hunger of its time I look.’ nemesis. ‘You know full well I am lining the nest for both of us,’ The soul’s consciousness slowly focused as if waking came the hissing reply. from a nightmare, gaining increasing awareness of the true nature of things in its new reality. Dim shapes, lin- ‘Do not seek to blind the Lord of Shadows with your ear and hard-edged, coalesced. Thank the gods, thought forked tongue, mortal.’ the soul; it was finally in a place. ‘What choice do I have? The Thirteen Kingdoms are The soul surged towards the tapering shapes, their chis- lousy with the spoor of the Seekers. The dead claw at the elled outlines seeming like a safe haven to a man escap- Reborn wherever their masters pick out the scent.’ ing a riptide. The tall, geometrically perfect structures were carved with runes. From each of them came a The male voice laughed without mirth. ‘How like you, chain of penumbral magic that stretched off into the dis- mother, to use the consequence of a treacherous act in tant beyond. The soul did not dare to look back at that order to justify it.’ which they bound. It was not certain of much in its di- aphanous new life, but it knew with iron solidity it ‘All this time, and you still know nothing of true ruler- would rather die a thousand times than look back. ship!’ The sheer venom in the female voice made the lost soul, caught now in the thrall of half-formed memo- On into the twilight stretched the soul, its thin screams ries, shiver to the core. dwindling as it drew near the tallest of the structures. It reached a kind of stasis there, one end of its essence ‘Can you not feel change in the air?’ the female voice caught in some kind of energy field whilst the rest was went on. drawn inexorably toward it. Though it had no eyes, the soul could sense two figures looming over it. Their auras The lack of reply was telling in itself. conveyed great majesty – and though it had no ears, the soul could hear the faint whisper of an exchange be- ‘This delicate balance we have achieved here, this tween the two figures hardening into words. prison,’ continued the female. ‘It will all be ripped apart like cobwebs in a storm if the portents come to pass. We ‘And so another is teased from within that cavernous must act now if we are to prevent that fell cataclysm, or gullet,’ said the first essence. She was a female with a at least ride it out intact. We have a duty to our race, to velvet-smooth voice, marred by a hissing sibilance. ‘A every soul we rescue. That, at least, is truly eternal.’ strong one, at that.’ The male voice once again did not reply. After a while, ‘They are becoming more difficult to ensnare,’ said the the soul began to think itself abandoned, but then the other. Male, both young and old at the same time, his giant spoke once more. tones carried the weight of infinite disappointment. ‘I A RESCUED SOUL

‘And what of your dear friend and liege apparent, the low.’ God-King? No doubt he expects you to fight on his be- half.’ ‘Sever the snare,’ said the female. ‘Never let it be said that the Shadow Queen takes unnecessary risks.’ ‘He still places his faith in mortals,’ the female replied. ‘I have visited his council, and found nothing but a herd The rescued soul felt something snap in its mind, and of short-lived imbeciles unfit to lick my boots. Now then experienced a jolting feeling of being sucked down, their mayfly armies march upon Nagashizzar as we swallowed and consumed. speak. He is blind to our work here, as he is to so much of that which transpires in his domain.’ It became a long, tortured scream, and then disappeared.

‘That much is true,’ came the reply, a trace of cruel hu- mour behind his words. ‘He still thinks the Gladitorium a fine and noble tribute, not realising its true purpose. Besides, the sight of his gilded cretins slaughtering one another is a little gift to myself that will never tarnish.’

‘We must protect our interests above all,’ said the fe- male. ‘No doubt you think the twins will intervene be- fore it is too late.’

‘They will secure their interests in Hysh with wearying efficiency, and do little else. The Luminous One has no love for Sigmar. Not since that barbarian fool wasted Teclis’ kingly gift on his own short-sighted agenda.’

At the mention of the name Teclis, the soul found some- thing snagging within its mind, like a thorn caught on fabric. That name was familiar, conjuring both love and hatred at the same time. It writhed once more, a thin moan escaping its ethereal lips.

‘Tec…lis…’ it said.

Two pairs of eyes suddenly fixed upon it, the intensity of their scrutiny like knives boring into the essence of its soul.

‘It spoke,’ said the female. ‘It spoke, did it not?’

‘It did.’

Another long silence. The soul twisted in strange aetheric currents, still caught on the hook that had dragged it from the worst kind of oblivion into the light.

‘Conceivably, it may have heard us,’ said the male, stooping down until his burning eyes seemed to fill the soul’s awareness without end. ‘And that we cannot al- VILLAGE OF MISTS

Aethrian plied her reins, guiding her ensorcelled Skycut- a stone spar. Tendrils of fog swirled as they slid to a ter chariot between rocky crags. Skiel, the huge hawk stop. Skiel bristled with disquiet. that drew it, gave a shriek of joy as he soared. Aethrian envied him. Her own mood was dark. ‘What is that vile scent?’ asked Dothrial. Aethrian sniffed, narrowing her eyes. The smell was elusive, a ‘The city turns toward madness,’ she called to Dothrial memory she couldn’t quite grasp. and Gelebran over the howl of the wind. The trio of Swifthawk Agents had been quiet since departing the ‘Let us not waste time,’ she said. ‘Bows ready, follow Phoenicium hours earlier. Now Aethrian aired what they me.’ were all thinking. The aelves stepped into the mists, sure in the knowledge ‘They say the blooded skull manifested in the flames of Skiel would not abandon them. Aethrian led, padding the Phoenix Temple,’ said Gelebran. between tree trunks that loomed through the mist. Mois- ture hung in the air, reducing visibility to a matter of ‘The disquiet feels unnatural, even so,’ said Dothrial. yards. Daylight became a grey glimmer. Even ‘The Silent Guard have started burning the city’s dead.’ Aethrian’s sharp senses found sound and smell muffled amidst the veil. Her heart thumped as she descended the ‘Is that so strange?’ asked Gelebran. ‘Don’t forget the slope, eyes straining for movement. message that the Eldritch Council have us bearing. An imbalance in the energies of life and death, they said. Is The walls of Houndsgate rose up so suddenly they it so terrible an idea to place our dead beyond the reach seemed to have manifested from thin air. The aelves of such a curse?’ paused, looking up at the ramparts.

‘They should lie in honoured repose, not taint the temple ‘No sound beyond the walls,’ said Dothrial. ‘Aethrian, flame with their ashes,’ said Dothrial, aghast. sister, something is dreadfully wrong.’

Aethrian raised a hand, stilling further debate. The Sky- ‘Follow,’ she said. They stalked along the base of the cutter was sweeping over the low passes, arrowing to- wall, arrows nocked. Aethrian saw no watchfires on the wards the mouth of the Seven Hounds valley. Their des- wall-top, no movement. Her heart beat faster, and she tination – the fortified township of Houndsgate – should frowned at another waft of that maddening stench. have been in sight. The western gate swam into view. Instead, it was obscured. ‘Open, unguarded…’ whispered Gelebran. ‘Mist,’ she said. ‘Thick.’ Steeling her nerve, Aethrian padded up to the tall ‘Unnaturally so,’ replied Gelebran. wooden gate, pressing against its timbers. They were slimed with ice-cold algae; she recoiled from the foul ‘There may be danger,’ said Dothrial. sensation with a hiss.

‘Skiel will never make it through the trees and crags Aethrian slid around the door and into the open gateway, amidst that,’ said Gelebran. bow at full draw.

‘Then we land,’ replied Aethrian. ‘We have a duty.’ ‘No one,’ said Dothrial.

‘As you say,’ said Gelebran. ‘Set down on that promon- tory.’

Aethrian guided the Skycutter to a smooth landing atop VILLAGE OF MISTS

Aethrian kept her bowstring taut as she absorbed the am loath to bear ill tidings back to an already troubled scene before her. Houndsgate’s Market Street led away, city, but the Phoenicium must be warned.’ side streets branching off it, homes and businesses rising spectral amidst the fog. Doors and window shutters hung It was only as they hastened from Houndsgate’s empty open. Food stalls lined the cobbles, heaped with rotting shell, and the feeling of lurking threat eased, that produce. A couple of alchemical street-lanterns sput- Aethrian finally placed the strange scent on the air. It tered; the rest were dark. had been almost half a century since she had accompa- nied the expedition to the Dawn’s Eye Realmgate, but at A hand-cart lay on its side in the street, swords and last the memory surfaced. She had stood upon the head- handguns spilling from it. Ground mist flowed thick as a land that day, amidst the corpses of Chaos worshippers, river over the cart, and drifted past Aethrian’s shins. and seen the devastation left after the ocean had vomited up a tsunami from its blackest depths. ‘Search,’ said Aethrian. On that day the offshore winds had picked up, sweeping She stalked into Houndsgate with eyes darting and away the stench of blood and death and replacing it with senses outstretched. A metal sign creaked mournfully a dark, briny reek – the same smell that saturated this outside the blacksmith’s, its steady reek, reek playing on strange mist, and clung to every object and building in Aethrian’s nerves. Houndsgate.

‘There’s no breeze to stir it,’ muttered Gelebran, and It was the smell of the deeps, of the ocean chasms be- Aethrian felt a chill creep up her back. low…

The aelves crept through the streets like ghosts, slipping into the gloom of abandoned homes and empty shops but finding no signs of life. Meals sat half-eaten. Can- dles were burned down to mounds of tallow. Coins and books and mirrors and all manner of personal posses- sions lay as though dropped, scattered on tavern count- ers and bedroom floors. Everything they touched was damp and cold, wet through and ruined in a way that even the thickest mists could not explain. Weapons, too, were scattered around the town, as though the sentries carrying them had simply been spirited away and left their armaments to clatter to the floor. Aethrian’s skin crawled and her suffocating sense of dread increased with every empty room, until she could hardly bear to take another step.

‘Not a gun fired nor a blade bloodied,’ said Dothrial as the three aelves stood at last in the empty town square.

‘Not that the powder would spark, it is so wet,’ replied Gelebran. ‘What happened here? Was it the dead? Malerion’s work? They cannot simply have left.’

Aethrian shook her head, unwilling to leap to conclu- sions.

‘There are no answers here, only questions,’ she said. ‘I THE GHOSTS OF ENSIGNFORT

Tyndash Khenst, who thought of himself as the Slen- smile, he prepared to make his offer to the owner of the der Walker, approached the forbidding facade of En- spear or halberd he felt sure would be at his breastbone signfort with a half-smile on his pallid lips. His hand in moments. strayed to the Katophranian mirror at his waist, the artefact wrapped tight as a mummified corpse. Lord Instead he was greeted by the sight of an empty gate- Arkhan’s gift was still safe, and unbroken, just as it house with not a soul in sight. Twin pennants, each bear- had been the last hundred times he had checked it. ing the heraldry of the fortress, swayed idly in the breeze either side of a raised portcullis. To Khenst’s shock, the Not even the most gifted gheist-caller could count on drawbridge was down, and the gate ajar. He glimpsed surviving what followed if the mirror shattered with no- birds making a nest in the murder holes, and a fox trot- one else around. No, better to wait until the guards of ting past on the other side of the thick oaken doors. Ensignfort had allowed him inside before letting his dead friends out to play amongst the masses. The gheistcaller looked around, fighting the urge to call out, but saw no-one. Shrugging, Khenst crossed the He should have little problem gaining entrance. Even in drawbridge and ventured inside, keeping one hand on these troubled times, a purse of hex-cut diamonds could the enchanted mirror. He felt a brief tingle as he crossed see an unarmed man win passage through almost any over the threshold – likely the emanations of a warding gate. Men had to eat, to drink, to dream of better lives. circle, its runes designed to keep out dead-walkers and Since the omens had begun, that was truer than ever. the daemons. But Khenst was still alive, technically speaking. There was a reason why the Mortarchs fa- When the fools let him past the gheist-wards, they would voured the living as well as the dead amongst their have mere moments to regret their decision before it was agents. too late. The spectral host would do its dark work, he would scoop the diamonds back up, and move on – just Still no one greeted him, nor barred his path. The ab- as he had at the previous fortress, and the one before sence of people was unnerving, even for one so used to that. being alone. Thus far there was no sign of conflict. The fortress was intact. Khenst pushed further in, eyes nar- Ensignfort’s eight towers were truly massive, the works rowed, and paced across the courtyard. of master masons from ages past. They were each large enough to house a few generations of the turnip-eating Through a partially open door, he thought he could make soldiery that had the temerity to call it their home. It had out a shock of blonde hair. He headed towards it, and taken Khenst near half an hour to walk around the outer pushed against the oak door, his nose wrinkling at a moat from the woods at the fortress’ rear to the gate- strange briny smell that reminded him of his days walk- house, but time was no real issue to him. Since he had ing the sea-cliffs of Penultima. The door opened with a begun his studies under Lord Arkhan, the idea of haste long, protesting creak. seemed foolish. Sooner or later, all souls found their homes in deathly Shyish, the Land of Endings, and ulti- The body behind the door was that of a middle-aged mately time became meaningless. woman. She was dripping wet, pale, and comatose. Stranger still, she was hovering at waist height as if ly- On a more practical level, there were good reasons to ing on a bed, but there was nothing holding her up. walk slow. Though he had felt no eyes upon him, Khenst knew that the fort’s castellans would be watching Other bodies, clearly those of civilians, were dotted through arrow slits and sally ports, their crossbows and around the room. Each hovered as if held suspended in halberds ready. This fortress had stood fast for centuries water, their limbs loose and flopping, but none of them against Chaos raiders and the undead of lesser necro- moved so much as an eyelid. Khenst, no stranger to bod- mancers alike. ies on the threshold of death, put his fingers against the warm neck of the woman. He found the faint throb of The necromancer turned the corner of the gatehouse’s her bloodstream; the strong pulse of a peasant used to easternmost tower. Affecting an approximation of a manual labour. Yet she did not even twitch at his touch.

THE GHOSTS OF ENSIGNFORT

The smell of seawater intensified as he headed into the Somehow, with ironclad certainty, Khenst knew there royal hall. The table was half-set, dotted with dishes of was a far worse fate awaiting him. simple but abundant fare. Around it were two dozen bodies, each floating in a sitting position a few feet above a high-backed chair. Those with long hair were framed by a halo of tendril-like tresses.

The smell of the sea grew even stronger, strong enough to sting in Khenst’s nose. He swallowed as he noticed the walls here were dripping wet, water pooling where they met the flagstones. Muttering to himself, he un- clasped the mirror at his side and unwrapped it with the care of a museum curator. Somehow, he could hear the faint cawing of seabirds, and the crashing of waves against the rocks; sounds that he had listened to as a youth. Hands shaking, he removed another bandage from the mirror, then another, painstakingly rolling them and tucking them away in his robes as he did so.

A clutch of pale figures darted from the corridor ahead, bald and eyeless. They held long staves with blades styl- ised in the aelven tradition. As they turned their blank skin-sockets in Khenst’s direction, they grinned to ex- pose pointed teeth, and called out in a series of curt shouts as they ran towards him.

The gheist-caller stumbled to interpose the table be- tween them, fumbling the mirror as he did so. It bounced off the arm of an ornate chair and clattered under the table. Jaw slack with fear, Khenst darted to recover it, but it was just out of his reach.

A wall of aetheric force hit Khenst like a crashing wave, staggering him. The aelven figures were coming in fast, leaping over the table and springing from chair to chair. He pushed a hand at the nearest in the gesture of the Black Warding. Sizzling bolts of energy crackled from his palm to strike the nearest creature, but the aelf-thing dived under them, rolled, and came up with its halberd thrust forward in one smooth motion. The leading edge took Khenst in the guts. He felt an electric burst of pain, his lifeblood squirting out to sheet all over the blade and spatter the food half-eaten on the banqueting table.

The last sensations the gheist-caller remembered as a mortal man was the sight of the grinning sea-creeper that had taken his life, the feeling of weightlessness, and the smell of the seawater drizzling from his fingertips. DESCENT

Marrathul of Mor’phann rarely heard anything on with a practised flick sent the grapnel end gliding patrol. She spent her time gliding through the cold, through the creature’s vast ribcage. A short tug on the black waters above the enclave, her Fangmora mount line brought the grapnel angling back around one of the undulating with each measured beat of its tail. Only broad rib bones, and with a delicate wave Marrathul occasionally did the telltale bubbling of slowly falling looped the line around the grapnel’s barbs. Her down- debris come filtering to her ears. When it did, she haul secured, she steered her beast towards the front of and the five other sentinels made their way towards the dead creature’s jaws, where the Leviadon waited. the source, swimming up to attach downhauls to the debris and guide it toward the Great Taker – that After Marrathul and the other sentinels handed their mighty current into which all dead and discarded lines to the Leviadon’s crew, the drumming doubled in things were cast. It was dull duty, yet it was impor- pace and the shelled creature lurched forward, each tant in preserving the enclave, and Marrathul en- stroke of its mighty fins stirring up whipping eddies. joyed the endless solitude it afforded. Then came the strained sound of the lines growing taut, and the descending path of the carcass shifted, slowly at But on this patrol, Marrathul heard a sound. Faint at first, then faster and faster as it was towed forward by first, but growing louder – a churning sound from the far the war beast swimming ahead of it. -distant heights of the ocean, punctuated by the sharp crack of bones breaking under immense pressure. Mar- Marrathul and the other sentinels followed behind the rathul knew what this sound heralded – the remains of carcass as it was dragged along. After a few leagues, she some vast, dead creature sinking straight towards her knew they were no longer above the enclave, and after a city. It was for dangers such as this that the patrols still few more she began to feel water rushing past her as the existed, even after so many millennia of isolation. pull of the Great Taker took hold. The Leviadon slowed its pace, allowing the downhauls to go slack, while the With her heel, Marrathul caressed the flank of her sentinels moved once more towards their skeletal cap- mount, bringing the serpentine creature about before tive and unfastened the grapnels. Marrathul peeled back spurring it onward, into the inky abyss above. As she and listened as the dead creature continued to glide surged forward, she could hear her fellow sentinels stir- through the water, carried forward by its momentum to- ring into action, still leagues distant, but racing towards ward the inescapable current that lay ahead. The crew of the same destination. Then came the sonorous thud of the Leviadon steered their beast sharply upwards, giving the drum that was mounted on the back of the Leviadon, the skeleton space to sail below it, off into the abyss. the giant shell-backed creature that would haul their quarry clear of the city. But as the carcass passed underneath the Leviadon, Mar- rathul heard the grating sound of bone moving sharply As Marrathul ascended, the deep beats of the drum grew across bone. Two points of light appeared in the unend- closer and closer, allowing her to hear clearly the echoes ing darkness, dull at first, but growing rapidly in inten- formed by the falling carcass. It was truly gigantic – sity. As their sickly amethyst glare spread, Marrathul’s longer than a score of Fangmora – and its enormous mind saw that they were shining from the dead crea- jaws bore teeth as tall as any Idoneth. Over its descent, ture’s eye sockets, and in their light was a cold and mali- the draconic beast had been stripped of every last scrap cious sentience. What in the depths, thought Marrathul of flesh, picked clean by scavengers in the waters high as she looked upon the illuminated monstrosity. above. Yet there was still enough weight in its skeleton to create a devastating impact if it were to fall upon the city’s chorrileum.

At last Marrathul reached the carcass, and without word she and the other sentinels moved to different points on the skeletal body, commanding their mounts into a slow, downward swim so as to descend alongside their quarry. Marrathul uncoiled the downhaul from her back, and DESCENT

With the fury of a hungry predator, the skeletal creature darted upwards with open maw, then clamped its mas- sive jaws on the Leviadon above it. The war beast let out a dolorous bellow as tusk-like teeth tore through its shell and into its flesh. Marrathul reeled in horrified shock, instinctively reaching for the spear slung at her side. But before she could intervene, the animated carcass began to race away from her, the writhing Leviadon and its panicked crew still gripped by unrelenting jaws. They were in the hold of the Great Taker, the current to obliv- ion from which nothing returned.

Marrathul looked to her fellow sentinels. They were equally dumbfounded, watching helplessly as the skele- tal creature receded from view. With a sickening snap the monstrosity bifurcated its captive Leviadon prey. At once the rushing waters of the Great Taker fell still, then the indomitable current reversed and began pouring back towards the stricken sentinels. The buffeting rush nearly knocked Marrathul from her mount, but she steadied herself and looked once more towards the undead night- mare. It was speeding straight towards her, borne on the torrent of the Great Taker, and from behind it she could see more sickly lights growing closer and closer. There were dozens of them – no, hundreds – each pair shining from the skull of a different morbid creature.

Marrathul spun her Fangmora around, her mind whirl- ing. She had to warn the enclave that the dead were re- turning. THAT WHICH IS LOST

Khamastus Lightningfist leveled his boltstorm pistol of us any moment.’ She resumed firing, dropping two and let fly. Three skeletons were smashed off their skeletal assailants several paces out of blade-range. feet as the Lord-Aquilor’s crackling bolts punched through their skulls. Fresh Deathrattle warriors ‘Damnation,’ snarled Khamastus, and thunder rumbled stalked over their remains, closing the gap as though overhead. He glanced about for anything to give his it had never been. The undead marched in lockstep, forces an edge. There was nothing; just twenty or so forcing the Hammers of Sigmar to retreat up the Stormcasts, backing up a rocky headland above churn- rocky headland or be overrun. ing, slate-grey waves. The waters thrashed to white foam about the rocks below. The clouds boiled overhead, mir- Rank upon rank of animated skeletons emerged from the roring their fury. grave-pits around the town of Shaleview. The Vanguard Chamber had been sent to put down a coven of Necro- That was when he saw the mist, billowing up from the mancers who had claimed the settlement as their per- waters below. Khamastus frowned as the Deathrattle ad- sonal fiefdom. Instead, they found themselves facing the vance slowed. The skeletons’ movements became slug- entire population of Shaleview, buried then reanimated gish, their outlines wavering. as a seemingly endless horde. ‘They… look like they’re underwater!’ exclaimed ‘Sigmar’s throne, there’s thousands!’ said Khamastus. Elethria. ‘What in Sigmar’s name…?’

