by Nick Horth
The shockwave blasted Callis, Toll and the front ranks of the general’s men clean off their feet. They slammed down hard, groaning and choking as a fresh cloud of smoke billowed over them. Callis struggled to his knees. Synor lay a few paces ahead, trying to free his legs from beneath his horse, which lay unmoving. He had no idea where the Witch Hunter was. Through the cloud of smoke, masked faces began to appear. Callis aimed and fired at one, and the man dropped, clutching at a gaping hole in his throat. More emerged, scores of them, wielding long, curved daggers.
‘Get up!’ he screamed, as the soldiers around him lurched groggily. He fumbled at his belt, found the hilt of his uncle’s sabre and drew it. ‘They’re coming! Reform the line!’
It was too late. The enemy was only a few paces away now, and their daggers gleamed in the light of the fires. They leapt upon the staggered Iron Bulls, hacking and stabbing, bearing down the more heavily armoured soldiers with sheer weight of numbers. Callis swayed aside as a masked figure lurched at him, sliced the man’s leg off below the knee with a wild swing of his sabre. Smoke billowed all around. He could not see further than a half-dozen yards in any direction. Shapes swirled around him.
Something colossal strode through the smoke. It was twice the size of a man, and many times as broad, with a rolling, bestial gait that hinted at appalling strength. Two ridged horns swept back from its monstrous head, and it clutched a staff topped with the skull of a beast in its oddly dextrous hands. Sickly green-blue smoke poured from its eye sockets. A muscular tail whipped around the creature’s hooved legs.
It stopped, and scanned the devastation before it.
Its eyes locked with Callis’. The beast smiled.
Callis was up before the thought of running even entered his head, staggering away into the smoke cloud, weaving his way through broken bodies and the wreckage of the steam tank. The ground shook beneath him, the steady pace of the nightmare creature as it paced after him. He could barely hear a thing over the ringing in his ears.
Something struck him hard in the back, and suddenly he was sailing through the air. He might have been screaming, but it was too hard to tell.
He turned over in the air before landing hard on something at once soft and full of hard edges. He glanced down, and saw a pile of corpses, a roughly half-and-half blend of green-jacketed Iron Bulls and lean, tattooed cultists. He put a hand down to prop himself up, and it sank up to the elbow in something warm and sticky. The ground shook again. He turned. The horned beast strode after him. Three Iron Bull swordsmen staggered into view, holding each other up, bleeding from a dozen wounds. The creature lazily waved its staff at them, and from the blazing sockets of the skull a tongue of azure flame spat forth. It wrapped around the Iron Bulls, and they screamed and thrashed silently before toppling to the floor, smouldering.
The beast kept on coming at Callis, still leering through its maw of jagged fangs. Callis stumbled on all fours, and staggered away into a row of columns that loomed out of the mist ahead of him. The ringing in his ears was fading now, and he could hear the faint drumbeat of cannon fire and shrill screams drifting above the chaos of battle. He staggered and fell, turned and scampered backwards on his hands as the creature approached. It stood before him, raised its staff and pointed the blazing skull directly at his face. He could smell scorched metal and strange, bitter spices.
More shapes filtered through the mist. Their torsos were inked and scarred, and they wore masks of horrifying aspect. They carried long curved daggers, and a variety of other weapons. Hateful, sickening symbols of devotion were emblazoned on deep blue robes or scorched upon bare flesh. They were chanting, a low droning sound in a language that turned Callis’ stomach and sent a dull agony rippling through his skull.
The creature leaned down; Callis smelt its sulphurous breath, and looked deep into eyes that swirled with a hateful intelligence that seemed so incongruous with such a bestial form.
‘Il’a konac v’y’oren,’ it murmured. ‘Hiem vo konac il’yor.’
Lightning flashed, so bright that Callis gasped and raised a hand to cover his aching eyes. He heard a crash, almost as loud as the explosion that had destroyed the Old Lady, and a guttural bellow.
Giants strode amongst the enemy, crushing and hewing them with weapons as tall as a mortal human. They wore white, glistening white, and emanated a radiant brightness that seemed to cut straight through the overcast gloom and the drifting smoke.
‘Throne of Sigmar,’ whispered Callis reverentially. It was the first time he had ever seen the Stormcast Eternals in battle. He knew he would never forget the sight.
The enemy was not even falling back. The shock and the speed with which the giants slew did not give them the chance. They raised their daggers and sceptres high in an almost laughable attempt to defend themselves. The white giants simply swept them aside with arcing blows from silver warhammers and gleaming broadswords. The torn chunks of meat that had once been the traitor formation littered the ground. Broken bodies sailed through the air. Armoured feet stamped down on mewling creatures, crushing necks and skulls. There was no rage in the giants’ actions, only pitiless and functional brutality.
