by Nick Horth
‘They very nearly did,’ muttered Toll. His brows were furrowed in concern.
‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Callis. ‘If the Stormcasts won’t help us, who will?’
Toll thought for a moment. ‘You told me that in your vision you saw loyalist warriors fighting back against the invaders,’ he said.
‘Yes. They were dying in droves, but they still held the city centre. Until the archmage decided to drop a lightning storm on them, anyway.’
‘Did you see any heraldry? Which regiments fought for the city?’
Callis closed his eyes, tried to picture the fall of Excelsis. It was hazy now, like a half-remembered nightmare. He saw the square alight, under the glare of the arcane machinery of the Prophesier’s Guild. He saw the flocks of shrieking shadows flitting through the smoke-filled streets. There was the cluster of battered companies, still holding a semblance of order despite the corpses that lined the cobbles. Their banners were raised, charred and tattered, but still defiant in the face of obliteration.
‘The Iron Bull of Tarsus,’ Callis said. ‘That’s the symbol of the Eighth, under General Synor.’
‘Tell me of him.’
‘Well, he’s…’
‘You’re not in the Freeguild any more, Armand.’
‘He’s an old soldier gone to fat, who prefers brandy and pipe-spice to getting his hands dirty. He’s had his glories in the past, but his Iron Bulls took a hell of a hammering when the orruks last raided the Realmgate. Since then they’ve been on regular garrison duty, along with the Coldguard and the Firewolves, while the remaining regiments support the Stormcasts’ offensive along the coast.’
Toll nodded, and began to march back the way they had come, towards the city. Callis followed. As he walked he glanced out over the plains. Spears of faint light had already begun to appear over the distant hills.
‘We’re running out of time,’ muttered the Witch Hunter. ‘I know Vermyre. He would never have revealed himself if he wasn’t certain of his position. As we speak he’ll be moving his pieces across the board, ready to unleash the killing blow. I only hope we can alert the city garrison in time.’
The Iron Bulls’ bastion was bustling with activity. Flathorns and other cart-beasts hauled ammunition and supplies to and fro, whinnying and snorting their complaints at their short-tempered drovers. In the great yard before the entrance, a batch of new recruits were being beaten into shape to the chorus of a dozen bellowing drill sergeants.
‘You know, that reward is still on my head,’ muttered Callis, doing his level best to try and shrink into his collar. ‘Typically it’s a bad idea for fugitives to wander right into their pursuers’ camp.’
‘Most fugitives aren’t accompanied by a member of the Order Azyr,’ said Toll. ‘The general has no choice but to hear me, unless he wishes to start a internecine war with the faithful. If what you told me about him is true, that seems unlikely.’
This place was bigger than the Coldguard Bastion by some measure. The great face of the edifice loomed before them, an imposing, if blunt, example of duardin stonecraft bristling with murder-holes, flame cannons and balconies guarded by green-coated defenders. It was a mere fraction of the artillery power that faced out into the wilds, but the defenders of Excelsis had long ago learned that high walls were not always a sure defence against a determined enemy. Abutted against the fortress wall were several large, low-roofed buildings with great iron doors. One was hauled open to admit one of the supply carts, and Callis caught a glimpse of row upon row of cannon barrels. Clearly the Iron Bulls did not lack for field pieces.
As they made their way towards the great gate, a squad of halberdiers moved to block their way.
‘Your business here?’ asked the sergeant, with the casual boredom of someone who had been on guard duty a few hours too long.
‘My own,’ said Toll, holding out his symbol of office and not even bothering to slow his pace.
The sergeant paled.
‘Of… of course, sire,’ he mumbled. Then his eyes met Callis’ and widened in surprise. He levelled his halberd. ‘You! Men, detain this traitor.’
Suddenly Callis was surrounded with a wall of steel, prodding uncomfortably close to his throat. He raised his hands, very, very slowly.
‘The corporal is with me,’ said Toll.
‘This piece of scum killed his own men. Four dead men and women, betrayed by their officer. I don’t care if you’re the White Reaper himself, he’s for the dungeons.’