‘An overwhelming number,’ agreed Elethria Stormlight, ‘Back!’ barked Khamastus, his voice the dry crack of shooting her own hail of bolts. The Hunter-Prime fought summer lightning. ‘Back up the headland, form a defen- shoulder-to-shoulder with Khamastus, while the last of sive line. Reload.’ her warriors poured fire into the enemy. Around them, the survivors of the Vanguard Chamber added their own The Vanguard responded with commendable speed, dis- bolts to the fusillade. Lightning flashed ferociously as engaging from their mysteriously impeded enemies. Yet Rangers and Raptors fired again and again, stepping even they couldn’t restrain exclamations of surprise and back with steady deliberation, aim never wavering. confusion as ethereal shapes slithered around the skele- Skeletons exploded into bone shrapnel, or collapsed with tons, bursting from eye sockets and twining through rib- skulls shattered and spines severed. cages.

‘We can’t kill enough,’ said Khamastus, his voice crack- ‘Those are fish, or else my eyes deceive me,’ said ling with tension. ‘Sigmar forgive me.’ Elethria.

‘What is there to forgive?’ asked Elethria, blasting the ‘I see them too,’ said Khamastus as they dashed up the head off another skeleton. ‘None of us knew about the headland. Taking their places in the battle-line, both mass graves. The coven turned our ambush against us.’ Stormcasts watched what came next with increasing amazement. ‘I should have known,’ said Khamastus. ‘Perhaps I did, and something inside me chose to strike regardless.’ The mists thickened and closed in until the Stormcasts seemed to stand upon an island of stone. The muffled He caught her glance, then immediately wished he had- boom of the waves was joined by steady drum beats, n’t. The two had fought together across a hundred battle- pounding as though they floated up from some stygian fields, and Khamastus had never seen such a look in depth beyond the touch of daylight or warmth. Fast as Elethria’s eye. They’d all heard the whispers, muttered thought, elongated silhouettes shot from the murk, and rumours of reforged warriors coming back… changed. huge, eel-like shapes scissored back and forth across the headland. Wherever the creatures struck, skeleton ranks ‘Now’s not the time for self-flagellation, Khamastus,’ exploded apart with spectacular violence. It took she said, ejecting the magazine from her weapon and Khamastus several moments to realise that humanoid smacking another into place. ‘They’re going to be on top figures crouched low over the backs of the fast-flowing creatures, and lashed out at the Deathrattle warriors with THAT WHICH IS LOST every pass. The aelven lord made a guttural sound that Khamastus took to be annoyance, then shook his head. Something huge and dark passed overhead, and Khamastus looked up in time to see a leviathan of the ‘No matter. The tide turns swift and we must ride upon it deeps swoop impossibly down upon aetheric currents. lest victory be swept from our gasp. Lord-Aquilor, we Lithe figures rode the howdah upon the monster’s back, are of the Idoneth and we have fought at your side be- and as they passed over the skeleton horde they directed fore, by the dictates of the secret alliance between our hissing hails of shots into the foe. peoples and your lord Sigmar. Will you stare at us like apparitions of nightmare, or will you fight with us to ‘Warriors, running from the mists!’ cried a Ranger. drive back the dead?’

‘Where in Azyr are they coming from? There’s no Khamastus glanced at Elethria, who answered his look ground there,’ said another. with a shrug.

Yet it was true. Pale-fleshed, clad in strange, flowing ‘Whoever they are, if they were planning to kill us, they armour, the figures dashed into battle and struck at the had ample chance,’ she said. Khamastus felt the storm’s Deathrattle throng with elongated blades and curved wrath surge in his chest, and a tight, angry smile bows. stretched itself across his features. Even the knowledge that his memories had been somehow corrupted seemed ‘Are they aelves?’ asked Elethria. suddenly unimportant, vanishing behind the gathering thunderheads of his war-lust. ‘Something akin,’ said Khamastus. ‘But where are their eyes?’ ‘The enemy of my enemy…’ he said, and his words crackled with Azyrite force. ‘Alright, Aemorthis of the ‘They need none, for they hunt by other senses.’ The Idoneth. We will settle matters of identity later. For now, sibilant voice carried from amidst the mists, which the Hammers of Sigmar are your allies. Let us smash coiled aside to reveal a regal warrior sitting astride a bi- these unliving scum together.’ zarre aquatic beast. His steed towered over Khamastus, the rider pointedly ignoring the boltstorm pistols now The aelf lord gave a flowing gesture that Khamastus aimed at him. took for assent, then turned his steed toward the melee down the slope. In his wake walked another figure, robed in flowing greys and greens. ‘Hammers of Sigmar,’ roared Lord-Aquilor Khamastus, brandishing his blade. ‘Strike like the storm! For venge- ‘Lord-Aquilor Khamastus, the tide’s blessings upon ance, and for victory!’ you,’ said the mounted aelven lord. His warriors gave a mighty cry, and surged down the ‘You know me, aelf?’ asked Khamastus. ‘How? What headland into battle. As one, the Stormcast Eternals and spellcraft is this? How have you come to strike so sud- the Idoneth smashed into the Deathrattle lines, and denly from the aether?’ raised a blizzard of shattered bones. It would not be for the last time. The lord didn’t answer, instead casting a look of irrita- tion at his robed comrade. The second aelf quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head, staring hard at Khamastus.

‘Look not to me, Aemorthis,’ the robed figure said. ‘This is no obfuscation of the Isharann. Some other sor- cery has clouded his memory, or else damaged it. He knows us not.’ THE GREAT GNAW

In a shadowed oubliette, a figure leans over a crystal moulder preen. Snitterskritch is an idiot, it thinks, but an globe. The being is hunched, furtive, swathed in a idiot with power and wealth, which has been vital in hooded cloak. A tail protrudes from under the gar- pulling this scheme together. A moment of magnificence ment’s hem, twitching with agitation. does indeed approach, a grand invasion that will cast Nagash down in ruin. But it will not be Snitterskritch Red eyes glint within the figure’s cowl. Hand-claws who claims responsibility for orchestrating this victory. weave above the globe, which glows with leprous light. The figure mutters as an image resolves in the crystal’s Oh no. depths. A hand-claw rummages in a pouch, fishing out a pinch ‘Good-good,’ hisses the figure. ‘All proceeds according of glowing green snuff. The figure snorts the substance, to my genius plan…’ shuddering as concentrated dark magic flows through its veins, then leans over the globe in anticipation. Things-master Snitterskritch sat forward on his palan- quin, which was borne atop the back of a thirteen-legged Any moment now… ratbeast. The mount was singularly impractical, its enor- mity filling the tunnel and bringing Snitterskritch’s head Triumphant squeals echoed along the tunnel. Warlocks perilously close to the jagged black ceiling. Yet the mas- near the dig-face hunched over strange instruments, ter moulder had to look the part. His moment of great- working their controls with frantic intensity. They ness approached. All eyes must be on him. It was up to peered through transmogrolithic goggles and chittered at his underlings to make sure that the gnawhole was bur- underlings, who lit hissing warpflares and held them rowed widely enough for him to pass with his dignity high. intact, and woe betide any who failed him! Green fire illuminated the drill crews. Chemical smoke Snitterskritch gazed imperiously up and down the tun- billowed, causing slaves to collapse, choking. nel. Ahead, beyond a tight-packed sea of skaven, the master moulder could see drill-ogors and slave crews ‘Ready yourselves!’ screeched Snitterskritch. ‘The working frenziedly. Green lightning arced as their meta- gnawhole is about to breach-breach! We fight for the physical burrowing engines bored through reality. glory of Blight City! We slay-kill in the name of the Great Horned One! We—’ Behind his elephantine steed, thousands more skaven shuffled steadily forward, blades at the ready and tails A seismic rumble interrupted him. The gnawhole shud- twitching. Amongst them rose the palanquins and banner dered, walls rippling. A susurrus of nervous whispers poles of Snitterskritch’s rivals, who cast venomous rose from the skaven ranks, and the musk of fear glances at him. He basked in the knowledge that his squirted. shadowy patron had given him command of such a vast assemblage of Warlock Engineers, Warlords and more. Peering over the swarm, Snitterskritch narrowed his eyes. Warlock Engineers gesticulated frantically, and his Snitterskritch raised his loudsqueaker. heartbeat sped up as he saw them screeching at the drill- ogors, shaking their heads. A chunk of crystallised real- ‘Fast-fast, burrowers!’ he screeched. ‘Gnaw-dig with all ity sheared away and fell, landing with a sickening your might! Hasten my moment of magnificence! The crunch atop a gang of slaves. The drill engine they bore invasion of Nagashizzar awaits! Let us teach the dead- exploded, raining wreckage back down the tunnel. things to stay dead!’

A suitably glorious utterance, he thought smugly as he watched the crews redouble their efforts.

The figure chitters to itself as it watches the master THE GREAT GNAW

Another tremor shook the gnawhole, and Snitterskritch ‘Such incompetence,’ mutters the figure, eyes narrowing gulped. Cracks raced across the dig-face, large, angry- in angry calculation. ‘Cannot have been-been a mistake. looking rents through which some kind of liquid Rivals, enemies everywhere. They tried to sabotage my sprayed. He looked down at his huge steed, admitting plan-scheme, but look, now they are dead-drowned! Yes. for the first time the drawbacks of not being able to turn Yes! They were no match for my genius. All those foe- the creature around. Ahead, skaven moved in skittish fools dead, and more will drown when the flood hits the tides, trying to shuffle backwards. Behind, more ratmen city. My plan is working perfectly!’ peered frantically to see what was going on. Snitter- skritch’s dreams of glory turned rapidly to thoughts of Filled with sudden energy, the figure turns and scam- escape… pers away into the gloom. Behind it, the globe continues to flicker with the image of an endless tide of roaring The figure blinks, and snorts another clawful of warp- black water… stone dust. Something is wrong. The figures in the globe move with increasing agitation. The dig-face begins to collapse.

‘My calculations were flawless!’ it hisses. Its mad red eyes fix on Snitterskritch, scrambling in a most undigni- fied manner along the back of his steed.

‘Fool-fool, what have you done?’

Snitterskritch sprang from the back of his steed, plying his lash as he tried to force passage through the massed Clanrats. The ratbeast stamped and growled as it tried and failed to turn.

Squeals of terror chased Snitterskritch down the tunnel, drowned out by a shuddering groan. He shot a look over his shoulder, in time to see the dig-face explode and a thundering wall of water and bloated corpses surge through the hole. Snitterskritch screeched at the sight of that onrushing mass of darkness and rotten bodies, which snatched up skaven by the hundred and churned them together with tumbling chunks of rubble and ma- chinery.

Mad with fear he clawed and bit, knowing it was already too late. A split second later the water struck like a bat- tering ram. The last thing Snitterskritch saw was the huge body of his ratbeast bearing down on him upon the crest of a night-black wave…

The figure sits back, eyes wide. It twitches. Its tail lashes back and forth. It watches the water as it surges back down the gnawhole, a furious floodtide choked with a million bodies now bound for the heart of the Blight City. AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

The bearer of this missive is an envoy of Khaphtar, it made its demands, for our Tidecasters also levelled bestowed with authority by proclamation of the Isha- their magic against the rushing waters, straining against rann council of Khaphtar in abiding service to the the weight of the ocean that was bearing down upon us. late King Nemosene II. Through their combined power they calmed the sea around us and restored the bubble of tranquility that To King Glorian of Laebrea, surrounded our city, around which the tempest contin- ued to flow. In that respite our people gathered their We of Khaphtar entreat you in our most desperate hour. forces. Our Namarti were set to the task of repairing the most damaged structures; our Akhelians made plans to We had thought ourselves safe. For so long we had been find and seal the fissure into which the sea was drain- hidden, our vast ocean concealing us and our ancient ing; and our soul wardens took tallies of those Khaphtar wards protecting us. Our existence went unnoticed – by who remained, and those who had been taken from us the living, by the dead, and even by many of our distant forever. kin. The souls we took were the remnants of the drowned and the damned, whose bloated corpses abounded in the Then the dead came flooding in. They had always been sea above us. We took only as many as we needed, and above us, those unquiet souls who had drowned them- were careful to leave none who could speak of our com- selves in despair, their watery graves separated from us ing. This had been our way since the beginning – cau- by a vast and featureless expanse. As the ocean dropped, tion, secrecy, survival. Our eyes were turned towards so too did the masses of bodies that clogged its waters, the surface, watching always for the agents of the An- and while our bolstered wards kept the rushing seas cient Necromancer, lest he came for us, or for the souls from ripping our city apart, they did not hold back the we had taken from the dead. We did not think to look for multitudinous dead that were caught up in the swirl. those that came from below. Thousands of corpses were swept through the barrier at the city’s edge, their mangled forms piling up to form A crack resounded in the depths, a thunderous boom morbid dunes. Then their tattered limbs began to writhe whose tremors blasted across the seabed, shattering and their decaying jaws began to gnash. Those at the many structures belonging to the disparate outposts of front of the gruesome heaps staggered to their feet, and our enclave. Then came the sound of our ocean being began shambling towards us. What phalanxes remained swallowed whole by a great and gaping maw. The sea rushed to intercept the undead – they hacked hundreds stormed past us, wild and ferocious, buffeting the barri- to pieces, but more corpses continued to rise up, until a ers at the edge of our city and dragging those Idoneth in broad wave of waterlogged bodies was advancing upon the open water to their doom. Mooring stakes were up- our kin. We watched the brave Ahkelians and loyal Na- rooted as the largest bond-beasts were sent crashing marti being torn to shreds by dead hands. We then saw into the enclave’s perimeter, and the wards that en- the Eidolon erupt with fury. closed our enclave began to collapse under the merci- less force of the current. Our hallowed guardian tore into the undead swarm, cleaving their age-rotted bone and sodden flesh with its We, the Isharann of Khaphtar, saw all of this, and we spear. With tempestuous rage it sent waves of force wept and were filled with rage. We called out to our an- through their shambling ranks, crushing their skulls and cestral guardians, and our Tidecasters poured our popping their corpulent organs. Soon, foetid blood and prayers into the chorrileum at the heart of our city. tattered limbs were strewn along the perimeter, yet more Though it pained us, we awakened those ancient warri- undead continued to come. ors who had already given their lives for our enclave, and we summoned them to fight once more for the sur- vival of our people. As one they awoke from their slum- ber, taking the form of an Eidolon of Mathlann.

In the name of Khaphtar, the Eidolon ordered the drain- ing waters to submit to its authority. It was not alone as AS ABOVE, SO BELOW

The Eidolon surged forward, through the wards that by now were barely holding back the ocean. Hundreds of the dead were pulled out in its wake, but thousands more were still within the perimeter, and the oceanic whorl continued to wash ever more bodies down into Khaph- tar. The corpses flowed in an endless stream, and though the Eidolon slashed and blasted and dismem- bered those it could, there were more than even it could possibly hope to vanquish.

In the city, we felt a sense of sorrow coming over us, a pervasive and unnatural feeling of hopelessness. We knew its source, for it is learnt by all of Khaphtar who have ventured surfaceward in search of souls. It was the despair of the mournful dead that had bled into the wa- ters over thousands of years. It marked the domain of Nagash, from whom we had always remained hidden. But as those dreadful waters swept down over us, we heard a voice that resounded throughout our enclave.

‘I SEE YOU, THIEVES. AND I WILL TAKE BACK WHAT YOU HAVE STOLEN FROM ME.’

We had thought ourselves safe, but we were wrong. Khaphtar cannot remain isolated amidst the coming of the dead, for our people will not survive if they stand alone. For their lives, and for the sake of all who dwell in the deep places, we send you this missive, and in the name of kinship we ask but a single question.

Will you stand with us? THE HUNT

King Glorian held on to his Deepmare as it raced hunt and learn what hunts them. But let them be numb to across the Ghurish tar-flats. He was flanked by a your presence while you make your preparations. dozen of his Akhelian cavalry, a small fraction of the phalanx that had set out from Laebrea. Even as they From behind Glorian came a colossal roar. He glanced surged forward, the clangour of the Ironjaw horde over his shoulder and saw a Maw-krusha bounding grew ever louder behind them. ahead of the greenskin horde. Atop it hunched the Mega- boss Ragdrakka, wide-eyed with frenzy. The Akhelians These were dark times for the Idoneth. Word of grim to the east had almost joined the main group of Idoneth omens was filtering in from many enclaves, and the se- cavalry, but the Gore-gruntas were still close behind. cluded Khaphtar were now pleading for help against the Worse still, the boar-riding greenskins coming in from undead horrors that were awakening. Glorian looked to the west were threatening to cut ahead of Glorian and his the riders beside him, then turned back to glance at the warriors. horde behind. There were thousands of greenskins, and more would surely come when they picked up the scent Be patient and do not commit until you are assured of of battle. That was their way. He had learnt this when he your victory. Be the calm amongst the raging sea, the first joined the ranks of the Akhelians. It seemed so long deep water that drags everything under. ago now, but he remembered well what he had been taught. ‘Now!’ cried Glorian, his voice resounding above the din of bellowing orruks. The ethersea whipped around Never forget that those we hunt are dangerous. They are him with sudden fury, pulling him and his fellow Ido- savage and strong, and their numbers are greater than neth along in the torrent. The cavalry surged forwards ours. Caution and acuity: these must be our weapons, and upwards, rising above the Gore-grunta packs that for to face our foes directly is to risk the souls of our kin. were crossing in front of them. The Ironjaw riders looked up in confusion as Glorian and his soldiers sailed Glorian heard a pained scream. He looked to the east over their heads. They were so distracted by the specta- and saw more riders from his scattered phalanx emerg- cle that they failed to notice that their own mounts were ing through the withered trees. The rearmost was beginning to struggle in the thick, pitchy tar. The mist- slumped forward on his Fangmora, black blood oozing veil was now less than a spear’s throw away, and the from a gaping wound on his back. In his wake were sev- Tidecasters within had their magic prepared. eral charging packs of orruks mounted on slavering gruntas. Glorian pulled on the reins of his Deepmare and Let the savagery of your prey become their downfall. Let veered westward, but even as he did so more brutish them bluster into battle against the enemies before them, cavalry came crashing through the reeds in that direc- while we watch and wait for the time to strike. tion. The Ironjawz were closing in. Ragdrakka’s Maw-krusha dropped from the sky, landing We hunt the Ghurlands, for the souls there are strong. with a loud splash in the tar ahead of Glorian. The Akhe- But we must be ever aware that predators abound on all lian King reined in his Deepmare just in time to avoid a sides. swipe from the monster’s massive fist. Two of his guard were not so lucky, and Glorian heard the crunch of bone ‘Forwards!’ yelled Glorian as he dug his heels into his as the brutal swing sent their mangled bodies flying. The mount. The Deepmare was already at its limit, and the Megaboss lashed out at a third Idoneth warrior, his cruel Fangmoras of his fellow Idoneth were strained to the blade cleaving straight through the Akhelian and his point of breaking. But the spectral current was beginning Fangmora with a single strike. to flow faster around the Akhelian King, and in the dis- tance ahead he could see the mistveil created by the ‘Plunge them into the depths!’ commanded Glorian as phantasmal magic of the ethersea. If they could make it he drew his greatsword. to the mists, they would be safe. While they fight the enemy they see, we move on them Observe your prey. Discover their ways. See how they unseen. And when they think themselves the predators, we make them our prey.

THE HUNT

There was a thunderous crack followed by a deep, gur- gling moan. On all sides of Glorian, the trudging Iron- jaw warriors started sinking further into the tar. Thou- sands of greenskins and their brutish mounts howled and thrashed as they were sucked below the surface, into the Realmgate beneath the tar that was now actively draw- ing them in. The Maw-krusha tried to wrench its claws free from the viscous substance, but it was already being pulled inexorably downward. Enraged, Ragdrakka launched himself from the thrashing beast’s head, rais- ing his choppa as he arced through the air towards Glo- rian. The Akhelian King watched as his foe sailed closer, waiting for the right moment before thrusting his greatsword forwards.

They will fight amongst each other. They will kill and be killed. They will think themselves mighty, but they will be blind to that which is coming.

The blade stabbed into green flesh, slicing up through Ragdrakka’s cheek and gouging out his right eye. The Megaboss bellowed in pain and anger. It was not a kill- ing blow, but it was enough to send him tumbling through the air to land with a splat in the tar bellow. He continued to howl as he was dragged under by the black gloop, along with his Maw-krusha and the entirety of his barbaric horde. Floating above the surface on the ether- sea currents, the Akhelian King and his cavalry waited patiently while their enemies descended into blackness.

An enemy distracted makes easy prey. When their atten- tion is elsewhere, only then do we reveal ourselves.

Glorian watched the last bubbles pop on the surface of the tar-flats. The Tidecasters had done their part well, and those Idoneth who had died would be mourned in time. Others of the phalanx would be arriving soon with their own greenskin hordes in chase. The brutish tribes of Ghur would go anywhere for a battle – this Glorian had learnt a long time ago – and they would find plenty of enemies at the Realmgate’s other end. It would take them directly to the borders of Nagashizzar, where the dead were amassing in numbers beyond counting. There, the greenskins would do what they do. They would at- tack, they would fight, and they would provide a crucial distraction.

An enemy distracted makes for easy prey, and when Na- gash’s attention was elsewhere, the Idoneth would strike. ZENST’S DECREE OF ORDINANCES

Jedd opened his eyes blearily, then screwed them was slippery and irritating, and Jedd found it made his tight against the dawn light. sword harder to grip – but again, only a fool would ig- nore Zenst’s warnings. His grumbling continued as he ‘Where’s the ’cursed curt’ns?’ he mumbled to himself, fished blessed parchments out of the lockbox he stored then groaned as he remembered he’d taken them down. them in, and spent long minutes affixing them to his According to the Zenst Decree, blocking out the light of gear. the Heavens with cloth drapery was akin to wrapping yourself in a shroud. It was a sure way to attract the un- ‘Wish I’d got m’letters,’ huffed Jedd, unable to decipher quiet dead. Jedd had no desire to ignore the wisdom of a the illuminated scrawl that covered the parchments. He famed witch hunter, so down the curtains had come. just had to trust that the scrolls said what the local priest had told him they did, and were worth the coin he had He supposed that Heirom Zenst had a point; Sigmar’s forked over for the privilege of wearing them. light had woken Jedd at the appointed hour to be about his watch. He should really be thankful. At last, he hastened out of his house. As he locked the door – remembering to knock thrice on the jamb – Jedd That said, Zenst’s Decree guaranteed to keep a man safe noted that his wreath of hagsblight was wilting. from the dead only if its every commandment was fol- lowed to the letter, and it had a great many of those. ‘Bloody sun,’ he grumbled. ‘S’pose I’ll have to go a’for- Jedd fumbled on his nightstand for his parchment copy. aging for more now.’ It was not a heartening notion, for Sitting up, he blinked owlishly as he read again its strin- the jungle around the village was grot-haunted and dan- gent guidelines. gerous. Still, better to risk the greenskins than let a ghast creep into his home. ‘Sigmar, ward away ghasts,’ said Jedd. ‘Sigmar, drive off ghouls. Sigmar, preserve my soul and shield my Jedd hurried through the streets, keeping his eyes for- body ’gainst the dead.’ He repeated the formula six ward and his face stern. Zenst warned against needless times, then dipped his fingers in the flagon of water next fraternisation, in case ghast-possession or spiritual to his bed and flicked droplets around himself, at each of gloom be spread. Jedd felt this was a shame, for his the twelve stellar alignments. neighbours were good people, and since the Decree the village had become colder, more suspicious and un- Jedd hauled himself out of bed and got ready, all the friendly. But then, who wanted to risk possession? while taking pains to follow Zenst’s commandments. He hung twelve weighty talismans about his neck, having to ‘You’re late. Again,’ said Dunsley as Jedd hurried up stop and remove them then start again when he realised the steps onto the rampart. he had donned the Hammer of Righteous Heart before the Eye of Soul’s Warding. He put on his clothes right- ‘Came as quick as I could,’ said Jedd. ‘Decree, in’t it? side first, right sock, right boot, right glove, all the while Takes time.’ muttering the prayer against the sinister sins. He looked wistfully at the salted meat sitting untouched in his lar- Dunsley scowled. der, instead making a breakfast of tubers, roots and shriveled fruit. ‘Make the bloody time, Jedd. I’ve got a wife and babe. With all these signs and omens, the dead stirring behind ‘Hardly a meal to keep m’strength up,’ he muttered. The the veil… We all got people we need to protect.’ eating of dead flesh was forbidden by the Decree, for it invited grave thoughts, but Jedd hadn’t yet been able to Jedd sighed and nodded, thinking that his efficacy as a bring himself to throw his hard-won store away. watchman would hardly be improved by even less sleep.

He donned his Freeguild armour, each element of which ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘You get back to ’em now. Bless- he laboriously rubbed with blessed wax, bought at extor- ings to Rosa from me.’ tionate cost from the village alchemancer. The substance

ZENST’S DECREE OF ORDINANCES

Dunsley grunted, somewhat mollified. He looked ex- Here dwelt one who was heard to speak ill of the Decree hausted, Jedd thought. Everyone did. by his comrade upon the walls. ‘Wish we didn’t have to go through all this,’ said Jedd, as Dunsley descended the stairs. ‘Makes everything Old Bones took him for his sins, vanished from the ram- harder.’ parts without trace.

‘Careful with that talk, Jedd,’ Dunsley called back over ’Ware the dead, faithful folk. his shoulder. ‘Old Bones’ll hear.’ Obey the Decree. Jedd shuddered, suddenly cold despite the morning sun. Praise Sigmar. He set off along the wall, patrolling widdershins as per the Decree. The jungle spread away beneath a cobalt- blue sky, teyr-hawks winging high above the canopy as the sun beat down. Animal cries echoed from the deeper reaches, while the treeline – which pressed up to within fifty yards of the walls in places – squirmed with animal and insect movements.

It was an hour into Jedd’s shift when one of those move- ments caught his tired eye. Blinking, he leaned a little way over the rampart, muttering a curse as the charms he wore spilled out of his tunic and dangled heavily over the edge.

Jedd gasped as he saw beady red eyes staring back at him, then heard the twang of a bowstring. Too late, Jedd tried to push himself back into cover, but his wax- rubbed gauntlet slipped on the stonework and the arrow thumped through his throat. He convulsed, then toppled over the battlements.

Pain exploded through Jedd as he heard the crunch of his bones breaking. His blood pumped from his throat. He couldn’t breathe. The last thing Jedd saw was a pair of grots slinking towards him, eyes fixed upon the charms tangled about his neck. They grabbed his body and be- gan to haul, dragging him away towards the jungle fringe…

Later that day, the village priest stopped before Jedd’s door. He shook his head at the sorry wreath of hags- blight hanging there, then pressed a parchment against the frame and hammered it into place with a nail. As the priest walked away, the parchment fluttered in a cold breeze, its warning clear to all.

THE PRICE OF APOTHEOSIS

In the Chamber of the Broken World, a shattered came new screams. soul writhed in the fires of Apotheosis. Kavastus stood silently in the vast antechamber, his eyes I fought. I died. I was reforged. How many times has this fixed on the door ahead. He had experienced the re- happened? I know it is by Sigmar’s will, but it is too forging himself. Only once. Now he guarded this most much to bear. sacred of chambers while those who died in battle were given new life by the will of the God-King. He remem- An axe severed my spine. bered the unbearable physical and spiritual anguish, and he empathised with every Stormcast Eternal whose re- A maul caved in my skull. forging he witnessed. But he could not let pity interfere with his duty. He had to maintain his vigil over the A blade pierced my heart. chamber, watching for those who would reject Sigmar’s gift. Am I being remade only to die again? Inside the chamber, the screams ebbed once more. But The pain is too great. I don’t know if I can– another blow would come soon.

KRINNGH! I fought. I was reforged. It is by Sigmar’s will.

The metallic ring of the hammer blow resounded I last died in Shyish, in the land of endless death. through the halls of the Sigmarabulum. We fought the legions of the Great Necromancer, that Outside the chamber, a dauntless sentinel listened to its ancient enemy of the God-King. soul-splitting peal. An enormous golden door stood be- tween Kavastus Seven-sense and the Anvil of the Apo- We slew hundreds, but they came by the thousand, their theosis, and through it he could hear the individual corpse-eyes staring as their hands ripped my flesh. strikes of each of the Six Smiths. In his long years of duty, he had learnt that their blows were slightly differ- I saw something in those eyes, something that– ent in tone, and after each came different kinds of screams as new parts of the reforged soul were shattered KRRINGH! and made anew. The screams were intensifying. Something was wrong. As the deafening clang faded, the soul inside the cham- Kavastus had come to know well the cries that typically ber twitched with flickers of sentience. emanated from the chamber, the changes in pitch that told of different forms of pain. But as body and spirit I fought. I was reforged. How has this happened? I know were sundered by the Six Smiths, these outpourings usu- it is by Sigmar’s will– ally lessened, and in their place came the glorious crackle of lightning as the Stormcast Eternal was I was taken from my tribe when the sorcerer lords came. brought once more into being.

They set my village ablaze and I watched my people But this reforged was still screaming. burn. But this reforged was still screaming. I fought to the last. Maybe we could have won, but at the crucial hour I was taken up and– I fought. I died. It is by Sigmar’s will–

KRINGGH! The dead looked at me and I at them.

Another wave of sound, and with this hammer blow THE PRICE OF APOTHEOSIS

Their flesh was charred, their skin was melted, but I saw their faces amidst the shambling horde. The great door burst open in an explosion of light and thunder. White heat bore into Kavastus’ eyes, blinding I recognised them, I had seen them– him momentarily, while waves of cerulean energy crashed into his armoured body. Electric pain shot KKRINGH! through him, piercing his flesh and burning his soul, yet he stood his ground. He thrust his stave forward, and Kavastus watched as the great golden door before him with a mighty shout willed the magic of Azyr through began to glow white hot. Rivulets of lightning danced the arcane implement. An almighty crack sounded, as along its surface. He gripped the haft of his stave firmly. though two immense thunderheads had collided with Something was wrong with the reforging. Something one another, and as swiftly as it had emerged, the wild was wrong with the reforged. energy was blasted back through the golden doors. Where it had blazed, a screaming spectre of blue and I died – by Sigmar’s will – it is too much to bear. gold static remained, and encased within it was the shat- tered soul of the reforged. A lightning gheist. I recognised those wretched dead. I saw in their multi- tude the faces of my people. Kavastus beheld his quarry as it raced anarchically around the antechamber, and called out to it with the au- What horrors had they endured? What nightmare had I thority of the God-King. let befall them? ‘Halt!’ Why would Sigmar send me to– Jagged tendrils of lightning shot forth from his stave, KRINGHH! cutting a crackling path towards the gheist and ensnaring it in mid-air. The electric being screamed in agony and Cerulean energy arced across the antechamber, lancing uncomprehending fury, but the Azyrite magic only out from the golden door with every agonised bellow. bound it tighter, condensing its erratic form ever more, Kavastus steeled himself. The Stormcast within was re- until it resembled that of a man. sisting the reforging.

I died – it is too much to bear. ‘Be still!’ Kavastus ordered, but the gheist thrashed I could not strike my people, even as they tore me open. against its arcane restraints.

They hated me for abandoning them, for leaving them to ‘Calm your soul!’ he bellowed. His demand was met – with howls of tempestuous rage that echoed throughout the vast antechamber. KRIINGH! ‘Your duty is not done!’ ‘Sigmar guide me,’ said Kavastus as he took his stance, readying himself to face the tempest of the tortured soul. With this, Kavastus swung his stave, whipping the en- snared lightning gheist across the antechamber and It is too much to bear. through the great doors that led to the Anvil of the Apo- theosis. The doors slammed shut. Kavastus breathed I did not choose to leave. heavily.

The God-King took me, but I cannot go on. KRINNGH! KRINGGH! KRRINGH! KKRINGH! KRINGHH! KRIINGH! My people need me!

THE PRICE OF APOTHEOSIS

After what seemed like an age, the hammering of the Six Smiths fell silent. There had been no more screaming after the first hundred or so blows. That anguished part of the reforged’s soul had been eradicated, discarded as unworkable scrap. Kavastus wondered how much of the warrior’s humanity had been lost, but he cast these thoughts swiftly from his mind. If the reforged could once again fight in the God-King’s wars, then no cost was too great.

The golden doors heaved open, and the reforged Storm- cast strode forward. Kavastus looked upon this warrior, this wonder of Sigmar’s creation. The reforged stared straight forward, his eyes utterly devoid of emotion. He opened his lips, and spoke the first words of his newly given life.

‘I died. I was reforged. It is by Sigmar’s will.’ TO END THE EVERWINTER

Frostlord Bjorgulf sat in the saddle of his Stonehorn, god and end the Everwinter! Do you doubt?’ Mjawrn, scowling as he watched a prophecy in its death throes. His warriors roared back at him, shaking their heads and gnashing their teeth. The Frostlord kicked his heels into He had led his tribe deep into the Realm of Death. He his steed’s flanks and lowered his gallowbone lance. had cut a swathe through the underworlds. Mortals and Mjawrn’s hooves bit deep as the Stonehorn propelled monsters alike had felt his warriors’ bite. Legions of himself uphill. The ground shook and the winds howled corpses lay gnawed and frozen in his wake, all in service as the last of Bjorgulf’s tribe gave a mighty cry and fol- to the voice that howled in his dreams. lowed their Frostlord in the charge.

Bjorgulf, had the power to end the Everwinter. The Projectiles whipped around Bjorgulf. Explosions lit the voice told him, night after night, roaring and bellowing slopes as the enemy’s fire-weapons spoke. Ogors and like the gales through the mountain passes. He would beasts were torn apart. Still he drove his charge home, lead his ogors and their mighty beasts to the very heart and the howling of the dreamvoice melded with his own of the deadlands, and there feast upon the carcass god in war cry as he crashed into the enemy lines. It took long his black city of night. So was it foretold. moments of slaughter and bloodshed before he realised that he fought alone. Victory had followed victory until today. Here, on this grey tundra, beneath the gaze of basalt statues the size of The last of his tribe, surrounded, outnumbered. Doomed. castles, defeat threatened. The ice winds blew, driving sheets of snow across the battlefield, but the enemy’s Bjorgulf hawked and spat. fire flared and roared in response. Humans and aelves. Weakflesh, all of them, but in huge numbers and armed ‘This for prophecy,’ he snarled in disgust, moments be- with firesticks a-plenty. fore a cannonball took his head from his neck.

Bjorgulf could have bypassed this weakflesh army, but Captain Hemsler blew out a breath through his mous- that would have made him weakflesh himself. No, he tache as the last ogor beast-rider fell. was compelled to destroy and devour all that stood in his way. As the din of shooting stopped, an eerie quiet settled. None of Hemsler’s surviving soldiers cheered. They Bjorgulf stood in his stirrups, sweeping his gaze across looked at one another uneasily, talking quietly and the milling ogor beast-riders that surrounded him. They checking over their dwindling ammunition supplies. The had rallied around their Frostlord after being driven back icy winds moaned, and flurries of snow continued to from the heights for a second time. Many were fall. Already the carcasses of ogor and beast were van- wounded, wild-eyed with hunger and fury. Their steeds ishing beneath the white blanket, indistinct carrion prowled and snarled, Mournfangs snapping at Thunder- mounds. tusks, which gave subsonic rumbles of anger. Stone- horns stomped, threatening to pull away from their mas- ‘Well, that’s an end to it then, eh, Llethryn?’ said Hem- ters’ control and rampage. What had been a mighty hunt sler, glancing at the aelven Loremaster that accompanied was now a ragged band of raiders, more than half their his command. He disliked how much his question came number gone, morale crumbling. out sounding like an entreaty.

It would not do. ‘I do not know, Captain,’ said Llethryn, head tilted to one side as though listening. ‘The ogors are slain, yet the Bjorgulf sucked in a deep breath of icy air and let out a unnatural storm that accompanied them has not lifted.’ ferocious bellow.

‘We are the winter that ends the winter!’ he roared. ‘We are the avalanche! We will feast upon the carcass of a TO END THE EVERWINTER

‘Best redress the ranks and be away from here as quickly ins of the battlefield, snow-draped mounds were stirring. as we can then, eh?’ said Hemsler with forced cheer. One by one, the ogors and their beasts stumbled back to ‘After all, we’ve a duty yet to Sigmar and it’s not exter- their feet, eyes staring white orbs, maws hanging open. minating ogors. I’ll not have it said we were the last The dead pressed in from every side as the winds of the army to join the march on Nagashizzar.’ He gestured to Everwinter screamed and howled. his lieutenants, who began barking orders. Drums rattled hollowly. Signal banners waved. For a moment, Hemsler almost fancied the sound formed words. ‘I must concur, Captain,’ said Llethryn, his frown deep- ening. ‘There is something disquieting at work here. The Then the dead were upon him, moaning, clawing. sooner we depart this ill-omened place, the better.’ His pistol barked, then fell silent. Before the Loremaster finished speaking, Hemsler was overtaken by inexplicable dread. He cringed when, a moment later, the regimental scouts raised cries of alarm.

‘What is it?’ he asked as soldiers milled around him, and exhausted artillery crews stood to their pieces. ‘Anyone? What’s out there?’

The snows had closed in, swirling wildly around the Freeguild positions and dropping visibility to a stone’s throw. The first moans came, carrion cries rising from beyond the grave to chill the hearts of men. Glowing shapes whipped through the snowfall, shrieking spectres and madly spiralling ghasts.

Behind the spectral terrors came more corporeal foes, masses of staggering corpses riddled with frostbite and – in many cases – part-eaten. They stumbled up the hill from every side, emerging from the snows with glassy eyes shining and blackened fingers grasping. They were the dead the ogors had left in their wake, all those they had reaved through and feasted upon, pursuing them to extract revenge.

‘Form up!’ bellowed Helmser. ‘Sergeants, redress to face the enemy! Artillerymen, grapeshot! Fight, in Sig- mar’s name, fight!’

To his fury, Hemsler saw that Llethryn had sunk to his knees. The aelf closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

‘It is too late, Captain, for the ogor-slain are legion. We shall march alongside them soon enough.’

Hemsler wheeled, looking for any sign of hope. Over the heads of his beleaguered soldiers, down amongst the ru- WYRMSTAR

For eighteen days and nights, the Wyrmstar hung dozens jutted out from the eastern edge of the city over above Tallowreach. It bathed the mountaintop citadel the ten-thousand-foot drop to the valley below. Beyond, in its wan light, lending its people a sickly pallor and the city burned. making metal and wood look rusted and rotten. The Arkanauts were holding the people at gunpoint. At first, the writhing celestial orb had been branded an Skywardens hung in the air around the airship, keeping ill omen, for it resembled a vast mass of squirming watch with their harpoon launchers in case anyone worms formed from pale green light. Though it was foul showed signs of undeath. in aspect, it was at least distant and intangible, some- thing not to be looked directly upon. Khurngrim ignored the hate-filled stares and hurled in- sults of those who couldn’t pay. He was holding to the Then the sickness started. An omen became a curse. A Code, after all. To his mind, the only senseless tragedy terrible wasting fever shot like wildfire through the set- was an unexploited one. In Tallowreach, sanctuary had tlers and soldiers that dwelt in Tallowreach. Though become the singular commodity, and the crew of the their mountaintop fastness had long protected them, all Gilded Oath were the only ones still selling. the high walls in the realms could not ward away the illness that soon became known as Wyrmblight, for it ‘Soldiers… mercenaries… where’s the civilians?’ asked stemmed from the Wyrmstar’s glow. Endrinmaster Borrik.

The apothecaries could do little. ‘Chewing on the living most likely,’ said Khurngrim. ‘If folk have survived in Tallowreach this long, they’ve The prayers of priests had no effect. done so by steel.’

Worse followed. Those who died of the sickness did not ‘Dugren’s heard talk among this lot, that the last barri- stay dead. Within minutes of its demise, the corpse rose cades are about to fall. Maybe already have,’ said Bor- as a revenant, and set about the living with biting jaws rik. ‘I’d venture we’ve enough aboard to turn a fine and choking fingers. The elders of Tallowreach froze in profit, Admiral. We’re already overloaded.’ horrified indecision, and by the time they took measures, it was too late. Day by day, Tallowreach consumed itself ‘We go when I say we go, Borrik,’ said Khurngrim. in a frenzy of sickness, undeath and terror, and the ‘Have I steered you wrong yet?’ mountaintop isolation that had so long protected its peo- ple instead trapped them within a prison of their own ‘That you’ve not, Admiral. But the sooner we’re away making. from that cursed star, the better,’ said Borrik.

Yet even as the city collapsed into anarchy, and the dead ‘Can’t argue that,’ replied Khurngrim. ‘We’ll sift this came to outnumber the living, there were those with the last pan of gold, then cast off.’ cynicism to see opportunity amidst the horror, and to turn a profit from it. He glanced around. Under the guns of the Grundstok guards, human refugees were filing into the airship’s  Extract from ‘Accounts of the Darkening Hour’, by holds, or finding themselves spaces to huddle amongst Augustus Vambedulin the packed masses on the main deck. They avoided one another’s eyes and pointedly looked away from those Arkanaut Admiral Khurngrim stood on the deck of his left behind. Khurngrim shook his head in incomprehen- Ironclad, Gilded Oath, and watched the sallow-faced sion; he would never understand the strange sentimental- humans file aboard. They came up the gangplanks in ity of humans. single file, having been relieved of their weapons and anything of value by his Arkanaut crewmen.