Toll stepped close to the sergeant. When he spoke, his voice was low, calm, and icy cold.
‘Sergeant, this man is guilty of no crime. You, however, are just now on the verge of committing one of your own. Do you know the penalty for obstructing a member of the Holy Order in the course of his duties?’
There was a crowd now. Callis was uncomfortably aware of the number of heavily armed men and women in the immediate vicinity who would have like nothing less than to see his head on a spike adorning the city walls. The courtyard was deathly quiet.
‘I am here to speak with General Synor,’ said Toll. ‘And this man is still of use to me. If you delay me further, you put the people of this city in danger. And you forfeit your own life.’
The Witch Hunter’s hand dropped to his belt, brushing his coat aside to reveal his four-barrelled pistol. The sergeant’s eyes flicked to the weapon, and back to Callis. Slowly, he withdrew his halberd, and his soldiers followed suit. The air was still thick with tension. Storm clouds rumbled overhead.
‘If you want to see the general, you’ll go under armed guard,’ the sergeant said. He signalled to several burly guardsmen armed with handguns that were currently pointed at the intruders. They moved to surround Callis and Toll, weapons lowered and ready to shoot. Callis felt a sick sense of vulnerability – if even one of these men was a traitor, his guts could be spattered all over the fortress walls in less time than it took to blink.
‘If they make the slightest false move, shoot them,’ said the sergeant.
General Synor’s quarters were at the very summit of the bastion, hidden amongst a network of corridors. Here, the walls were decorated with busts and portraits of deceased Freeguild heroes, and soldiers dressed in fine silver breastplates and immaculate white tunics stood at guard. These were the general’s personal retinue, chosen from amongst the most experienced and skilled soldiers in the regiment. They did not even risk a glance up as the retinue strode past. When they reached the end of a long hallway carpeted in rich scarlet and flanked by statues of Stormcast warriors raising their warhammers defiantly at some unseen foe, the officer leading them bade them wait. Callis was pacing interminably, face locked in a troubled frown. Toll found the man’s refusal to stand still deeply irritating, but said nothing. He understood that feeling of anxious helplessness better than most.
Finally, after what seemed like an age, the door at the end of the corridor swung open, and the officer gestured them through.
The smell of spice-smoke hit Toll like an open hand as soon as he entered the room. He’d never developed a taste for the stuff. Partly due to its acrid, chemical tang, but also because the arraca plant from which it came lay far outside the city walls, and even with the auguries to guide their way, the death toll for those who harvested it could be described as horrific.
General Synor sat in a luxuriously padded chair, slightly obscured amidst a cloud of smoke, a blazing spice-pipe propped lazily between his lips. He rose as they entered, and raised a fist to his chest in salute.
‘Greetings,’ he said, and his voice was the low, gravelly rumble of a man who had replaced sleep with liquor and spice over the last few days.
Toll raised a fist to his chest in salute, letting an appraising eye drift across the general. The man was rapidly leaving middle age behind, and though he wasn’t in terrible shape there was a hint of roundness to his belly that spoke of a sede
ntary lifestyle and a soldier who’d been away from the frontline for too long. His hair was black with a hint of grey, a simple crop that trailed into two impressive muttonchops and a well-maintained beard. He wore a look of bored frustration.
‘Not often we host one of the Order here at the Bastion,’ he drawled. ‘Much less in the company of a wanted criminal. I suppose you have a good reason for me not to immediately throw this murderer in the dungeons?’
Callis looked as if he were about to say something, but thankfully decided to keep his mouth shut. Miracles did happen. In truth, the man had looked pale and drawn ever since they had left the bridge of the Consecralium.
‘Corporal Callis is innocent,’ Toll said. ‘That’s part of the reason why I’m here. His regiment, the Coldguard, has been fatally compromised by a faction of heretic cultists. We do not know how far this rot has spread through Excelsis’ military. It may be that even your own regiment is corrupted.’