The sky-dock upon which the people thronged in their WYRMSTAR

Back on the docks, things were turning ugly as despera- ‘The portholes, Admiral,’ gasped a bloodied Arkanaut as tion began to fuel recklessness. One man rushed the Ar- he fought his way through the mayhem. ‘Like prisms… kanauts, brandishing a sword and buckler. Guns roared they concentrated the Wyrmstar’s light… saturated the and he was flung back into the crowd. Those nearest him cargo… they started to turn.’ screamed and yelled. It wouldn’t be long before they tried to rush the gangplanks, thought Khurngrim. And Khurngrim swore again. His crew fought for their lives who could blame them? He wouldn’t wish this place as Deadwalkers fell upon them and refugees punched upon his worst enemies. and surged and fought anything that came near. Humans screamed as they pitched over the railings. Guns The Admiral began to order the gangplanks raised and boomed again and again. Still the cursed star shone his crew back aboard. He was interrupted by a cry from down, and the ship appeared to rust and rot beneath its above. Looking up, Khurngrim saw that gigantic bats luminescence. had swooped out of the half-light, soaring on silent wings to launch themselves at his Skywardens. Harpoon Khurngrim saw one chance. Setting his jaw, he made for launchers hissed. Arkanauts clubbed their way through the helm, swinging his double-handed hammer. A zom- the refugees with gun butts and fists as they hastened to bie came at him, clad in Freeguild colours. He smashed take shots at the monsters. it aside. A moment later, a screaming mercenary bar- relled into him and Khurngrim drove the man back with Khurngrim heard more shooting and felt a sinking feel- a savage blow to the midriff. ing. Back on the docks he saw bodies and blood, gun- smoke drifting. With the Arkanauts distracted, the crowd Reaching the helm, Khurngrim pulped the zombies that had surged, and the nearest refugees were now locked in were feasting on steersman Khadrik, then shoved the a vicious melee with the armoured duardin on the docks. duardin’s corpse out of the way. No time for niceties now. One gang plank had been dislodged, but the other ‘Deadwalkers!’ shouted lookout Hengist from the was pinned under fallen bodies; the dead were spilling for’ard dome. ‘Deadwalkers coming down Dock Street up it, some toppling off the sides, others clawing their by the hundred, Admiral!’ way onto the overladen airship.

Khurngrim spat a choice oath. The stink of death ‘Bloody pandemonium,’ he cursed, then threw the en- reached him, and the moans of countless revenants came gines to full for’ard. Aetheric motors roared below decks soon after. He could see them now, a mass of staring and the Gilded Oath started to move. She lumbered eyes and yawning jaws, sallow flesh and clawing hands away from the docks, but Khurngrim could already tell advancing down the street like a tide. The Wyrmstar’s the craft was too heavily weighed down. The engines light bathed the scene, making the buildings lining the laboured and the prow came about sluggishly. Too late, street seem to rot visibly before Khurngrim’s eyes. he realised that the ship wasn’t going to build sufficient momentum to snap her mooring cables. ‘Cast off!’ he yelled. ‘All hands to stations, pull in the planks, cut the damn cables and cast off!’ Instead, the lengths of metal cable slammed taut and wrenched the Gilded Oath sideways. Khurngrim was ‘Admiral!’ Borrik’s voice came from behind, full of flung from his feet and began to slide. The sky docks alarm. Khurngrim span and saw men and women boiling shuddered and cracked, zombies and refugees alike up from the hold hatches, wild eyed and scrambling over hurled from them to fall and fall. one another in their terror. Khurngrim hit the railing with a loud clang and sailed ‘Ah you jest against me,’ growled Khurngrim as he saw over it. For a horrible moment he was plummeting, be- Deadwalkers clambering out of the hold behind them. fore his reaching gauntlet snatched hold of an edge. ‘How in the name o’ Grungni’s arse did those things get Adrenaline surging, muscle and sinew screaming with on my ship?’ effort, Khurngrim hauled himself up, away from the hungry gulf below.

WYRMSTAR

Onto a flat, hard surface.

Safety.

No, he realised. Not safety. The docks.

Khurngrim reached for his hammer, but it was gone. He looked to his ship, but there was no sanctuary there; the decks were a blizzard of flesh and gore, the hull churn- ing with spectral rot. The dead had taken the listing craft, and it would hang there until its aether-gold ran dry and it fell from the skies. The Gilded Oath had made her last voyage.

And so, thought Khurngrim, had he. Moaning zombies closed in on all sides, glowing sickly green beneath the Wyrmstar’s baleful glare. The Admiral took a deep breath, clenched his metal gauntlets, and rolled his neck with an audible crunch.

‘Alright you shambling wretches,’ he said as they came for him. ‘Who’s first?’ DAY OF THE SUMMONER

Beyond the bounds of reality hung a silver-pinnacled through his sanctum. Purple flames dimmed in wall tower. Glittering bridges and arcing stairways teth- sconces, causing shadows to billow from the chamber’s ered it to shimmering Realmgates, and its mountain- corners and stretch like grasping fingers along the walls. ous spires rose in anarchic profusion until they were The Summoner sought an answer in his mirrors. Had lost in the haze. one of his guests summoned especially powerful arcane forces? He recoiled with a hiss as he saw his mirrors go- Deep inside, in a chamber fashioned from crystal and ing dark one by one. Hoarfrost crackled as it crept across stone, a sorcerer-daemon hunched over a mass of mir- their surfaces. Shadows swam within them, then re- rors. The Gaunt Summoner was one of nine. He was solved into new images. The Gaunt Summoner saw the known as the Thief of Wits, and feared for his sanity- corridors of his tower, but not as they should be. The blasting conjurations and his ability to devour mortal fires had died. Monsters and champions alike were thoughts. naught but mouldering bones, while here and there a wailing ghast drifted. Within each of the Summoner’s mirrors, scenes of des- peration and violence played out. Bands of heroes, vil- The Summoner keened as he saw all of the fascinating lains, champions and killers battled side-by-side against variation and bountiful mutability leaching from his do- monsters and daemons. They took daring leaps over main. There was nothing here to serve the Changer of yawning chasms. They pitted their wits against fiendish the Ways. The weave and weft was gone, burned away booby traps and riddling daemonic oracles. to nothingness. All was static and dead.

The Summoner had seen it play out a thousand times. The daemon’s eyes flickered back and forth between Yet his fascination for the trials of those who walked his mirrors showing endless deserts of black sand, looming tower never diminished. He delighted in every struggle, mountains of bone and rank upon rank of shambling every forced alliance and desperate betrayal, every per- corpses with cold green witchfire burning in their eyes. mutation of guile, intrigue, foolishness and fury. The Gaunt Summoner ground his needle fangs together as he watched the negation of everything his God had set Just visible within each image were glinting threads, in motion. Behind it all he saw a skull visage, a leering delicate as gossamer. They emerged from the hearts and and arrogant death’s head that he knew from wars of minds of the champions and coiled away, representing old. fates yet to be met. These were not strands that any nor- mal being could perceive, but to the Gaunt Summoner Then the visions changed. Sorcerous sparks lit the dark- they glinted with promise. Many were silver. Those, he ness. Threads of gold enmeshed the limbs of stalking ignored. Yet a scant few glimmered gold and these the revenants and tore them apart, and from within the ca- Gaunt Summoner watched with rapt fascination. They davers spilled esoteric energies. The Summoner’s eyes represented events of great moment, strands of causality narrowed as ravening tides of magic billowed across his that might be subtly plucked in order to alter the wider mirror images, and the realms shook with their power. weft of fate itself. Armies marched behind glowing figures across a desert of blackened bone, and the threads of gold wound It was so that they could cultivate and then appropriate amongst them until they jerked and twitched on puppet these golden strands that the Gaunt Summoners allowed strings, and then were hanged by them. mortal beings to stray into their silver towers. With each future the daemons twisted out of true, the complex As suddenly as the visions had come, they faded. Ice weave of the daemons’ own tapestry of fate grew toward melted to water and trickled to the floor. Torch flames fruition. leapt. His mirrors filled again with the images of vio- lence and desperation they had shown before. ‘Soon we will be free,’ crooned the Thief of Wits. ‘And then… ohhhhh and then…’

The daemon paused as he felt a ripple of power pass DAY OF THE SUMMONER

Yet now they held little interest for the Summoner. He ‘Until we free ourselves from his leash, we are little bet- paced his sanctum, muttering to himself. He riffled ter than slaves,’ snarled the Slayer of Names. ‘We are through ancient tomes, then upended a box of rune- creatures of Tzeentch, not of Archaon. It is unbecom- branded scarabach beetles and studied intently the direc- ing…’ tion each one scuttled before crushing them in the ritual order and swallowing them down. ‘This argument is a fire long turned to embers and ash,’ said the Thief of Wits. ‘The Changer has sent us a vi- Suddenly decisive, the Thief of Wits cast his eyes sky- sion, this we know. Allegory is an open tome to such as ward and intoned sibilant words. The sanctum’s ceiling we. Opportunity waits to be seized.’ turned opaque then vanished. In its place was revealed an expanse of fractal spaces and impossible stonework ‘What are your thoughts?’ asked the Tyrant of Eyes. that spread away in all directions, and would swiftly have driven any mortal mind mad. ‘We have seen the omens, the portents, the great surges of fate and change that wash across the Mortal Realms,’ Amongst the endlessly replicating facets of sundered said the Thief of Wits. ‘Now the Changer sends us this reality, the Summoner’s eight kin looked up from their vision of doom and damnation transformed. I have cast own sanctums and met his gaze. The Tyrant of Eyes the beetles and I believe that it is a spur to action. I be- stared at him through magically conjured orbs. The lieve he wishes us to continue with our works, but to al- Tongueless Lord hunched over his mirrors as meltwater ter our weaving in sympathy with greater events.’ dripped from them. The others, too, were there, though several were illusory simulacra; these saw to their duties ‘You think he ssseeks an end to Archaon amidst this in secret even as their true selves walked the realms at coming war of soulssss?’ asked the Prince of Stolen Archaon’s side. Breaths.

‘You all saw, yes…?’ asked the Thief of Wits. ‘I think the Changer wishes power to be unleashed, his and ours both,’ said the Thief. ‘And I think that we have ‘We ssssaw,’ replied the Prince of Stolen Breaths. ‘It seen the price if we fail to act now. It is an opportunity was a vision from the Changer. It portends victory for and a warning both. I say we continue our weavings the upsssstart god of the dead.’ against the Everchosen, but with this vision in mind. We twist our champions’ paths so that they might best serve ‘If it was a vision from the Changer then it portends pos- Great Tzeentch’s ends in this dark time, and in so doing sibility, for nothing is set,’ replied the Thief of Wits. we bring an end to Archaon and defy Nagash all at once.’ ‘Perhaps it is a warning that our course leads towards the ruin of all,’ mused the Tyrant of Eyes. Several of the other Summoners crooned their approval and eagerness. Others remained silent and watchful. ‘A coward’s claim,’ intoned the Slayer of Names. ‘We have been wise at every weaving. The Changer shows us ‘Let ussss also send forth the formlesssss one, then,’ a confluence of fates amidst which we may grasp the all- suggested the Prince of Stolen Breaths. ‘I have a notion weave as one and turn it to our own designs. We all saw of where he might ssserve us best in thissss.’ the sorcery that was unleashed, the threads that bound and strangled.’ ‘Very well. If this is to be our course then there are au- guries and castings to be made,’ said the Tyrant of Eyes. ‘Arrogance. Dangeroussss arrogance,’ spat the Prince of ‘Our weave is infinitely complex and fragile.’ Stolen Breaths. ‘If the Everchosen should learn of our designssss our punishment would make all previous ‘Then time is a currency better spent in action than in sssleights seem paltry by comparissson. There is no discourse, is it not?’ asked the Thief of Wits. guarantee those hanged figures were not our own.’

DAY OF THE SUMMONER

‘We concur,’ said the Tyrant of Eyes after a heavy pause. ‘We are agents of change in all its forms. Inaction will not suffice.’

Amidst a chorus of hissing breaths, the decision was made. The fractal vision vanished, replaced again by a ceiling of gem-studded stone. The Thief of Wits took a moment to savour the deference he had been shown, and then leant over his mirrors with fresh purpose.

His eyes crawled across the figures within them, finally settling upon a skaven Deathrunner from whom a thick golden thread stretched. The verminous assassin crouched behind a crystal column, daggers in hand, waiting with skittish patience as a band of champions strode, unknowing, into his ambush.

‘Yes, you will do nicely…’ murmured the Thief of Wits, and his spider-like fingers began to weave. IRON AND OAK

Captain Loerson heaved himself up the narrow stair- marsh, leaving nothing but a polluted wasteland behind. well of the redoubt, cursing at the spears of pain that That was the act that had so damaged the alliance be- shot through his limbs with every step. Out here in tween the city and its Sylvaneth neighbours. Now, by the depths of the Ghoul Mere everything was damp the order of Lord Valius Maliti – the grand architect and treacherous, every stone slick with foul-smelling himself – a fresh expansion of the city’s borders had be- moss. The last thing the defenders of the Saint gun, and for industry to grow, it demanded fuel: oils, Sverova needed to see was their glorious commander rare metals, and whatever other resources presented falling backside over moustache. That would do little themselves. Thus was the noble cog-fort Saint Sverova, for morale. veteran of the Great War, reduced to guarding one of the Ironweld’s many excavations. The Master of Shot met him at the top of the stairs. Hen- raus Malliver was a stocky, barrel-chested man of mid- If Vunnarc Loerson was honest with himself, he knew dling years, his skin permanently marred by soot and the true purpose of these excavations: to goad the folk of valchemite burns. Loerson had worked alongside him the forest into action, and thus provide the lords of Grey- for near a quarter century, and in that time he could not water with an excuse for open war. recall Malliver offering a single smile. He was leaning against the rampart wall, peering out into the marsh. Still, orders were orders. Several hundred paces beyond the cog-fort there was a stretch of withered trees, rising up from the swamp like ‘How are the troops?’ he asked the Master of Shot. crooked skeletons. A thick mist rolled in from the west, fingers of grey-green reaching down to caress the murky ‘Cold. Tired. Miserable. Sick of being picked off one by water. one by those bog-lurkers.’

‘They’re out there,’ Malliver said. ‘And they’ll come ‘The wounded?’ again soon. I can feel their eyes on us.’ Malliver grimaced and shook his head. ‘They won’t stop,’ the captain replied. ‘Not until we’re dead or gone. Pale Oak claims these waters as his own, Loerson cursed. Out here in the wastes, a wound could and you know what that old devil does with trespassers.’ fester and rot in hours. The very air was poison, an al- chemical smog that seared the lungs and burned the Pale Oak was the name the people of Greywater had eyes. given to the great treelord who ruled beyond the walls of the city. A name feared and hated in equal measure. ‘Movement!’ came the cry. ‘They come again!’

‘To ash with that one,’ spat Malliver. ‘If he doesn’t want ‘Prime and load!’ came the bellow of the gunnery ser- his lands to burn, maybe he shouldn’t have started a war geants. ‘Fire!’ he can’t win.’ Greycaps were lined along the walls of the cog-fort, Loerson frowned, and turned to look at the towering tan- their rifles placed in firing channels set along the ram- gle of steam-pipes and roaring bellows that was the parts of Saint Sverova. At their officers’ command, they pumphouse, built into the iron hide of the cog-fort’s lar- cracked off a storm of lead and spun behind the parapet. board wall. Great copper tubes descended a dozen me- The second rank stepped up to fire, while the first re- ters into the swamp, greedily devouring the silt and loaded their wheel-lock muskets. slime underneath the surface. Below, surveyors in hook- nosed masks strode through the murk upon mechanical ‘That’s it, comrades,’ Loerson shouted as he and the striders, directing the labourers in their work. Master of Shot passed them. ‘Give the barkskins a Grey- water welcome, let them know who holds these walls!’ It was the guns and luminark arrays of Greywater that had flattened these lands and boiled away the thriving IRON AND OAK

‘What are you standin’ around lookin’ at us for?’ bawled and Malliver roared. Malliver as he rounded on an unfortunate trio of fresh- faced gunners. ‘Prime and fire you alley-rats, or I’ll have ‘Fire!’ you thrown over the side for the marsh-snipes to feast on!’ The cog-fort’s seventeen emplacements opened up with a blast like an avalanche, and flames reached to the skies Loerson and Malliver reached the leftmost tower, where as the rounds detonated. Each cartridge was packed with the heavy volley guns rested. The largest, Rhapsodia, Aqshian fire-diamonds, crushed and mixed with shards was the pride of the 117th Greywater Foot, a long- of metal. Whatever didn’t burn would be shredded to barreled culverin wrought of priceless rare metals. Every pieces by flying shrapnel. The cannonade lasted a fur- inch of the gun was marked with oaths and battle- ther three shots, and when the thunder ceased, a vast honours. swathe of swampland was aflame.

The tower housed Gunnery Sergeant Drackov’s squad, a Silence, but for the ringing in their ears. The air was ac- reliable bunch of soot-necks who had the honour of rid with smoke. composing the Rhapsodia’s sweet symphony. Gunner Nrozdhy was peering out over the marshes, towards a ‘Reload,’ shouted the captain. ‘And make ready.’ fringe of leafless trees in the distance. Like the others, she wore a panelled overcoat of mustard-yellow and Drackov nodded, and went to lever another cartridge crimson, over thick breeches and leather gloves. The into the Rhapsodia’s breach. The ground trembled. The corks used for plugging her ears dangled around her duardin lost his footing and crashed into the powder scrawny neck. She turned as she heard Loerson’s dis- kegs. There was another roaring sound, quite different to tinctive footfall, and snapped off a brisk salute. the fire and fury of artillery.

‘What do you see, gunner?’ the Master of Shot said. ‘What in the name of…’ gasped Malliver, as a tidal wave of foetid swamp water swept towards them. It was ‘They’re out there,’ she said, speaking with the distonal several dozen feet high, almost tall enough to crash over drawl of someone who had spent their life in earshot of the parapet and engulf the greycaps. It slammed against cannonade fire. ‘The fae-folk. The snatchers. Using the the wall with enormous force, sending several unfortu- mists as cover.’ nate soldiers toppling. A spray of foul-smelling liquid slapped Loerson across the face, and he staggered. In an Loerson took the spyglass, and scanned the horizon. The instant the waters receded. swirling fog masked everything, and it was thickening by the moment. If their last volley had struck anything, ‘The flames,’ whispered Nrozdhy. he could not see the corpses. The damned forest spirits were so fast that they had struck and withdrawn before The fires surrounding the cog-fort had been quenched. the gun-line could pin them down. Figures marched from the smoking marsh, lithe and graceful as they picked their way through the steaming The captain turned and signalled to Malliver. waters. Beyond them rose a greater shape. An armoured beetle as massive as a cog-hauler, crawling forwards on ‘Let Rhapsodia sing,’ he said. ‘All batteries, target the bladed limbs. Curving horns rose from its smooth mists. I want a steady barrage, four drakesbreath canis- crown, iridescent in the flickering light. A lone female ters on the four-hundred mark. Let’s burn them out into form stood upon the behemoth’s back, and when Cap- the open.’ tain Loerson’s eyes fell upon her he was transfixed. A winged goddess, towering and beautiful. Her eyes He stepped back to let Drackov’s team do their work. burned with the rage of a summer storm. The duardin crew rammed the load home, and Nrozdhy made the sightings, the poor visibility making it more ‘Present arms!’ roared Malliver, struggling to his feet. guesswork than anything else. Loerson covered his ears,

IRON AND OAK

The distant figure raised a golden staff. The waters be- rages are not forgotten. The pact of iron and oak must be low the cog-fort erupted, and snaking vines of lashweed restored. The Great Withering is upon us, and if we do spiralled into the air like writhing snakes. They swept not put aside our hatred, we shall all sicken and die.’ across the parapet, entangling each cannon and organ gun, wrenching the massive weapons aside with shock- The Everqueen raised her staff, and Loerson saw figures ing ease. Rhapsodia was flipped over like a child’s toy. emerging from the mists. It was a gathering of Sylvaneth Those greycaps brave or foolish enough to raise their larger than anything he had ever witnessed, a grand host weapons found them snatched from their hands, broken of the forest in every colour and hue. into kindling. ‘You will take me to the gates of your city,’ Alarielle The deck of the cog-fort exploded into life as grasping said. ‘I would speak with the lords of Greywater.’ vines tore aside plates and rivulets and forced their way up from the bowels of the great fortress. They wound together, coalescing into firm boughs of oak. Greycaps staggered back from the explosion of life, yelling in sur- prise. Shapes darted from the breaches in the Saint Sverova’s hull, blades of glimmering viridian held aloft.

‘God-King help us,’ shouted Loerson. ‘Fix bayonets!’

‘Enough,’ came a voice that boomed out over the marsh. It was melodic, even beautiful, but as merciless as the bite of winter. ‘This futile killing ends now.’

The behemothic war-mount rumbled forwards, shaking its gigantic horned head. Its rider gestured imperiously, and as one the Sylvaneth warriors fell back, lowering their blades. The goddess turned her blazing eyes to Lo- erson, and despite himself the old captain fell to his knees. He heard the rest of his warriors do the same.

‘My Lady Alarielle,’ he said.

Even as he spoke the goddess slammed the haft of her jade longspear on the armoured shell of her mount.

‘Speak not to me,’ she said. ‘You have befouled that which is purest. You have sown death and sickness into fertile lands. You have slaughtered my children. Speak again and I will tear the life from you.’

The captain cowered in the face of this sudden fury, bowing his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

As swiftly as it had come, the cold rage evaporated.

‘There will be time enough for judgement later,’ Ala- rielle said, and now her voice was the whisper of wind- blown leaves. ‘Your lives are spared, though your out- THE GREAT AND THE GOOD

‘You have heard, I assume, about their slaughter at simple bribery. She was here precisely because she was Halfholme.’ the sort of person that had no fear of the aelves.

Prime Commander Katrik le Guillion leaned forward, The imports doyenne Ysmeralde von Leithenstine looking at Master Patriarch Mench over the rims of her cooled herself with a spidersilk fan. ‘The reported be- amethyst glasses. Sevastean Mench met her gaze, doing haviour is disgusting, if it is true,’ she said. ‘Are these his best to appear unimpressed. Le Guillion had once blood rites not the very same barbaric practices that Pa- been the commander of the Bleak Island Sellswords, los Tzind wrote of in his Treatise on the Brimstone Pen- who had famously broken a greenskin Waaagh! on the insula?’ rocks of Cliffdiver Coast. She was renowned for having an incisive mind, a sharp sense of style, and friends in ‘They stopped short of cannibalism, I believe,’ said very low places. Elethrus Vinx casually, toying with her pearlescent prayer beads. ‘Are we to abide such behaviour, then?’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s fine then,’ crowed le Guillion. ‘They merely Mench wondered if the rumours that she had had her killed everything in sight and bathed in the blood of the belly cut open by an aelf’s blade had anything to do with dead!’ her reservations. ‘The rites of Khaine are not yours to discuss,’ said Am- ‘Are we to tacitly endorse the violation of the fallen by bassador Llyr-Xiss. ‘We do as we must to defend our failing to condemn it?’ she went on. ‘That seems to be territories against the scourge of true evil.’ the case thus far.’ ‘I find that hard to believe,’ said Hennerdorf, the Alum- ‘And with good reason.’ At the far end of the table was nus Verita of Excelsis. ‘You kill as you wish.’ Ambassador Selendti Llyr-Xiss, a pale priestess of the Khainite Cult, standing tall as she glared daggers at le ‘And this from the representative of a metropolis where Guillion. The ambassador was the representative of the the Stormcast act as judge, jury and executioner on a aelven temples; she had been resident-in-state with her daily basis,’ said Llyr-Xiss. ‘How many innocent lives escort ever since the High Oracle of Khaine’s royal visit have been lost to the hammer of an overzealous Knight last Cometsday. Her cold, almost alien presence had Excelsior, just because they were desperate to feed their changed the complexion of the Stormrift Conclave ever family, or walked on the wrong side of the street? Come since; the fact she simply refused to sit down was off- to that, how many of Sigmar’s warriors are stolen from putting in itself. their people and forced into doing his will?’

‘Yes, commander,’ replied Mench patiently. ‘I believe ‘Reductive at best,’ scoffed Hennerdorf. ‘The God-King everyone in Hammerhal Aqsha has heard about it by knows well the minds of men, and aelves to boot. There now.’ is a reason we don’t harbour your kind in our fair city on the coast.’ Le Guillion raised a gold-pierced eyebrow. ‘And yet we sit here with one of their kind as if nothing had hap- ‘Is that the case?’ said Llyr-Xiss, a slight smile on her pened.’ lips.

Mench had heard tell the woman held grudges against ‘Oh, they are there alright,’ said High Castellan Brutar, non-humans, that she wore contact poison on her finger- glassy-eyed with pleasant memories. ‘If you look hard nails, and that she had simply bought her way onto the enough. The sacred dancing, the bladesmanship, the… Stormrift Conclave. He found the latter hard to believe; uniforms. Quite spellbinding.’ though in terms of power and influence, the council was but an echo of its celestial counterpart in Heavenhall, the Pantheon’s representatives in Hammerhal were long past THE GREAT AND THE GOOD

‘Better the fiend you know well, isn’t that the saying?’ ‘You take the coin, do you not?’ said Llyr-Xiss. ‘Like said Mench with a weak laugh. His jest proved poorly the duardin, you fight for the highest bidder, yet you still judged, and he crossed his arms despite himself as Xiss talk of morality.’ turned her steel-cold gaze upon him. She gestured at one of her aides, and the aelf made a note on a piece of fine At this Drobjorn, the High Artillerist of the Dispos- vellum. Mench hoped to high Sigmar it would not prove sessed, harrumphed and bristled in his stout throne. Just to be his death writ. as he was about to speak, there was a scream in the dis- tance. It was abruptly cut short. The delegates looked at ‘We are part of the fabric of this society,’ said Llyr-Xiss. one another, and a few made as if to stand, but none left ‘It was our queen who fought at Sigmar’s side to raise their seat. up civilisation so many thousands of years ago, just as we fight at your side now. Is it given to you to break Such instances were not uncommon, these days. Lately with that tradition and deny the will of the God-King?’ there had been talk of riots in the lower city, and a wave of bloody strife in the Cinderfall District. Mench waved ‘Of course not,’ huffed Evandelle of the High Artisans. two fingers at the guards standing by the main doors. As She shared a look with her steam-cherubs, who rolled they moved to investigate, he refocused on the hall once their eyes with a series of faint mechanical whirrs. ‘But more. it is “given to us” to decide how best to implement his decisions in the free cities of Aqshy and Ghyran, and ‘We have no choice but to ally,’ said Llyr-Xiss. ‘You do reflect them in the corresponding governance. Just as did not like it. We do not like it. Drobjorn here has his hand Almighty Sigmar, we tolerate you as long as you prove on his axe as I speak. But we face a rising tide of un- useful.’ death, and if we do not find a way to conquer it, then aelf, man and duardin alike, our ways of life will end ‘At least this one is honest,’ said Llyr-Xiss, inclining her forever. We will be reduced to dry bone, and forced to head. march to the beat of a mad god’s drum. Don’t you see that? Can’t you read the signs? We may not be the same Mench couldn’t help but feel he was losing any sem- creed, race, or anatomy, but we are the living. And that blance of control over the situation. ‘The hour is grave, is enough!’ this we all know. The Daughters have shown themselves to be… highly committed to the battle against the forces ‘Fine words,’ said Mench, surprised to find he truly of darkness. They are very effective allies in the ongoing meant it. ‘We have a common enemy, and for now, at fight against the tyrannical hordes. It has been said we least, I believe that is enough.’ cannot do without them.’ ‘The High Oracle must obey the same strictures as the ‘I for one echo that sentiment,’ said Brutar, folding his rest of us, if she is to truly share our cities,’ said le Guil- hands across his pseudo-military cummerbund. ‘I have lion. ‘There was never a vote.’ seen them fight in earnest. Bloody massacre. I’d rather have them at our side than across the field. Fight fire ‘Then let us put it to the show of blades,’ said Mench. with fire, I say.’ ‘I concur,’ said Aventis Firestrike, Magister of Hammer- ‘I, too,’ said Gharralan, the Lord Audacious. hal and judiciary representative of the Stormcast Eter- nals. Since Mench’s inception as Chair, Aventis at- ‘And I,’ said Hexedentia Vimm, newly-appointed mis- tended the council rarely and spoke even less, but when tress of the Hammerhal Cog-forts. he did, it was always well. ‘We must come to a consen- sus for the people to accept the decision in their hearts.’ ‘Is no-one concerned about the message this sends?’ said le Guillion. ‘That the end justifies the means? What does ‘Progress at last,’ said Mench. ‘So then. On the matter of this tell the next generation, and the next, even if we the alliance with the Temple of Khaine, to be made per- somehow win peace enough to raise them?’ manent and official in Azyrheim and beyond, raise or stay your weapon.’

THE GREAT AND THE GOOD

One by one, blades were raised around the grand table, ranging from thin stilettos to fluted kris knives to ances- tral broadswords that took two hands to lift. Mench let time tick by until a full ten seconds had passed, and then made his count. It was not a swift process, and many sighs of impatience and shifting of aching arms came with each passing minute, just as they always did. But it was necessary.

Mench double-checked, frowning, and then counted once more to be sure.

‘One hundred and twenty-three in favour,’ he said even- tually, ‘one hundred and twenty one against. Do any dis- pute it?’

He let another ten seconds pass, but none gainsaid him.

‘Right then.’ He brought the antique hammer of his of- fice down hard. ‘Let that be an end to it. Ambassador Lyr-Xiss–’

‘Llyr-Xiss,’ the aelf corrected, her voice a sibilant burr.

‘Right, yes. The ambassador here represents tens of thousands of warrior aelves, each ready to fight in the name of Sigmar to–’

‘Of Khaine,’ said Llyr-Xiss.

Mench looked at the ceiling, counted to three, and con- tinued. ‘Each ready to fight in the name of Order and progress, that we all may live without the shadows of Chaos and Death cast over our lives. Let that be an end to it.’ He slammed his antique hammer down once more for good measure.

‘Now,’ he said, taking a longscroll from his adjutant and carefully smoothing it across the wyrmwood of the ma- jestic debating table. ‘To matters of force disposition over the coming invasions…’ AN OPPORTUNITY IN DEATH

Grey Seer Retchnik drummed his claws on the arm show respect and listen, shadow-crawler.’ of his throne. He glared at the entrance to his audi- ence-burrow as though he could summon the Eshin Retchnik caught the subtle tightening of the envoy’s fea- delegation by force of will. Keeping a prophet of the tures, the twitch of his tail. It was a crude insult, but it Horned Rat waiting was intolerable! had hit the mark. Still, the envoy said nothing, and only gestured with a wizened claw for Retchnik to proceed. Retchnik glanced at the hulking albino Stormvermin flanking his throne. He toyed with the idea of sending Retchnik sat back and stared down his muzzle at the them out to find the envoys, and to bring him their sev- Eshin agents. ered heads. A tempting notion, but the Grey Seer needed his Eshin pawns. ‘You know-know of the disaster after that fool Snitter- skritch burrowed a gnawhole into the Realm of Death?’ There was movement outside the burrow as challenges were chittered and answers hissed. ‘And usher-brought the Year of the Drowned Rat,’ said Kriktail. ‘All know this, seer. It is hard to miss-miss the At last, thought Retchnik, sitting up from his foul- Floodwarrens.’ tempered slump. Retchnik wafted a claw airily. First to enter were a quartet of black-robed Gutter Run- ners. The Eshin warriors stalked into the burrow, poised ‘Of course, I would not impugn the observational skills on the balls of their footclaws, beady eyes darting for of the great Clan Slynk,’ he sneered. ‘And you have signs of ambush. heard the tell-speak, that the tunnel was destroyed in the flood?’ After them came a wizened old skaven, his grey fur straggling from robes of black and warpstone green. One ‘So said the Council of Thirteen,’ replied Kriktail of his eyes was missing, replaced by a carved brass slowly. ‘What do you know, seer?’ globe, while the other stared at Retchnik with gleaming intensity. Retchnik leaned forward.

An old skaven was unusual enough, thought the seer – ‘Lies-lies!’ he chittered triumphantly. ‘The Council said few of their race survived one another’s scheming long the Floodwarrens were impassable, the tunnel blocked. enough to see their third decade – but the figure at the But I have scried the deeps, yes, and I have seen. There old envoy’s shoulder was stranger still. A Deathrunner is a way through the waters to lands near Nagashizzar, if by his garb, he was freakishly tall for a skaven. His your operatives have the sneak-wit to exploit it!’ black eyes were marbled with veins of gold and electric blue. There was something about the Deathrunner’s aura Kriktail stood very still, only the twitching of his whisk- that raised Retchnik’s hackles. Then his concentration ers betraying his thoughts. was broken as the ancient envoy spoke. ‘Why summon us, seer? Why speak-tell your secret to ‘Retchnik summons us and we listen-hear. But did most- Clan Slynk?’ mighty Grey Seer bring us here so he could gaze-gaze upon Deathrunner Spark-eye?’ ‘I have had the… opportunity… to see-see your agents’ skills first hand,’ said Retchnik, his tone dry. Let this old Retchnik favoured the envoy with a suitably withering gnarl-talon know that he was onto them, that he could stare. The envoy returned his gaze with maddening pa- have mustered a swarm and sent it to crush Clan Slynk tience and a glint of amusement. after they had aided his rivals in sabotaging his plans.

‘I have summoned you, Kriktail of Clan Slynk, to offer- That he hadn’t. tell of a plan most cunning. You would be wise-wise to

AN OPPORTUNITY IN DEATH

Yet. An hour later, the Eshin delegation withdrew from Retchnik’s audience burrow. Plans were in place for ‘Our assassins are swift and kill-skilled. They have mas- their claws to assemble and follow the route he had tered Form of Smoke and Shade,’ allowed Kriktail. mapped for them through the dangerous Floodwarrens Retchnik heard the implicit counter-threat loud and and the half-collapsed gnawhole beyond. clear. He smirked. With a snigger, Retchnik had his guards sweep his bur- ‘The Great Necromancer creates a… device-thing… of row for lurking killers and spying devices. Once he was black realmstone in his dead city,’ said Retchnik, hoping satisfied that Kriktail had left no unpleasant surprises in Kriktail hadn’t caught his slight pause. The portents had his wake, he sent the Stormvermin outside to stand been infuriatingly vague; it was part of why he had no watch over the burrow, ordering them to seal the door. intention of risking the journey himself. He had scryings to make, to ready himself for the next step in his brilliant plan. And for no reason he could set ‘Retchnik wants the black realmstone at the device’s a claw on, he felt uneasy. He would feel better with the heart for himself, yes-yes?’ asked Kriktail. The Grey door barred. Seer merely stared in answer, eyes alight and tail lash- ing. ‘And why would Clan Slynk fetch-get this for you, Retiring to a shadowy antechamber, Retchnik busied seer?’ asked the envoy. ‘It would be a dangerous under- himself at the brass controls of his seeing-engine. De- taking. Many claws would have to be sent. Many would spite his sense of triumph, something prickled at him, a not return.’ feeling of disquiet that made his tail twitch.

‘Perhaps Clan Slynk are less-less mighty than I ‘Fool-fool, this is a moment of triumph,’ he chittered to thought?’ asked Retchnik. himself. ‘If they get seen-caught, then Clan Slynk are butchered and I am revenged. If they fetch-bring the Kriktail wouldn’t be baited. ‘Speak-tell me why we do black realmstone from the pyramid’s heart, then my not slay you to keep this secret and then send our claws powers become even greater, and when they march regardless?’ he asked. against the aelf-things they will learn-learn too late that my wrath cannot be bought off. Let Slynk try to fight Retchnik had been waiting for this, but still he bristled at aelfs to their front and my swarms to their back.’ the sheer audacity. ‘I am one of the Horned One’s cho- sen!’ he shrieked. ‘To lift-raise a claw to me is to strike Retchnik snickered another laugh, but it felt forced. He at the Great Horned Rat himself!’ shot a wary glance over his shoulder, twitching, but saw nothing amidst the shadows. Blinking quickly, chiding Kriktail gave him a flat stare. Retchnik controlled his himself for his needless nerves, the Grey Seer spun fear-glands as he saw Spark-eye and the Gutter Runners around and conjured a clawful of warp lightning that tense for murder. crackled as it illuminated the burrow.

‘And because,’ he continued, ‘if you fetch-do this thing ‘See-see, fool, he whispered to himself, ‘there is no–’ for me, I will reward Clan Slynk. I will pay ten thousand warp tokens, and use my influence in Blight City to The Grey Seer’s words choked off as icy pain shot gather a great swarm and aid-help you to crush the she- through his body. It radiated out from the base of his aelfs you war with in Ulgu.’ spine, and he felt his body going numb. A black-swathed muzzle slid into his peripheral vision as the killer behind Kriktail’s wrinkled snout twisted into an ugly leer and him leaned forward. Retchnik squirted the musk of fear he offered a bent-backed bow of subservience. as he stared into a glinting eye marbled with blue and gold. ‘I listen, seer,’ he said, and the negotiations began in earnest. ‘How?’ croaked the Grey Seer, his limbs shaking as they went cold.

AN OPPORTUNITY IN DEATH

‘Deathrunner,’ hissed Spark-eye. ‘One is two and two are one. Master Kriktail gratefully accepts your gift-gift of information, but must sorrowfully decline your offer of an alliance.’

With that, the Deathrunner stepped back and the shad- ows swallowed him. His ghostly disappearance was the last thing Retchnik saw as he toppled sideways, and the numbness seeped its way into his brain.

THE HERO OF GLYMMSFORGE

Captain Malendrek, civil engineer turned leader of ‘Rot unto them,’ muttered Malendrek. ‘Rot and dust the Glymmsforge South Gaters, scowled at the lumpy unto them all.’ He drained his pint, slurping down the froth in his flagon. He had long ago pushed away the dregs with a grimace. Resting his head on his arms for a meal that Gertie had left for him. More bloody fish; moment, he let his eyes droop as his soul sank into a he was sick of it. pool of despair and self-pity.

Better a liquid meal, he had thought, and damn the The barren desert stretched before him, cold winds whis- morning after. Another night off duty spent at the Black pering in a language he did not understand. Cat. It was getting to be too much of a habit. There, silhouetted against the tallest dune, was the They knew him here, at least. Knew what he had done deathly rider, clad in a flapping grave-shroud. It beck- for the city. He had told them often enough. But did he oned to him, as it always did. He heard its voice in his get a minstrel’s song to commemorate his deeds, like head, the promise it always made. that privileged arcanocrat Knossian? Perhaps a silver statue, like the oh-so-humble Serafin Heldett, darling of ‘By the dunes of lost Nehekhara,’ it whispered in Malen- the city? drek’s own voice. ‘I am thine.’

No he did not. Poor, disfigured old Malendrek got a The vision faded away. A powerful urge to urinate sud- draughty room in the gatehouse, painful bunions from denly made itself known, and Malendrek stood upright all the walking, and the occasional pint of cheap sweet- with a slight stagger, banging his kneecap on the under- black bought by one of his men. side of the table in his haste not to disgrace himself.

Sigmar had his chosen ones, and Vorgen Malendrek had He weaved his way towards the troughs at the rear of the not been among them. tavern, shouldering next to a tall guard and relieving himself in a steaming yellow arc that splashed over his The Anvils of the Heldenhammer, too obsessed with boots and a little over those of the guard next to him. He their own rites and antique rituals to answer his calls for turned quickly away, making himself decent, and made a war council, had defended the East Gate. They were hastily through the rear door into the alley before things Stormcast Eternals, a force no mortal man could hope to turned sour. match. They had hurled the undead hordes besieging the city back into the wastes, and kept the city’s blessed Sour was about all he had left, thought Malendrek, these twelve-pointed arcanogram unbroken so the stealth- days. No wife and no family, not since the last incursion gheists couldn’t get in. of the dead. Even his cat Threepaw had died, turned stiff and white after hissing at a lurker-gheist in the dark But so had Malendrek and the men of the city’s south. woods around Glass Mere. Now he had only memories, He and his lads had held it against the Slender Knight’s and the pity of those who still had lives worth living. undead riders with nothing more extravagant than hid- den moats, mist-shrouded spikefields and, at the last, a Out he staggered into the city. He passed the silver triple pincer charge led by mounted warrior priests. statue of the woman who had once been simply Serafin Heldett, and was now so much more. He felt the bitter- That was his finest hour, even with the death toll. It had ness rise up to choke him, and made to spit at the taken a lot of planning, bravura, and more than a little statue’s feet. But his mouth was dry, and the gobbet of luck to pull it off. It should have been worth a song, or a spittle swung from his lower lip like a pendulum, reluc- verse at least in Knossian Glymm’s fancy ballad. But it tant to detach. He wiped it on his sleeve and meandered seemed that cunning, resourcefulness and a flair for on, heart swimming with shame and eyes pricking hot traps were not qualities good enough for two-penny min- with tears. strels, let alone the God-King and the Realm of Heav- ens. It was the smoke, he told himself. The smoke of the day’s corpses, irritating his eyes. Nothing more.

THE HERO OF GLYMMSFORGE

That night, in his flea-infested bunk, Captain Malendrek The old captain turned in his bunk, pulled his threadbare dreamed fitfully. He dreamed of screaming, skull-like blanket across his back, and dreamed of finally getting faces in the sky, and of a vast, impossible pyramid sus- the laurels he so richly deserved. pended over a bottomless pit. A rustling, bone-dry voice whispered on the cold, cutting wind that rushed towards A new dawn would be here soon enough. that abyss.

With the strange logic of dreams, he knew who was speaking to him, for he had spoken to him before, and likely would do again. His mother had told him about this whisperer, many times, when he was a child too cu- rious about the world to go to sleep. It was the voice of Elder Bones, a wizard-king from the olden days of Shy- ish, who was famous before Lyria had even been named, let alone Glymmsforge. Despite the whisper being on the cusp of hearing, he could feel the voice resonating in his skull, every syllable seeping into his bones.

‘You deserve respect,’ the voice said. ‘You deserve to be obeyed. Just as I do. Obeyed without question.’

Part of Malendrek found itself in agreement.

‘A new order is coming,’ said the voice. ‘I have chosen you to lead, as well as to follow, in that new worldscape. Open the way. Dig out the purple salt from the arca- nogram at the south gate mausoleum. Replace it with sand of the same hue, and leave.’

Malendrek frowned and muttered in his sleep, not quite understanding, but feeling some manner of kinship nonetheless.

‘I am no false god, no warrior elevated above his sta- tion. I am a king, and though my rightful domain has fallen, it will rise again. Hands such as yours will open the way, until Sigmar and his golden fools are put back in their place forever more.’

The slumbering captain knew, somehow, that Elder Bones understood what it felt like to be supplanted, to be overruled, to have what was rightfully his snatched away. Perhaps he wasn’t a figure of terror after all. Per- haps he was just a man, a lost soul, misunderstood and longing for what should have been his all along.