Synor snorted. ‘The Iron Bulls have been stalwart faithful of Sigmar since the Wars of Founding, when we took the colour of the Excelsis city guard,’ he said. ‘Every tenday the priests arrive to renew our vows of loyalty and sanctify our guns. This sounds to me like nothing more than the desperate excuses of a man who realises he’s for the executioner’s axe.’
‘I have seen the conspiracy firsthand,’ Toll continued. ‘And it reaches beyond the military. The High Arbiter himself has turned his cloak. I come here fresh from a stay in the dungeons of the Arbiter’s palace. The archmage Velorius Kryn is also implicated. Together they are planning some form of attack on the city. Perhaps even an armed uprising.’
The general’s eyes widened at that. He said nothing for a moment, instead simply staring straight at the Witch Hunter. Toll knew the man was sorting through the mess that had just been dumped on his desk. On the one hand, the idea of the High Arbiter of all people betraying the city was patently ludicrous. On the other, one tended not to doubt the word of a member of the Order of Azyr.
‘If Vermyre has betrayed us, where is he now?’ Synor said. ‘What is his objective? Perhaps he has spies inside the city guard, but surely not enough to take the damned city.’
‘I don’t know yet. But I do know Vermyre, and he’s man who always has a plan. We need to be ready. The army needs to take to the streets, in force. We must secure the Prophesier’s Guild and the main square. It is likely that whatever Kryn and the High Arbiter have planned, it will involve the Guild.’
‘Wait,’ said Synor, rubbing furiously at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. ‘Wait. You want me to march on Collegiate territory? With no proof of anything but your rogue guardsman’s word?’
‘My proof is my profession, general,’ said Toll, fixing the man with the look he used to signal he was no longer interested in playing games. ‘You know the consequences for obstructing a member of the Order in his duties.’
Toll realised immediately that he had made a mistake.
Synor’s eyes narrowed, and his cheeks flushed red with anger. ‘You dare to come here with your half-baked theories and threaten me?’ he snarled. ‘I am a general in Sigmar’s holy army, you arrogant thug. Not some pimple-faced guardsman you can push around.’
Toll cursed his impatience. Never underestimate the pride of a powerful man, he thought. Technically he had authority here, but Freeguild officers always chafed at being ordered around by what they saw as little more than jumped-up civilians. He should have played this more carefully. He summoned up the last reserves of his patience and tried again.
‘General, I assure you that the situation is grave enough to warrant such action. I would not have spoken so bluntly otherwise.’
There was a crack of lightning. The brief respite had ended, and once more the sky outside broiled with dark clouds. Rain thrashed against the windows. Synor sat down, put down his spice-pipe and fixed the Witch Hunter with an imperious glare.
‘I am in control of this city’s defences,’ he said, emphasising every word as if he was talking to a fool. ‘Which are already stretched thin by the sortie against the orruks. Seven entire regiments marched alongside the Stormcasts; the Revenant Spears, the Bronze Claws, the Stormblessed and all the rest. I have but three remaining to safeguard a city of hundreds of thousands. I will not charge off on some damned fool errand on the word of a wanted criminal.’
Sergeant Steerman was as relaxed as he had been in months. Which was to say, there weren’t currently any greenskin savages howling their blood-curdling war cries at him, and he was pleasantly bored rather than desperate and terrified. Yes, he could stand for a few more days on guard duty. Let those pompous fools in the Stormblessed run around chasing orruks and medals. The Firewolves would do the unglamorous work of keeping the city safe, and Steerman would enjoy this pleasant boredom.
From his position on the outer wall he could see out across the Blooded Field, the stretch of rough land ahead of the city walls which had played host to a hundred different warbands and brutal hordes set on tearing down this monument to order and civilization. Without thousands of leering orruk faces or the bloodstained idols of degenerate tribesmen, the low, broken hills and windswept plains ahead of him were almost ruggedly beautiful, Steerman thought. Or they would be, if it were not for the ever-present storm clouds. As he gazed out, another fork of lightning flickered across the landscape, and a moment later there was a deep rumble. Steerman sighed, and glanced up at the bruised canvas of sky above him. This damned storm was going nowhere soon.