This one, he could follow. This one would give him his rightful due. ALL TURNS TO ASH

An unnatural chill swept through the magmahold of the Fyreslayers took great pride in their mastery of de- the Ulrung lodge. Those that dwelt within the carven fences. halls were not just duardin – stout-willed and dismis- sive of superstition – they were Fyreslayers. As stub- Grumthar gazed out from the hold. A gloom hung heavy born and bold as their patron deity, Grimnir, the over the lands, growing deeper upon the horizon. fiery god of battle, the spike-haired warrior race Mournful howls could be heard on the rising wind. A scoffed at the suggestion that anyone could penetrate storm was coming, and it was not a natural one. their defences. Over the long ages, many foes had battered upon the Ulfort’s gates, but always to no Turning his attention to the runes that adorned the gate, avail. Until today, no uninvited guest had ever Grumthar ran his calloused hands over the symbols chis- stepped foot within the hold. eled into the iron-reinforced stone. His fingers traced the filigree of ur-gold that lined the carved ancestral marks. How the spectral creatures had done it was unknown, but they had. In the heart of the magmahold – behind the ‘Grown cold!’ Grumthar muttered as he probed further. protective gates and axes of barrel-chested guardians – phantasmal creatures had drifted out of the bedrock and As a Runesmiter, Grumthar was a member of the begun a terrific slaughter. There were but a few of these Zharrgrim priesthood. It was his task to go to battle with horrors, but before the Hearthguard Berzerkers could the warriors and to call forth the power of Grimnir. By track them down, the fiends had wrought unspeakable his chants did the ur-gold runes pounded into the flesh of calamity. Patrols were sent to each of the magmahold’s his fellow Fyreslayers glow with the energies of the du- gates in an attempt to ascertain how the menace had ardin god of war, granting strength and fighting prowess breached their sanctum. to the faithful. But no amount of chanting could bring these protective wards back to life – they were Uz- ‘I thought all entrances bore runes to ward off the dead,’ kulrhun – runes whose power had died. growled one of the warriors as they strode towards the east gates to check the perimeter. As they approached It was part of the Zharrgrim’s duty to ensure the lodge’s the outer portcullis, all eyes turned to Grumthar, the defensive runes were kept fiery, lit by the flame of lodge’s foremost Runesmiter. Grimnir and linked to the eternal fires that burned within the great forge of the magmahold – and this was a duty ‘Aye,’ he replied, impatiently waiting for the iron bars to they never shirked. rise. ‘Defences of stone and iron mean naught to spectral forms, but every gate bears the Runes of Uzk-Kalin. Scratching his head, Grumthar found no flaw within the They should have barred entrance to such beings.’ runes that would explain how they had turned so cold. He felt his anger rising, but there was no foe upon which Encounters with the undead were not unusual for those to vent his growing frustration. Here was a mystery, and of the Ulrung lodge; over the long years since their Grumthar didn’t like any problem he could not solve founding they had weathered many supernatural phe- with an axe. Haghnar needed to know of the gate’s fail- nomena. The lodge took part in the Ghoul Wars, sur- ing. None understood the runic arts as he did, for he was vived the decade long Wailing Storm and stood firm Runemaster, the duardin who forged them. Haghnar against the Vampire alliance. Such was life in the Realm would be found in the innermost sanctum of the Ulfort, of Death. in the Temple of Fire. It was there that Grumthar headed. Settled late in the Age of Myth, the Ulrung lodge had followed a trail of ur-gold into Shyish. There, they With every step towards the Temple of Fire, Grumthar’s founded their hold beneath the highest peaks of the apprehension grew. So vast was the immense furnace – Greyspears, a volcanic range of mountains in Athanasia. the Great Gungron – that he should have been able to Since those distant days they had expanded their under- feel its heat radiating through the passageways as he halls and filled their Grand Vault with ur-gold. In all drew near. Yet it was not so. Instead it grew colder as those years, the hold had been attacked many times, but he neared the heart of the hold.

ALL TURNS TO ASH

Grumthar arrived within the Temple of Fire to find the doors flung wide and the rest of the Zharrgrim priest- hood gathered around Runemaster Haghnar. He saw with trepidation that the great furnace was not lit. Since the Age of Myth, when it had first been fanned to flames by sparks from Brokkfoor, the father of all forges, the Great Gungron of the Ulfort had burned hot. Now, its flames were extinguished.

Runemaster Haghnar was standing before the furnace, concentration furrowing the old duardin’s face, every muscle of this thick frame straining. Far below ground, stone shifted with deep rumbles as the Runemaster called forth magma from the realm’s core.

‘Nok Zharr Grimnir Rhynok Azamar!’ called Haghnar. ‘Let the flames of Grimnir rage forever!’

With that, molten rock burst up and flames licked the forge, yet still the furnace would not light; seemingly not even the Runemaster’s powers could rekindle it. A sinis- ter chill descended over the chamber.

In that moment of despair, Grumthar felt his fighting spirit rising. His voice boomed, ‘Kinfolk of Ulrung – the eternal fire has turned to ash. Our defences are down. We must prepare for an assault by the dead.’

Even as he began the chant that would light the ragefires of battle within his brethren, Grumthar found the words dying in his throat.

A glow had begun in the forge, but it was not the blaze of Grimnir’s flames. It was a cold, amethyst light.

‘We cannot prepare to defend against them,’ said Hagh- nar, all vitality drained from his voice. ‘The foe is al- ready here.’ A DYING GODDESS

In the vast depths of the Flaythorn Forests, amidst at each other with anxious faces and came closer. tangled roots and branches heavy with cobwebs, a goddess was dying. ‘O mighty Squashakandra,’ said Grungit. ‘Tell us what pains you an’ we gonna… uh, hurt it real bad until it Chief Blazgrat looked up at the mighty Arachnarok be- goes away.’ The grot’s voice rose and fell in this impres- fore him: Squashakandra the Everfeeding, the goddess sive incantation, and Blazgrat listened in awe. For a of his tribe. The belly of the giant monster was swollen short moment, he almost felt remorse that he had and pallid, the skin around her dim eyes stretched and doubted the mighty shaman. waxen. Fear and sadness filled Blazgrat’s ugly little face as he edged closer. ‘Rise, our goddess,’ shrieked Grungit, ‘come back to da tribe! Rise!’ Squashakandra continued to sway and stag- ‘And there’s really nothin’ we can do, Boss?’ gered like a puppet with half its strings cut, her move- ments growing ever stronger. ‘Mighty Squashakandra,’ ‘Nah,’ answered Grungit the Elderest, shaman of the Grungit continued. ‘Return to us! Lead us to your ene- Bittennob tribe, as he scratched his crooked and bone- mies an’ we’ll destroy those lousy gits!’ pierced nose. ‘I even got some of the shamans from the neighbouring tribes to look at ’er.’ He pointed at some Blazgrat dared to hope. Had they been wrong? Was the half-eaten grot carcasses and gave a heavy sigh. ‘She illness of their goddess fading? didn’t even finish ’em.’ The Arachnarok spider finally came to her feet, un- Blazgrat shuddered and looked back at the hulking form steady, but standing. All the while, Grungit continued of Squashakandra. ‘But she seemed okay when we woz his chanting. ‘Squasha! Kandra! Squasha! Kandra!’ fightin’ the git with the pointy teef on his burny-horse. Squashed his rattlers left an’ right an’ even gave him a From the darkness of the forest, between dead tree good poundin’.’ trunks and dense shrubs, a rustling nose began to build as dozens, then hundreds of grots came to witness how ‘Of course she seemed okay, dimwit,’ Grungit hissed. their goddess had returned. From the treetops, spiders of ‘She is a goddess after all.’ all hues and sizes came crawling. They were the brood of Squashakandra, hundreds upon hundreds of eight- ‘But… she’s dyin’, right?’ legged horrors, and there seemed something like hope in their beady eyes as they anxiously clicked their mandi- ‘Right. It’s somethin’ she ate is what it is,’ Grungit ex- bles. plained. ‘Just gotta look at all those deadwalkin’ hordes, all rotten and stinky. May look like a feast, but can’t be Grungit turned around to face his tribe and held his arms too healthy, eh?’ up high, shaking his gnarled stuff in a powerful gesture. ‘Look, lads! Squashakandra returns to us! Our goddess ‘I dunno, boss,’ said Blazgrat. ‘I say there’s some dark wants to lead our Waaagh! once more!’ The forest re- magics goin’ on. An’ you’re just not thinkin’ hard sounded to cheers and the high-pitched shouts of zealous enough to find out.’ grots that scampered through the forest towards the com- motion. ‘Tonight, we’ll ride out an’ we’ll go look for ‘Magics, huh?’ Grungit shook his head. ‘I would’ve those dead gits an’ make ’em even deader!’ found out in no time. Nah, ol’ Squasha ’ere is dying, I dunno why. We’re done for, Blazgrat. I wonder what a Blazgrat felt his chest swell with pride. His red eyes pointy-toof was doin’ in Ghur anyway…’ wandered over the gathering of Spiderfang Grots and giant spiders while Grungit continued his speech, driv- The huge Arachnarok shuddered, her limbs moving ing his kin to a zealous frenzy. Yes, they would go to weakly. A deep rumble emerged from her abdomen, but war tonight, and their goddess would lead them— it didn’t sound as if the giant arachnid was hungry. More like something was… moving inside. The grots looked A DYING GODDESS

With a long and squealing wheeze, Squashakandra col- lapsed. A deadly silence fell upon the surrounding grots as they looked on in horror. Grungit slowly turned his back to his audience to look at the Arachnarok, his staff still high above his head. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t have any words for this. Their goddess was dead.

There was no doubt about it. Thick and venomous drool flowed from the crooked jaws of the giant monster. Her eyes were empty.

‘Well, uh… ,’ Grungit began, but he was interrupted by another rumbling sound from the belly of the enormous spider-carcass.

‘She’s still alive,’ squealed one of the grots from some- where.

As Grungit just continued to stare, Blazgrat overcame his own fear and walked towards his dead goddess, his heart hammering. He carefully reached out, gulping heavily. Should he dare? She was dead after all, wasn’t she?

His hand touched the giant, soft abdomen. It felt slimy and feverishly hot under his touch. A moment after his hand made contact with the body, the rumbling grew stronger. Then there was something like a moan.

Blazgrat shook his head in terror as a hand stretched the surface of the Arachnarok’s skin from the inside of the carcass. The grot stumbled backwards and fell, scream- ing as the body of the enormous spider cramped and shook until her whole belly tore open like along its length. Dozens of Deadwalkers spilled forth, soaked in the bodily fluids of the Arachnarok spider and fattened by its flesh.

Blazgrat crawled backwards, shrieking in sheer horror as the undead horde tore into the gathering of his fellow grots. He saw two of the undead voraciously clawing their way through Grungit’s belly, and shivering fear took him head to toe. Aghast, the shaman hadn’t even put up a fight.

Chief Blazgrat came to his feet and stumbled into the darkness, screaming like he had never before in his life. THE MIRROR’S EYE

Olin jabbed the fire with an old iron poker. around the room. Olin’s bedroll and camping stove were pushed against one wall, along with the remains of a ‘Come on, let’s have a little heat,’ he said. He heard the breakfast he’d been too anxious to finish. The stone brittleness beneath his forced cheer and scowled. floor was dominated by a triple-circle of Azyrite wards ‘You’re not fooling anyone, old man, least of all your- that Olin had scribed with exacting care and charged self,’ he muttered. ‘Now stop putting it off. This is why with his own blood. At the centre of the circle stood you’re here. And for Sigmar’s sake, stop talking to your- Olin’s scrying mirror, a beautiful, gleaming oval of pol- self! Mad old fool…’ ished snowstone in a sigmarite setting. Next to it stood his horologue, a complex clock whose duardin-made Olin abandoned the fire, which crackled weakly and mechanisms were powered by a minute sliver of realm- without enthusiasm. stone.

The tower had been cold since he arrived, two days be- These were the tools of Olin’s trade. The one let him fore, to begin his preparations. Perhaps it was because see, and the other gave him a focus, a point of reference its old stones reputedly shared a spiritual connection and a lifeline. The ticking of his horologue would al- with Shyish. Or maybe it was just that it was old, and ways lead Olin back to himself, no matter where his soul drafty, and located above the windswept shoreline of an wandered. It had never failed him, and he loved it like a ice-haunted sea. favoured pet.

Elthennia was a long-abandoned corner of Azyr, a ghost Now, Olin stood before his mirror and gritted his teeth. of a kingdom that had never been much more than a footnote. Too far from anything of value to be worth ‘Sigmar preserve me,’ he prayed, then stepped up to the claiming, too wild to merit defending, it had lain in ruins mirror and touched his fingers gently to the top and bot- since before even the Great Retreat. It was said that its tom of its frame. Muttering incantations, Olin stared failed line of kings and queens had trafficked much with deep into the mirror’s surface. He listened to the tick, the spirits of the slain, a reputation that had driven away tick, tick of his horologue and, satisfied that the sound what little life remained in their ailing realm. reverberated in the back of his mind, he let himself see.

That was why, centuries later, Olin had made the long Sometimes the visions took hours to come. Sometimes journey here, hiking along the lonely roads with his old they did not come at all. This day was different. Crack- yew staff, his instruments wrapped tightly inside his bat- ling hoarfrost blossomed around the mirror’s edges, tered knapsack. It was a land of ghosts. It was the ghost creeping down its sigmarite stand and spreading icy fin- of a land. What better place to find a spiritual connection gers across the floor. Olin’s eyelids flickered, and his with the hidden places of Shyish, and to scry out that pupils became opaque, like marble. The mirror shim- which Nagash had planned? mered. An image resolved in its surface.

Olin was no warrior. He couldn’t swing a sword with his A desert. Vast, sweeping, its dunes rising and falling like old arms. He knew little of strategy, or the crafting of majestic waves in a timeless ocean. Amidst them stands great weapons. But he could see beyond that which oth- a city. Its spires rise high, bursting up from the desert ers saw, and he hoped that – insignificant and isolated as like thrusting arms that reach all the way to the stars he was in the schemes of the gods – that talent might above. A silvery sun beats down upon the gleaming glass allow him to peer past the enemy’s defences while they of the towers and streets, the statues and prisms that were otherwise engaged, and in so doing glean some in- make up this teeming metropolis. Power sings through sight that could aid Sigmar in his war. the streets. The skies wheel overhead, from day to night to day again. He knows he sees Shyish, as surely as he The paltry fire cracked in the blackened hearth, doing hears the tick, tick, tick of his clock. Power. Portents. nothing to stop his breath misting the air. The waves Surely this is what he seeks. murmured on the shore below. A few candles burned against the gloom of twilight, arranged in stone alcoves THE MIRROR’S EYE

Olin drew back as he felt the stirring of something terri- endless, maddening reflections that marched away ble. A darkness passed over the window, occluding the within it. skies and dimming his candles. The fire had gone out in the grate, he saw, and the shadows in the chamber had Then he saw it. Something moving, crawling closer, grown thick and dense. He felt something, watchful and passing through one mirror image into the next, and then malevolent. His eyes darted around the chamber. the next. Closer, it crawled, closer, long limbs clad in grey rags that squirmed like snakes, pale face lost in a There was nothing, but the feeling remained. veil of shadows that revealed only staring eyes to trans- fix his own. ‘Alright,’ breathed Olin. ‘Now don’t you mind me, whatever you are. I’m just looking, and I’m no harm to ‘Please…’ Olin croaked. ‘Please…’ no one, so you just leave me be, hmm?’ For an instant it paused, close beneath his mirror’s sur- He considered abandoning his ritual, but what had he face, head tilted like a cat watching fish in a pool. Its really learned? His journey would be wasted, and his limbs multiplied in the reflections around it. Its face be- efforts to aid the war would come to naught. No, thought came several, screaming mouths and staring eyes multi- Olin, he had wards. He was safe. He must press on. plying and refracting.

The city draws closer. Its streets bustle with a tide of hu- It lunged. manity. Robed scholars and cunning artisans rub shoul- ders with affluent traders and magnificent soldiers. Yet Olin’s mirror cracked as though something had struck it something is wrong. Everywhere he sees mirrors, not a fearsome blow. Shadowy strands that might have been unlike his own, and the people speak to them as though arms shot up from its surface and snatched him by the they are friends or lovers. Ghosts move within the reflec- throat. His eyes bulged as he was dragged forward, into tions. Figures swim there in the beyond, more and more the broken surface and through, down, down into the until they all but outnumber the living. The sun dims, ever-shattered depths of the city of mirrors. Down into and a rumble fills the air. The ground shakes and the damnation. city shudders, cracks running like spider-webs through its myriad mirrors. A storm of black sand whirls through In the empty chamber, the fire flickered slowly back to the streets, and where it lashes and screams it strips life. The candle flames danced in a faint night breeze, flesh from bone. Darkness rises, and the people of the and the waves sighed up and down the sands. Only the damned city wail in despair. The reflections of the end- clock did not restart. Its hands lay still, its face shattered less mirrors spread and ripple and burst through one in the same instant as Olin’s mirror. another in a horrifying kaleidoscope until at last all sense and sanity is gone. It would never tick again.

Olin felt panic. This was not what he sought. He listened for the ticking of his horologue. He strained to hear it, fear rising within him. It had never stopped, never failed him. He had never lost its sound.

He heard nothing at all.

Terror pinned Olin in place. He felt the gaze of some- thing dreadful settle upon him, cleaving his tongue to the roof of his mouth and his fingers to the surface of his mirror. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move or speak. The fear consumed him. The candles had died. The waves were silenced. There was only his mirror, and the SACROSANCT

Kavastus Seven-sense stood in the grand muster- terground. Kavastus waited for what would be said next, ground of Sigmaron alongside the Lord-Arcanums but the God-King remained silent. He simply stood on from the other Stormhosts. They had been sum- his dais, looking upon the warriors below, waiting. His moned, and were standing at attention in anticipation words had been an order, and upon realising this Kavas- of the God-King’s arrival. Each of the Stormcast tus reflected upon his service to Sigmar. lords remained motionless, their armour gleaming in the starlight that shone down from above. It was an Long ago, before his reforging, Kavastus had known awesome sight to behold, yet Kavastus felt a small Sigmar only in tales. He had heard stories of the God- mote of unease deep within him. I should be at my King, whose domain could be glimpsed by looking to post, he thought; I must maintain my vigil. the High Star Sigendil.

A metallic clang sounded high above, followed by an- When Kavastus gazed to the Heavens, he had found he other, and another. It was the resonance of the Six could see things that no others of his kingdom could see Smiths’ hammers. Kavastus knew it well, but at this dis- – he perceived various paths that the future could take, tance the thunderous blows sounded different. Away much like how the hunters saw where animals would be from the Sigmarabulum, he could no longer hear the by looking at the leaves and grasses. He had foreseen a screams of the reforged after each strike, nor could he great trial in his own future, in which the limits of his listen for the tell-tale signs of the reforging going awry. strength and willpower would be tested. At first, it had been extremely rare that a reforging would fail, but such occurrences were becoming ever When the marauders first came, he had thought that trail more common. The horrors of the abounding wars were was upon him. He had called out to the stars, imploring taking their toll on the Stormcast Eternals, as were the that they grant him a portion of their burning fury that he wicked sorceries of the God-King’s myriad enemies and might use it to smite the armies of Tzeentchian aberra- the pace at which the Six Smiths were being required to tions that were plaguing his kingdom. The stars had an- work. Kavastus and his brethren had been held back swered him then; he had felt the power of Azyr flowing from these wars in order to shepherd the fallen through through him – but that had not been his great trial. the reforging process. It was a duty devoid of glory, but it was vital, and he carried it out with pride. When he had received the call heavenward, he was at last given the opportunity to repay the debt he owed the The ringing of the hammers continued, and the Storm- God-King, to serve the one who had granted him the cast lords continued to wait. Then, with a boom of thun- power to slay the Chaos invaders. Kavastus had been der, the gateway of the musterground swung open. A reforged and tasked with keeping vigil over Sigmar’s figure of radiant gold strode forth and up onto the arch- great city, ensuring that Azyrheim remained inviolate dais. He was majesty made manifest, star and storm amidst the ongoing wars. Yet throughout this service he given glorious form. He was Sigmar Heldenhammer, had known his true trial still lay ahead of him. Always, God-King of the Mortal Realms, and he looked out over his greatest challenge was in the future. his warriors. As Kavastus pondered this, Sigmar spoke once more. Kavastus straightened his back, squared his shoulders and held his head high. No matter how many centuries ‘You have all served me well.’ passed, the honour of being in the God-King’s presence remained undiminished. He watched as Sigmar cast his Kavatus was almost overcome with pride. The God- gaze across those arrayed before him. The God-King King spoke only when necessary, and to receive praise then spoke. from him was a rare honour. Fulfilment of duty required no recognition – Kavastus had always known this. ‘Think upon your duty.’

The words were not bellowed, yet they carried like the rumblings of a mighty tempest, echoing around the mus- SACROSANCT

‘A soul war is upon us,’ continued Sigmar. ‘A war in sipated, and he continued to chant along with the others. which your chambers are now needed. You have guided The God-King himself had given him the order. your brethren through the fires of reforging, and you have seen what it has cost. This cost can no longer be Nothing could go wrong. borne. You must go forth and find a cure.’

Kavastus turned his eyes skyward, to the stars that stretched over Azyr. Was the fate they had foretold about to come to pass?

‘The enemy in the underworld is gaining power,’ said Sigmar. ‘His armies will come for the life I have granted you.’

Sigmar paused, casting his gaze wide over the assembly.

‘Make them pay dearly for it.’

At this, the God-King stepped down from the dais and strode out of the musterground. As the doors through which Sigmar passed were closing, an excited murmur began spreading through the gathered Stormcast Eter- nals. Kavastus could feel the electricity of the moment, the jubilant sensation that was affecting him and his brethren. For so long, they had been held back from the front-lines, seeing the wars unfold only through the ago- nies of those that were brought back for reforging. At last, they would be able to unleash their might upon the enemies of Order. From somewhere in the muster- grounds, a chant erupted.

‘Praise Sigmar! Praise Sigmar!’

Kavastus joined in, along with all others in attendance. This was it, the time he had foreseen in his past life. The great trial was upon him. He would fight in Sigmar’s wars, he would die and be reforged, but he would never falter in his duty.

Through the thunderous chanting, Kavastus heard an- other metallic clang high above – the sound of the Six Smiths’ in their ceaseless work – and at this, a mote of doubt crept into his soul. With his chamber deployed in the realms, who would watch over the reforgings? Now more than ever, their vigilance was needed. Now more than ever, the lightning-gheists of those whose re- forgings went awry were a danger to Azyrheim.

As quickly as it had appeared, the doubt within him dis- HEAD-TO-HEAD

Gulgaz Stoneklaw – Big Boss of the Gutstompas – ‘Shut this zoggin’ idiot up!’ it yelled. stood at the cliff’s edge, staring into the conflagration that had enveloped the valley below. The fire Gulgaz glanced at the head. Though its flesh had long stretched to the horizon, orange and red flames ago withered away in the Aqshian heat, in his mind its belching out ash clouds that blackened the sky. Its lips still moved and frothed with spittle when it talked. immense heat had singed his eyelids, and had started to cook the mummified heads of his two lifeless lieu- ‘There is a great Waaagh!,’ continued Moggo-moggo. tenants that were mounted on his shoulders. But even ‘In a faraway place, where boss of the dead has big so he hadn’t blinked in hours. skeleton armies, and they is…’

On the scorched plains behind Gulgaz were the teeming ‘Shut ’im up!’ yelled Urgak again. throngs of his tribe – greenskins, ogors and gargants be- yond number. These brutal hordes had followed his Gulgaz tightened his grip on the handle of his weapon, campaign of destruction across the Flamescar Plateau, but then another voice came from his right shoulder, hacking their way through army after army with reckless from the head of his Morka-boss Skiga. enthusiasm. They had followed him to the edge of this infernal valley, where he had hoped to find a bigger bat- ‘No, let him speak,’ it said. tle than any they’d had before, but there had been no en- emy waiting for them. After more than a week without Gulgaz slackened his grip and glanced at Skiga’s head. combat, tempers among the Gutstompas were beginning It too was severely desiccated, though in Gulgaz’s eyes to flare violently. Orruks were mobbing up, grots were it was full of life. hurling their crudest invective, and the biggest warriors were beginning to eat the smaller ones. Without a com- ‘Let him spill his guts,’ it continued. ‘He might say mon enemy to battle, the Gutstompas would soon tear something useful.’ themselves apart. The big boss trusted the advice of these two lieutenants, ‘There’s no one to fight here.’ though they did not always agree. When they argued too much they gave him a headache, a nasty pain that made The words came from directly behind Gulgaz. They him angry. He tried to think, but Moggo-moggo was still were spoken by Moggo-moggo, a Wurrgog Prophet that rambling on behind him. had been with the Gutstompas for some months. ‘…where spooky things fall from the sky and dead boyz ‘It’s your job to find us ’eads to bash.’ come from the ground and…’

Gulgaz didn’t answer. He could hear the prophet speak- The bustling of the Gutstompas on the plain mingled ing, but his mind was focused on the flames. In their with the prophet’s jabbering. They were getting ever flickering light he could see glimpses of a war of un- more rowdy. Gulgaz looked deep into the fires below, precedented scale, but when he tried to focus on these and tried to concentrate on the glimpses of battle he images they faded like a mirage. could see there.

‘Maybe you is not the best boss for the Gutstompas,’ ‘I can lead the Gutstompas there,’ said Moggo-moggo. said Moggo-moggo. ‘We need a big bash, and I know where to find one. Gorkamorka has shown me…’ ‘That Wurrgog finks he’s tougher than you!’ yelled Urgak. Moggo-moggo was still speaking when another voice sounded, one that only Gulgaz could hear. It came from Gulgaz pondered this. his left shoulder, where the severed head of his Gorka- boss Urgak sat. ‘Maybe,’ replied Skiga. ‘But he might know where the fightin’s at.’

HEAD-TO-HEAD

The Big Boss considered this different point of view. ‘KILL HIM!’

‘I know where the battle is,’ said Moggo-moggo. ‘It’s Gulgaz spun around and, with a mighty swing, struck his down the Deff-lands.’ cleava clean through the prophet’s neck. The Gutstom- pas fell silent as they all stopped their infighting to ‘He’s lying!’ yelled Urgak. watch the severed head sailing into the air – its eyes wide with surprise, a trail of blood drops following in its ‘No he ain’t,’ replied Skiga. wake – before landing with a thump on the rocky cliff- top. Moggo-moggo’s headless body staggered forward, A thunderous crack resounded as an Ironblaster fired its gushes of blood and streams of Waaagh! magic spurting payload into a rioting horde of Moonclan Fanatics. Be- from its neck. Gulgaz stepped to one side, allowing the hind Gulgaz, the air began to crackle. walking corpse to stumble over the edge of the cliff. The body tumbled down, and as it fell into the fires below ‘But you is not the boss to lead that Waaagh!,’ said the vast inferno erupted with new intensity. Flames Moggo-moggo. stretched into the sky, burning not red or orange, but a bright green, and from them came an endless ear- ‘Them’s fighting words!’ yelled Urgak. splitting wail. At the sight and sound of this, the Gut- stompas burst into roars of approval and cackles of glee. ‘Yes they is,’ replied Skiga. Gulgaz looked into the colossal fire before him, and Gulgaz felt the unmistakable static of magic coalescing there he saw clearly the war that he had only seen behind him. His fingers tightened around his weapon. glimpses of before. It was glorious. An unending battle- field where the dead rose up to fight again and again, to ‘I will lead the way,’ said Moggo-moggo, his deep voice which countless other grand armies were already march- now redolent with Waaagh! energy. ing. Gulgaz leaned down and picked up Moggo-moggo’s severed head – the prophet’s visions had been right after ‘That’s enough from him!’ yelled Urgak. all. Perhaps he would provide more useful advice in the battles to come. ‘I concur,’ replied Skiga. With the way forward now clear to him, Gulgaz bel- Two gargants headbutted each other. A swarm of Git- lowed his mighty war cry. mob grots piled onto a mob of Ironjaw Brutes and started stabbing.

‘I will open a portal to the Deff-lands,’ bellowed Moggo -moggo, sparks of green magic spitting from him with ‘WAAAGH!’ every syllable.

‘Kill him!’ Then he launched himself over the cliff and into the fires ‘Kill him!’ that led to the land of the dead.

The big boss lifted his cleava. His mouth twisted into a snarl.

‘I just gotta make a little sacrifice first.’

‘KILL HIM!’ DYING STAR

The stellarium was a whirring mass of concentric the centre of a circular passage lined with bricks of gold. stone circles. It occupied a chamber as wide and open The Starpriest followed the path, and the soothing trickle as a city square, orbited by glowing spheres and cas- of the blessed waters calmed his racing heart and fo- cades of vibrant colour. The glorious expanse of the cused his mind. aetheric void was depicted in such maddening com- plexity that only the ancient minds of the slann could The path wound on and on, circling back on itself in a truly comprehend it. maddening series of switchbacks and spiralling ascents. Maq’uat passed rows of gleaming ziggurats surrounded Maq’uat was a Starpriest, a humble skink servant of by moats of blinding starlight. He strode on amidst shift- these god-like beings, and such matters were far beyond ing blocks of burnished gold that swirled and rearranged his inquisitive mind. Yet even he could tell that some- themselves in a constant, maddening dance. thing momentous and terrifying was occurring. The Starpriest eventually came to a vast, spherical cav- Stars were withering in the void. This was no violently ern with a single bridge of gleaming tiles leading across beautiful act of celestial law in effect, no natural cycle of empty space. As he walked, Maq’uat peered down to the existence coming gracefully to a close. floor of the World Chamber, leagues below. There lay a great expanse of jungle, gouged by glittering river del- This was murder. Slow and purposeful, and carried out tas. He felt a tinge of longing. It had been too long since on a cosmic scale. he had hunted with his spawn-kin, since he had smelled the sweet scent of swamp air and felt the warmth of sun- The diminutive creature watched in mounting horror as baked rock under his skin. But that was all a distant the blazing lights of the orrery faded and became black dream. His master needed him, and Maq’uat would as coal, the star-blood that gave them vital life draining serve Lord Xuatamos until lonely death if it were asked away into nothing. The tapestry of the cosmos was once of him. more being unmade. Yet this was not the work of the eternal enemy, Maq’uat was sure of it. There was a pat- The geometry of the temple-ship should have been im- tern here, a subtlety quite at odds with the unrestrained possible to navigate by any mortal measure, but to the depredations of the Dark Gods, a plan inconceivably skink it was familiar and reassuring. At the far side of complex in scale and woven with the patience of aeons. the bridge he entered another passage, and found himself at the foot of his master’s altar. The pyramid climbed A pall of darkness fell across the grand Star Chamber. high, its summit lost in a swirl of mists. A seething mass For a moment Maq’uat thought he heard a susurrus of of serpents and lizards poured down the engraved steps. mocking whispers, laughter emanating from the shad- They parted before Maq’uat like a living river as he as- ows. His frill rippled with unease, and reflexively he cended. raised his serpent staff. At the top of the altar a throne of carved obsidian hung Silence. Maq’uat hissed, bobbing his head. Nothing in the air, beneath a storm cloud of aetheric energy. could breach the temple-ship of Aximahotl, not without Upon this throne sat Lord Xuatamos. alerting Narok-Gar and his sentinels. ‘Master!’ trilled Maq’uat, his voice piping high as he ‘The master must awaken,’ he said. His chirping voice rushed forwards. He feared Xuatamos was dead. The sounded small and fearful in the silence of the golden master of the temple-ship was slumped and motionless. hall. His bloated body was not its usual vibrant green, but as grey and withered as a shed skin. The slann’s eyes were He turned and scampered up the stairs. Reaching the sunken and corpse-like, and his face was marked with highest gallery, he pressed his clawed hand into a simi- blotches of purple-black bruises. larly shaped depression in the facing wall. The glyph- stone glowed azure, and a doorway yawned open. Be- yond, a bubbling stream of crystal clear liquid ran down DYING STAR

Maq’uat closed his eyes as he placed his hands upon darkness and fear. We must act. The spawning cycle Lord Xuatamos’ forehead. For many agonising moments must be brought forwards. We must make ready for he felt nothing. Then, mercifully, the slightest of sparks war.’ flashed through him, a single flickering of conscious- ness. ‘You are not Starmaster.’

The Starpriest sagged with relief, but it was a fleeting ‘He will not come,’ repeated Maq’uat. ‘Our master lies sensation. Maq’uat had never felt so alone, so helpless. dying. The lights of the constellations fade. If we do not Death and disaster were near at hand, and without the intervene–’ Starmaster’s infinite wisdom to guide him, he was lost in a void of indecision. Narok-Gar growled softly, and the Starpriest’s acute danger-sense urged him to take flight. Yet he stood his He stood, gazing at the ruined form of his master. ground determinedly, meeting the saurus warrior’s eyes Above, the celestial energies boiled and swirled, and in with as much boldness as he could muster. the depths of that storm Maq’uat saw the glittering con- stellation of Sotek’s Fangs, burning with fierce vitality ‘Do you not wish to fight?’ he asked. ‘How long has it amidst the turmoil. been since your club has tasted the blood of the un- clean?’ ‘The fate of worlds falls to lesser creatures,’ the Star- priest whispered. A course of action had entered his The Sunblood stood still and silent for a long while. mind. It was drastic, blasphemous even. Yet he could Hours passed, but the skink knew the nature of the sau- not stand by while darkness rose to swallow all. rus mind well enough to do nothing. At last, the sentinel stepped back, and struck his obsidian club against the Narok-Gar stood sentinel before the great doors of the door behind him. The sound resonated thunderously spawning chambers, as motionless as a statue. The Sun- through the halls. A moment later, the doors began to blood looked as though he was hewn from obsidian by rumble open, and the Sunblood stood aside to let an unskilled sculptor. Scars and burns covered his grey- Maq’uat pass. green scales from snout to claw, and the club-like ridge of the saurus’ skull was gouged horribly above his left The skink trembled as he entered the spawning chamber. eye – an old wound caused by a Khornate axe. A circular path skirted the edge of a great lake, its dark waters placid and shimmering. Great golden wheels His eyes did not even flicker towards Maq’uat as the were built into the walls, marked with hieroglyphs and Starpriest approached. sacred wards, and the ceiling was open to the heavens. Blessed starlight rippled across the gestation pool. On all ‘You are not Starmaster,’ Narok-Gar growled. ‘No sides, helmed guards stood vigilant, their spears and pass.’ clubs held in steady claws. They did not move a muscle as Maq’uat passed by them on his way to a raised dais at ‘Lord Xuatamos will not come,’ chirped Maq’uat. ‘He the far end of the chamber. has entered the long sleep, and will not awaken. It falls to us, honoured one.’ He stepped up to the glyph-stone in the center of the platform, and his hand hovered an inch from its shim- Narok-Gar’s pitiless eyes finally snapped across to meet mering surface. Never before had a lowly Starpriest the skink’s own. He tried not to shrink before that an- been given such terrible responsibility. It was no small cient stare. The Sunblood was old even for his kind, and thing to accelerate the cycle of spawning. Seraphon the list of his victories against the Dark Gods was be- birthed too early were often prone to fits of bestial rage, yond recounting. unable to control the predatory impulses of their primor- dial selves. ‘There is an ancient power rising,’ Maq’uat said. ‘Death saps the light from the stars, and smothers the realms in DYING STAR

Yet Maq’uat could see no other option. Steeling his mind, he pressed his claw down upon the glyph-stone, as he had seen his master do so many times before.

There was a deep grinding sound before the thunderous roar of rushing liquid. The golden wheels began to spin, and water gushed out in frothing torrents. Writhing shapes could be seen within the deluge, the protean forms from which the armies of the stars would grow.

The warm air became humid, and then swelteringly hot. Maq’uat watched the pool bubble and boil with new life.

A chorus of shrill screams filled the air, frenzied and agonised, spilling forth from half-formed mouths. Blood stained the waters.

‘Born with hate,’ said Narok-Gar, causing Maq’uat to jump. The Sunblood had approached with surprising stealth. ‘Born in pain. Pain gives strength.’

‘They will need it,’ the Starpriest said.

Narok-Gar growled in agreement.

‘I summon starhosts,’ the old warrior said. ‘Where to strike, Starpriest?’

‘The amethyst realm,’ replied Maq’uat. ‘It is from there that the decay spreads, stealing the life from all it touches. The light of Sotek will guide us, honoured one. I only hope that we are not too late.’ THE FORGOTTEN DEAD

Rayvan Nightbolt pressed on through the cold mists a long-distant memory, obscured by time to the point of the Shyishan outerlands, her storm-blessed pistol that it was barely tangible. in one hand, the Katophrane-crafted metal tablet in the other. Her bones ached and her muscles were ‘I am an envoy of Sigmar, God-King of the Mortal racked with exhaustion – not only from trekking Realms. I seek Vannah.’ through this land that saw neither sun nor moon, but also from the untrammelled death magic that was so There was no answer. potent this far towards the Realm’s Edge. She could barely see in front of her, and the black plating of her Rayvan thought she could see the light before her taking sigmarite armour seemed to blend into the pervasive shape. What at first had appeared as a dim mote was gloom. But she had to go on – she had come too far, now a broad column of pale luminescence, and as the and too much had been lost, for her to turn back surrounding mists thinned she could see that it stretched now. up high above her.

‘I am an envoy of the God-King,’ she said. The whispering voice came into Rayvan’s mind once more. There was no one there to reply. how have you found me This had been happening more and more: she would find herself speaking, as if answering a question, but as soon This time its words had slightly more substance – they as the words left her lips she had no memory of the felt more real in her mind, as though they had been re- question she was answering, nor of who had asked it. membered more clearly. Other times she wandered in some wayward direction, as if being lead from her path by an invisible guide. ‘This,’ said Rayvan, holding the metal tablet towards the Upon realising, she would look to the metal tablet in her light before her. ‘It was crafted in an age long gone by hand, upon which was etched the map she was follow- the Katophranes of Shadespire. It was found by my ing, and she would correct her course. This was a brethren in the ruins of that now-cursed city, and I have strange place, where thoughts quickly became scattered followed it to seek the God of the Forgotten Dead. Are like dead leaves in the wind. But there was one constant you he?’ that remained fixed in Rayvan’s mind – she had to find Vannah, the God of the Forgotten Dead. There was another long silence, followed by another whispered word. As she trudged forward, Rayvan saw a dim light ahead of her. At first she thought it was yet another trick of this yes perplexing environment, but it held steady in her vision and grew brighter as she continued to move towards it. Rayvan clenched her jaw, holding back her frustration. With the light still distant, she stopped and readied her The tomes of the Katophranes had spoken of a hidden finger on the trigger of her weapon. underworld, untouched by Nagash, in which souls abounded. She had been tasked with finding this seques- ‘Do not bar my path, gheist. I have come too far.’ tered death god in the hopes that his spectral subjects would join in the war against the Great Necromancer. Again, there was no one to hear her words. The light still Rayvan looked to her surroundings, and aside from the glowed ahead. Rayvan approached it once more, and as glowing light before her saw only mist. Many of her she did so, words came drifting into her mind. brothers and sisters had been lost in the search for this place. Had it all been for naught? why have you come here

It was not so much a voice that Rayvan heard, but a thin whisper at the edge of her thoughts. Each word felt like THE FORGOTTEN DEAD

‘You say you are Vannah,’ said Rayvan with confidence dumbstruck, only looking up when she became aware of born of anger. ‘But where are your followers? I see none the tormented wailing around her. The spectres that in this place.’ As she spoke the column of light grew filled the land had become plainly visible, no longer more defined. It had a body, spectral limbs and the out- shrouded from her memory now that their god had been line of a barely perceptible face. devoured. Their faces were twisted into expressions of pain and self-loathing, and they stared at her with hate- ‘A great war is upon us,’ she continued. ‘And it will filled eyes. She had come here seeking their allegiance. consume this realm. The God-King beseeches you join She had come that they might save themselves from Na- him so that Nagash might be defeated.’ gash. Could it be that she had doomed them to his ser- vice? As Rayvan’s words rang out, the mists began to part. She saw the lifeless features of the land around her com- As Rayvan beheld the spectral hordes, she felt the earth ing into view for the first time, and upon the fields of beneath her feet tremble, and from the dark chasm that barren soil were rows upon rows of spectral figures cast had torn open came the booming and dreadful voice of in neither light nor shadow. Tens of thousands of them Sigmar’s ancient enemy. stood motionless, facing her, their shapes defined only by the absence they cut into their surroundings. ‘NONE CAN HIDE FROM ME. EVERY SOUL IS MINE BY RIGHT.’ These are my forgotten dead. At this, the spectral hordes surged towards Rayvan. She The voice was no longer a whisper. Each syllable had dropped the Katophrane tablet, drew her storm sabre, weight and solidity, like a slab of cold stone shaped for a and prayed to Sigmar for a swift death. specific purpose.

In death they sought escape from the deeds of their past, and by my power were they stricken from all memory.

The being of amethyst light loomed over Rayvan, its brightness now intense. From the spectral hordes came the faint sounds of weeping, moaning and bitter anguish.

‘You can no longer remain hidden!’ she declared. ‘Nagash must be stopped!’

No sooner had she spoken than she received her reply.

I am hidden no more.

The ground in front of Rayvan began to split, cracks rac- ing through the fallow earth in great arcs that encircled the luminous god before her. She stepped back as the soil within the circle fell away to nothingness, revealing a gaping chasm into which the light of the death god streamed.

Nagash has followed you here!