‘Sir,’ said Guardsman Collick, snapping the sergeant out of his daydreaming. ‘There’s another patrol approaching.’
That was odd. As far as Steerman knew there weren’t supposed to be any changeovers for several hours yet. He stood, made his way out of the guard tower and peered down the length of the wall. There were indeed a number of figures headed this way. There was a deafening crack and a flash of lightning, which almost made him jump out of his boots. The damned occulum had been playing up all morning. He turned to gaze up at the whirling brass orb, which rippled with arcs of blue-white energy. There was a constant low hum in the air that set his teeth on edge a little, but that was a small price to pay for this extended rest.
He checked his sword belt was secure – on the off chance there was a ranking officer in this mob – and strode off towards the newcomers.
The leader was a small fellow with a sergeant’s stripes, a wiry specimen with darting blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He smiled as he approached. Steerman didn’t recognise him, but that wasn’t too surprising. His lot had been out in the field a long time. He snapped off a quick salute.
‘Morning lads,’ he said.
‘Sergeant Steerman, right? My name’s Arvine,’ said the newcomer, returning with a salute of his own. His eyes were fixed on the crackling light-engines. Steerman grinned.
‘Don’t worry, friend. They’re on the turn today, but there’s no danger. They’re not about to go haywire and destroy the city.’
Arvine turned his blue eyes turned back to Steerman with the oddest expression on his face, halfway between a smile and a grimace. Steerman noticed that the man’s nose was crooked and freshly bruised. Doubtless the result of a harmless barrack-hall scrap of some sort. He chose not to mention it. The newcomer walked closer, reaching into his jacket.
‘We’re to relieve you,’ he said. ‘General Revard’s orders.’
Steerman furrowed his brows in confusion. ‘How’s that then? What’s the use in swapping us with another squad?’
‘You’re relieved, sergeant,’ said the newcomer, and he drew a parchment scroll from the lining of his jacket. Steerman thought it was a copy of the orders at first, but then he saw the eight-pointed star scrawled across the surface. He saw other symbols, too, that flooded his mouth with bile and sent his head to spinning. Arvine was smiling. Steerman reached a trembling hand to his side, fumbling for his blade.
/> The man in the sergeant’s uniform spoke three words.
Steerman saw a flash of blue light and felt a wave of heat strike him in the chest, and then he was soaring backwards, limbs flailing uselessly. He turned twice in the air, and the ground rose up to strike him in the face. He peered through a haze of blood and pain, and saw the newcomers walk forward with calm purpose. Two of his men exited the guard post with weapons in hand, looking around in confusion. Steerman tried to shout a warning, but the impostors had already raised compact alley-bows. Bolts thudded into his mens’ flesh, and they toppled to the floor. The sergeant tried to rise, but his legs would not respond. Sigmar, it was hard to breathe. He was dimly aware of the smell of smoke. He looked down, and saw the ruin of his chest. Embers of blue fire danced across the tattered remains of his jacket.
He looked up, gasping for air. The blue-eyed traitor was standing in front of the storm engine, reading from the same scroll. Steerman couldn’t hear the words, but he could hear the globe spit and hiss like a tormented beast. Fresh arcs of lightning surged across its surface, more violently than ever before. He coughed blood, and the impostor glanced across and met his eyes. Those cold blue eyes lit up with a smile, and the man gestured at Steerman with a finger. Another bolt of scorching blue flame screamed towards him, and the last thing he felt was the searing heat of it as it struck him in the face.
The Cult of the Fated Path seized control of their targets with ruthless efficiency. Unaware of the traitors in their midst, the garrison soldiers assigned to protect the arcane engines that powered Excelsis were taken by surprise and quickly disposed of. The words were spoken, as it had been ordained, and the proper rituals performed. One by one the great occulum fulgurest machines began to spit torrents of twisted magical energy into the heavens. The sky tore open. A purple bruise of tortured reality rippled and spread across the heavens. The sound was apocalyptic, a primal roar of creation and destruction. Screams began to echo through the streets as the inhabitants of Excelsis looked to the sky and saw what could only mean the end of their world.