With a soul-splitting howl the god’s being was sucked into the blackness below. Rayvan stared into the abyss, NAGASHIZZAR RESURGENT

Mannfred von Carstein watched the columns of The chill words ripped Mannfred’s concentration away. skeletons pour into the courtyard. Each of the un- After so many centuries he had become adept at disguis- dead minions bore a precious cargo held in its boney ing the loathing he harboured towards his master, but hands – a single grain of grave-sand – which it depos- Nagash’s voice still sparked the hatred he held deep ited into a receptacle before turning and marching within his tattered soul. In another world, it would have towards the borders of Nagashizzar and beyond. been him that was the master, not the servant. He turned to face the archway in which the Great Necromancer Mannfred focused on one of the pieces of Shyishan stood. realmstone, watching as a withered sorcerer took it from its receptacle, and through dark alchemical magics fused ‘You summoned me,’ he said, his words riding the thin it together with thousands of others to form a brick of edge between question and statement. Nagash looked black glass. The Necromancer then climbed a staircase down upon his Mortarch, his skeletal visage impassive. of bone and placed the brick atop thousands of others to complete an enormous cube. Together with the other ‘THE HOUR OF COMPLETION DRAWS NEAR,’ Necromancers in the courtyard, the Deathmage plied the said the Great Necromancer. ‘IS NAGASHIZZAR SE- cube with amethyst flames, melding the stack of bricks CURE?’ into a single cyclopean block. The block was then raised up from the osseous sand, lifted by necromantic magics, Mannfred ground his fangs at the implicit insult. Nagash and in mid-air was brought into contact with several- knew all that went on in his city, and seldom asked ques- hundred similar blocks. With a flash of amethyst energy, tions to which he did not already know the answer. He the blocks were sealed together, forming a slab that ex- had called upon his Mortarchs to repel the armies tended far beyond the courtyard’s walls. marching upon Nagashizzar. The summons into the city, the question just posed, these were just tests of Mann- With streams of fell sorcery, the Necromancers who fred’s loyalty – the most recent in an endless series de- stood before Mannfred – along with scores more in the signed to remind the Mortarch of Night of his subservi- adjoining courtyards – lifted the slab higher into the air, ence. whereupon hundreds of wailing spirits floated down to take hold of it. The spirits lifted the slab ever upwards, Mannfred forced a thin smile. towards the Great Black Pyramid that blotted out the sky. They passed beneath the inverted pyramid’s peak, ‘My armies are ready and at your disposal,’ he said. ‘But the four-sided point that stabbed down at the dead earth, our enemies will soon be upon us. From the south, the and joined the uncountable swirl of other spirit-hosts forces of Sigmar and his allies are crossing the Mournful who were each carrying their own slabs up towards the Peaks. The greenskin hordes have overrun the Harrow- monolith’s incomparable heights. forts and are fast approaching from the east. And to the west, a Chaos Lord has gathered daemons and mortals Mannfred kept watching the one slab until it was too from across the realms to his banner.’ small to pick out from the oppressive blackness of the pyramid. It had been his undead legions who had carried As Mannfred finished his report, he looked to his master the grave-sand from the Realm’s Edge, yet he still knew for any hints of the grand stratagem that was unfolding, so little of its ultimate purpose. He could feel the winds but saw nothing in his master’s expressionless eyes. of Death billowing towards the pyramid, and he could see that the enormous edifice was almost complete, but ‘YOU WILL KEEP THEM FROM MY GATES.’ he did not yet know exactly how his master planned to use it. There was precious little time left to rectify this At that, the Great Necromancer turned to leave. lack of understanding, to harness this great work for his own purposes. ‘Perhaps,’ said Mannfred, sensing an opportunity, ‘if I knew what part the pyramid will play, I could better di- ‘MY SERVANT.’ rect my forces to where they will be needed.’

NAGASHIZZAR RESURGENT

Nagash turned back and fixed his gaze on Mannfred uttered one last thing to his Mortarch. again. At once, the Mortarch felt his master’s abyssal vision pierce him, his mind laid bare for the Great Nec- ‘DO NOT DECEIVE YOURSELF, SERVANT. MY romancer to see. His innermost ambition, his secret de- VICTORY IS INEVITABLE.’ sire for supremacy, his futile attempts at subterfuge were exhumed from within his being. Nagash saw all that he Mannfred looked up at the Great Black Pyramid that was, and Mannfred felt the malefic ire of his master. scarred the sky, and beheld the construction for what it truly was. Nagash was right – the end of life would soon ‘YOU WISH TO KNOW MY PLANS?’ The words cut come. Mannfred knew he could not subvert his master’s through Mannfred like hallowed blades, their burning will. Not now. intensity drowning out all other thoughts but hatred. But Nagash at last withdrew his transfixing stare. Not yet.

‘THIS ONCE,’ Nagash continued. ‘I WILL INDULGE YOUR CURIOSITIES. THE MAGIC OF AN ENTIRE REALM HAS BEEN BROUGHT TO ME. THE END- ING OF ALL THINGS WILL SOON BE MINE TO SHAPE.’ He spoke with oppressive finality, every word delivered as an inescapable certainty.

‘WITH THE POWER OF SHYISH AT MY COM- MAND, THE DEAD OF THE MORTAL REALMS WILL RISE AS ONE. THE LIVING WILL BE SLAIN BY THE UNDEAD, AND THEIR SOULS WILL DE- SCEND TO SHYISH – NO LONGER TO MYRIAD UNDERWORLDS, BUT ALL TO NAGASHIZZAR.’

Mannfred listened to his master’s words, his hate re- placed by awe at the scope of Nagash’s design.

‘WITH THEIR FOLLOWERS GONE, THE SO- CALLED GODS WILL ALSO FALL. ONE BY ONE THEY WILL SUBMIT TO MY DOMINION, OR ELSE I WILL TURN THEM TO ASH.’

The Mortarch winced at Nagash’s words. It was this choice between eternal service and annihilation that had seen him bound to the Great Necromancer for uncounted centuries.

‘THROUGH DEATH I WILL ACHIEVE WHAT SIG- MAR THE SOUL-THIEF NEVER COULD. I WILL HAVE ORDER. UNQUESTIONED. UNENDING. AND WITH THAT ORDER, I WILL PURGE CHAOS FROM THE MORTAL REALMS.’

With his last words still resonating in Mannfred’s mind, Nagash turned and floated away. But as he passed into darkness through the archway, the Great Necromancer THE FINAL WITNESS

I should have listened to her. I should have run. But I grotesque pleasure and the screams of agony – I saw had to see for myself what lay at the end of all things. flesh burn and blood spilled.

Gazing into my fire, I had borne witness to the horrors As the forces of Order squared off against this newly that were manifesting throughout the realms. I, Elias, a arrived foe, the clangour of battle resounded across the simple scryer of fates, had seen the portents that had desolate plain, carrying into the east, to hordes of green- foretold this doom, and in turn I had been seen by one skins led by a Wurrgog Prophet. They were almost upon possessed of power far beyond my own. the sepulchral walls of Nagashizzar. The brutal green- skin tribes had the city in their sights, but upon hearing In my ignorance, I thought I was just an observer, sepa- the sounds of battle coming from the south, their atten- rated from the wars of gods and mortals. But I was a tion was diverted. In the din of combat, the prophet per- fool. ceived the war to which his visions had drawn him. He steered his forces south of the city to where the armies Desperate for understanding, I looked into the flames of Chaos and Order were locked in combat, and he once more, seeking out others who had read the signs. I called out his Waaagh! as his warriors barreled into the saw the vast armies that had gathered in Shyish, and I fray. watched as their processions led towards the same mass grave. They were heading to the city of the Great Necro- The Lord-Celestant’s army was trapped – Chaos on one mancer. They were marching upon Nagashizzar. side, Destruction on the other. As bravely as the warriors of Order fought, they could not hold formation against The forces of Order were first to step onto the vast, life- the crush. Piles of fresh dead began to grow amongst the less plain that stretched south of the city. Led by a Lord- carnage – yet the fallen did not stay down for long. Mor- Celestant clad in black and gold, and shielded by the tally wounded bodies rose to their feet, taking up what- magics of slann Starmasters, they marched forward, ever weapons they could before turning upon the living. through the raw flows of necromantic energy that had Dismembered corpses clawed at their erstwhile allies, coalesced in the centre of the realm. tearing at the flesh of whatever warriors were nearest. It was then that the Mortarch at last moved his legion for- The dead poured out from Nagashizzar to meet them, ward, advancing with grave certainty towards the rapidly endless columns of skeletal soldiers, cannibal thralls and dwindling invaders. deadwalker hordes. Howling spirits and winged mon- strosities soared through the skies, striking fear into the At that moment, I thought that the last glimmer of hope souls of the living, and morbid engines of bone and had faded. The armies of the Mortal Realms had sinew drifted south towards their enemy. As this host marched against Nagash, and had come so close. But at advanced, I saw its grim general, an ancient vampire the last, their bitter hatred for one another had spelled whose name was synonymous with terror and cruelty – death for us all. Nagash’s Mortarch of Night. But before the lines of Or- der and Death met, the Mortarch brought his legion to a Yet this was not their end. halt. There they waited, a mere league out from the gates of Nagashizzar, as the forces of Order marched steadily towards them. It was then that I saw the paths of fate crystallising.

A Chaos Lord of Ghur brought his armies flooding over the horizon from the east, tearing onto the plain with ter- rifying speed, heading straight towards the left flank of the Lord-Celestant’s army. His frenzied and sadistic warriors charged with reckless abandon, while his spell- weavers and rot-addled henchmen rained obliteration down upon their hated enemies. I heard the howls of THE FINAL WITNESS

A deafening crack sounded on the far side of the city. ing above the heart of Nagash’s city. It was the locus of The choking lakes of tar that flanked Nagashizzar’s fates, the end of all things, towards which the energy of northern border began to overflow, sending great waves an entire realm was being drawn. As I looked upon it, I of black sludge flooding forth. From this viscous muck saw only death, for it was the limit of existence, beyond emerged thousands upon thousands of greenskin brutes, which all life would cease to be. bellowing in fury as they charged towards Nagash’s city. Where they had come from, I could not see, for what- It was already complete. ever force had guided them into Shyish was barring my vision. The leader of this mysterious horde was an enor- Nagash had already won. mous orruk, his face marked by a vicious wound and his right eye missing. From atop his monstrous steed he called out to his fellow creatures of Destruction, and in a surge of green flesh they crashed into the outermost wall of Nagashizzar. I had not thought it possible, but as the night gave way to dawn the wall crumbled before the might of the attacking horde. Brutish warriors poured into the Nagashizzar’s outer districts, smashing through sepulchres and statues dedicated to the Lord of Undeath. Startled necromancers summoned their unliving minions to hold back the green tide, and from further within the city reinforcements marched with desperate haste to meet the intruders.

To the south, the surprise attack did not go unnoticed. The Mortarch split his army, leading the bulk of his forces back to the city to stem the influx of orruks. With the deathly legion divided, the Lord-Celestant was at last able to drive what was left of his army northward. His warriors hacked into the remaining skeletons and Dead- walkers, pressing ever forward, trampling over the dead before they could rise once more. Behind them, the De- struction hordes spied a new enemy that they had not yet fought, and charged headlong into the blood-slick forces of the Chaos Lord.

It was as though the flames of hope had been rekindled. From the north, Nagashizzar was assailed by orruks, while from the south, the Lord-Celestant’s army inched ever closer. The clouds of dread began to part in my mind, and I looked once more to the portents to see if this victory could be achieved. Was it possible? Could Death be defeated? Could the Mortal Realms prevail?

No.

These things would not come to pass.

As I stared deeper into the dwindling fires, I saw before me the Great Black Pyramid, a dark scar in reality float- THE GREAT BLACK PYRAMID

Like a living shadow, Kriktail of Clan Slynk led his have his sport, setting one enemy against another as he clique of Gutter Runners and Assassins from arch- sprung the long-honed defences of Nagashizzar upon way to colonnade to mausoleum on his way through those who sought to challenge the Master. Let Neferata Nagashizzar. His clique was but one of hundreds, but rejoice in the culmination of her centuries-long schemes, with the surety of a born winner, he knew he had strife upon strife ensuring that no force of the Pantheon penetrated the furthest into the cursed city of Na- of Order could truly call another a trusted ally. Nagash’s gash. His kill-pack picked their way through cata- would-be nemeses were arriving piecemeal, or not at all. combs and cloisters, sliding from one monolithic obe- lisk to another, sneaking past towering statues of the All that mattered was the Great Work, and it was a few legendary Mortarchs and building-sized death’s trickling sand-grains away from completion. With a heads. Darting in the shadow of lumbering undead thrilling sense of grandeur, Arkhan looked out upon the gargants they went, flitting as half-shadows between myriad tombs, monuments and statues of Nagashizzar. stationary legions of bone-things, then climbing up He intoned a phrase of power in ancient Nehekharan, the skull-studded pillars to run soundlessly across and summoned the host of departed spirits that would slanting roofs. carry the capstone of his greatest achievement – Na- gash’s greatest achievement, he corrected himself – to The Slynk adepts had learned of what the Grey Seer its final resting place, and in doing so, damn the Mortal Retchnik had intended, and through him, learned the Realms forever. schemes of the Masterclan. There was undoubtedly something at the heart of the obsidian-black pyramid Soon, so soon, it would all be over. The Great Black hovering inverted above the city; a prize that could en- Pyramid would thrum with power, and the necroquake sure the ascendance of the Clans Eshin forever more. unfold. Together Nagash and his faithful servants would According to their shadowmaster back in Ulgu, the watch as the spirits of all the ages rose from their graves stakes were higher than ever. to slay the living, and then drink in the power that was rightfully theirs in the aftermath. The souls of the dead On they went through the undead city, using every arti- would all find their way to Nagashizzar, starving the fice of the Form of Smoke and Shade to its full extent. other gods of worship – and in so doing, laying them Even Nagash’s watchful Morghast sentinels were little low. match for Clan Slynk’s finest. With their uncanny abili- ties bolstered by rites of concealment and illusion, at It was a plan so beautiful in its ambition, its complete- times they were no more substantial than sighs of cold ness, that Arkhan felt moved for the first time in aeons. air on the breeze. They slid ever onwards towards the If he had still been a mortal man – and if he had still vast black pyramid at the necropolis’ heart. In there was been capable – he would have wept. the quintessence of power, and they would claim it. Ignoring the sounds of battle around the citadel’s lower No matter the cost. levels, Lord-Ordinator Arros Diviniad put his eye to the arcanoscope of his citadel’s observatorium. Pushing the Atop the highest of Nagashizzar’s pyramids save one, sounds of screaming and the clashing of swords out of Arkhan the Black stared upon his works with a feeling his mind, he consulted the complex orrery and scrying of cold satisfaction. How long had it been since Nagash mortar-and-pestle arrangement on his desk, tweaked a had tasked him with creating the masterwork that now silver strand of wire on the Shyishan section of his star blotted out the light of Hysh with its vastness? How chart, and leaned in close. Within the brimming mortar many of the restless dead had marched to his slavish upon his desk, a solution of ground celestium and pow- beat over the millennia? Come to that, how many warri- dered glimmerings revealed a scene of marching armies ors of how many races had given their lives to stop it, converging upon a city of midnight-black monuments. It the screams and battlecries of their armies even now car- was a sight that filled him with mounting dread. rying upon the wind?

It mattered little, in the final reckoning. Let Mannfred THE GREAT BLACK PYRAMID

Weeks ago his trusted friend and confidante, Vorrus The time was nigh. Starstrike, had given in to his own vendetta instead of leading the march upon Nagashizzar. In waging war As the shadow of the penultimate obelisk slid over the against the Khornate armies of Marakarr Blood-Sky, he Slynk adepts, Spark-eye shut his eyes. His fellows did had destroyed any chance the two forces had of reaching the same. In a single instant he and his shrouded killers Nagashizzar intact and shattering the works of the Great shade-stepped from the city into the sky, skitterleaping Necromancer. Without coherence, without unity, the vi- to cling to the underside of the giant black monolith tality, talent and spark of the races of the living would be casting gloom on the city below. stymied, and ultimately come to nothing. Even now they were held at bay by the serried legions of the dead – The huge construction, still rising, led them to within who, by contrast, were united under a single indomitable twenty feet of an aperture in the pyramid’s side. They will. leapt, one after another, through the gap. Glidsnik didn’t quite make it, his claws scrabbling on the glassy under- And they would pay with their lives. side of the inverted pyramid before he was snatched away like a rag doll by the gales of aetheric power that Lord Arros sighed, the weight of a dozen deaths heavy raged around it. upon him, and strode towards the stairs. He must return to Azyr, for the Sacrosanct Chambers would be muster- Spark-eye smirked as he climbed up inside the Great ing for a new war, and his brotherhood had need of him. Black Pyramid and into the gloom beyond. There was a reason he had put Glidsnik to the rear. He had never The sound of armoured feet came from the citadel’s spi- really liked the backstabbing little sneak anyway. ral staircase as horned, plate-clad killers raced up the stairs. He took up his astral hammers and ran to meet Nagash of Nehekhara felt the fires of anticipation in his them, knowing full well he went to his death. chest. Once cold and barely smouldering, they now roared like a furnace. A robed figure drifted over the cold Shyishan dunes to- wards the Crystal Gates, his many mouths muttering in a The last time he had felt this way was when he had con- dozen different languages at once. Bangles chimed on demned the lands of his birth to a hideous demise by his four slender arms, and motes of light like collapsing plague, followed by an eternity of undeath. What a glori- constellations glimmered under his voluminous hood. ous time that had been. Even if it was a world away, it He had led many key players in a secret dance, manipu- still gave him satisfaction to think of it. lating their actions to music only he could hear. With the other unwitting participants sliding into place at the last, Now, a new world order was imminent, with Nagash at his master would be pleased with the chorus of anarchy its very heart. The prophecies had been unfortunate. that resulted. Many a mortal, deludedly thinking itself more than a mere a puppet, had striven to disrupt his plans. Even the The daemon shapeshifter could feel the energy of poten- gods had united against him. Some had almost suc- tial futures crackling in the air. The greatest change to ceeded, but they had failed at the last. befall the Mortal Realms since the coming of the Great Game was mere moments away. Soon, those energies He had kept Khorne occupied with the Red Mist in that mortals sought to tame – and gods too, come to that Aqshy, releasing the anger of a hundred slain death gods – would be unleashed, never to be truly controlled again. through the Abyssal Fires. Tyrion and Teclis, for all their talk of enlightenment and illumination, kept to their The Deathrunner Spark-eye gave the signal, and as one own borders and their obsession with Slaanesh, little re- the Clan Slynk skaven held their breath. The cool air of alising their insularity doomed them as much as any Nagashizzar above them was filled with a gale of spirit overcommitment. hosts, swirling around the purple-black monoliths that formed the outer skin of the Great Pyramid. THE GREAT BLACK PYRAMID

Through Arkhan and his Black Disciples, Nagash had purple energy, illuminating strangely angled walls in- set Morathi and Slaanesh against one another. By invad- scribed with line upon line of tiny runes and pictograms. ing Ulgu’s thirteen kingdoms he had given the Shadow Some of the eldritch diagrams glowed brighter than oth- Queen all the reason she needed to muster armies to ers, glimmers of particularly pure black realmstone crys- fight his pawns – and secretly use them to defy the fol- tals marking the vital points. The Deathrunner’s eyes lit lowers of her ancient foe. Tzeentch had largely stayed up with avarice. He suppressed a shudder, putting it out of his way after Nagash’s agents – Neferata foremost down to the excitement of triumph, as he ran his claws amongst them – had engineered the sacrifice of the along one of the walls. He motioned his fellows forward, prophets and soothsayers across the realms. Soon after, then pulled out a three-bladed triskele and began to dig a he had released the ghost of the dead moon Morrsleib gem-like crystal out of the wall. He put his shoulder to from its bondage to feast on the secrets of men in the it, and out it came with a pop. form of Lunaghast. The Architect of Fate had been kept busy ever since. The pyramid shuddered, just enough to vibrate Spark- eye’s whiskers and make his musk-gland tighten un- As for the Horned Rat, he was too weak to… pleasantly.

Nagash felt a ripple in the aether, a breath of unpredict- Probably nothing, he thought, taking his triskele to the ability on the wind. next jewel.

As for the Horned Rat… Borne by the spirits of dead kings, the final stone of the Great Black Pyramid slid into place with a soft click. A niggling claw of a doubt scratched inside his skull. That sound was the death of a thousand nations. But by then, it was too late. Slowly, impossibly, the Great Black Pyramid began to Spark-eye backflipped like an acrobat, narrowly avoid- turn. The gale of spectres that swirled around it turned ing being decapitated as a giant wight with glowing into a vortex, spinning as hurricanes of Shyishan magic green eyes barrelled around the corner. The undead were sucked in to converge upon the megastructure’s revenant’s black-bladed axe carved across the corridor tip. The inverted pyramid revolved faster and faster as in a blur of dark energy. A shadowsmoke bomb was al- gales of eldritch power were absorbed by its vitrified ready leaving the Deathrunner’s hand as his image split grave-sand. Its stolen energies pulsed as it accelerated to in two, his doppelganger keeping the massive, horned whipping, blurring speed. skeleton busy as he slid under the sweep of its double- headed axe. The corridor filled with Ulgu-smoke, and As Nagashizzar and the lands around it were drained of Spark-eye’s little band of rats slunk past to dart further colour, the nexus of Shyishan magic reached a critical into the black-walled pyramid. point. In a single instant the soul of every living creature for hundreds of leagues was wrenched free from its There were only three of his fellow assassins left, now, body. Rapidly desiccating flesh was blasted to dust, and the rest having fallen to curse-traps or the undead deni- a chorus of agonized screams echoed across the zens that prowled this labyrinthine maze of arcane pas- bleached wasteland. sageways and crawlspaces. Fewer to claim the wealth, Spark-eye told himself. Fewer to steal the glory that was As the Great Black Pyramid became impossibly dense rightfully his. But in his soul, he knew that was pure bra- with magical energy, it began to sink into the heart of vado. The musk of fear was heavy in the air, for the in- the realm, not so much drilling into it as buckling, side of the pyramid did not seem to conform to the laws stretching, drawing the lands down around it. The pit of the cosmos. All four of the Slynk adepts knew they beneath it became a sinkhole, an abyss, a hungering were hopelessly, irrevocably lost. whirlpool of energy that gathered in everything around it and drew it ever downward. Then Spark-eye saw something that lit a flicker of hope in his breast. A chamber ahead glowed with a lambent THE GREAT BLACK PYRAMID

With a thunderous boom like the cracking of worlds, the energies of Shyish imploded – and from there spread out across the Mortal Realms in a horrible, shrieking tide. The bow waves of energy that crashed across each realm brought with them a strange and anarchic disruption of the aether – for, at the last, Nagash’s great ritual had been tainted by the agents of Chaos.

Everywhere, the spirits of the dead rose from their graves. Twisted gheists of all descriptions burst from the mortal clay they had once inhabited as one domain after another was assailed by a billion dead souls. Then, as the metaphysical backlash cascaded across the cosmos, the energies of the cataclysm went wild.

Laughter rang out in the darkness, maddening and with- out end. The Shyish necroquake had come, and the Mor- tal Realms were changed forever.