The horned creature was bellowing in outrage, matching blows with three of the gleaming warriors. It hammered one aside with a mighty swing of its staff, and as the fallen Stormcast crashed against a pillar, sending chunks of chiselled stonework flying through the air, the creature called forth another blast of eldritch flame to engulf him. The fallen warrior rolled and writhed, his fine armour dancing with blue fire. His fellows spared no concern for their fallen brother, closing the gap on the giant and striking from two sides with their broadswords. The beast slammed one warrior to the ground with its staff, roaring as the other sank his blade into its ribs. It rammed its massive skull into the offending Stormcast’s chest, sending him reeling backwards, and raised its staff to cast another spell.
A figure crashed into the beast’s flank, striking so fast it seemed little more than a blur. Despite its huge size, the horned beast was thrown to the ground. This time its roar ended in a wet, choking gurgle. A sword flashed out, tearing through the beast’s muscular neck with contemptuous ease. The hideous maned head rolled free, and a figure loomed above the broken corpse.
Callis felt his blood run cold. The White Reaper stood before him, his pristine armour marred with crimson. The blank eyes of his war-mask bored through Callis.
‘Get up,’ said the Reaper.
He got up.
‘You saw Kryn in your vision,’ said the Lord-Veritant. ‘Lead me to him.’
Toll and a few surviving members of Synor’s elite hauled away the general’s fallen horse, freeing the officer’s legs.
The general grunted in pain as his men pulled him to his feet. His white dress trousers were stained crimson at the knee. Toll suspected the man had suffered a serious wound, but Synor stared down anyone who attempted to inspect his injuries.
‘Enough,’ he barked. ‘We have no time for this. We must push through to the guildhall.’
‘Our forces are scattered,’ said a lieutenant with a nasty burn on the side of his face. A soldier was wrapping the wound with a makeshift bandage torn from his own tunic. ‘We have no answer to their sorcery. The guns are quiet.’
It was true. The concussive blasts of the cannon and rocket arrays had ceased. Either the crews had been killed, or they could not pick out targets through the thick smoke that billowed across the battlefield.
‘You heard the general,’ Toll bellowed. ‘Forward, make safe the guildhall!’
He knew it was futile. Already the avian beastmen and masked cultists were upon them, charging out of the smoke to hurl themselves at the ragged company. Screams and the clashing of blades rent the air. There were so many of them. An arrow whipped in and struck the burn-marked lieutenant in the chest, and he sagged into his soldier’s arms with a heavy sigh. The enemy was attack
ing from all angles, and the hundred or so Iron Bulls that Toll could see were pushed tighter and closer together, desperately fending off the hordes of screeching beastmen with spears and handgun stocks. There was no way out. Toll drew his pistol, scanning the crowd for a sign of Callis. Nothing. He hoped by some miracle the lad had gotten away, but in his gut he knew better.
‘Make them pay,’ he shouted. ‘Make them pay for every fallen comrade. Sigmar is watching, men and women of Excelsis. Let us scour these foul creatures from the face of our great city!’
All around him the warriors of the Iron Bulls roared their defiance and prepared to meet their end.
Their cries were met by the sound of chanting. A deep, sonorous song, a battle dirge that chilled the blood. Toll knew what it was, and the fading hope in his chest was kindled anew.
The Stormcasts had come. They hit the right flank of the beastmen and cultists like a battering ram, a wall of shields and stabbing swords that swept over the enemy like a rogue wave. There were not many of them, perhaps a few-score against hundreds of the foe. That was enough. Shields slammed out, shattering ribcages and crushing skulls. Blades followed in simple, disciplined thrusts. It was almost like watching some mechanical war machine of the Ironweld. They did not slow, nor did they cease their chanting. It rose above the clangour like the promise of death, and the masked cultists wavered in terror.
‘Into them!’ shouted Synor, brandishing his blade. ‘Strike now!’
The combined charge of two-score Knights Excelsior and the remnants of the Iron Bulls pushed the invaders back to the steps of the Prophesier’s Guild. The beastmen fought with a vicious fury, their sorcerous arrows and keen-edged blades reaping a horrible toll upon the defenders of Excelsis. Yet even they could not stand before the implacable might of the warriors in white. The Stormcasts battled at the tip of the spear, launching themselves into the ranks of the foe, battering and smashing the avian creatures aside with their Heavens-forged sigmarite weaponry. No warrior of Sigmar could fail to be inspired by the sight, even if it was the dreaded Knights Excelsior that carried the charge.
The avian beastmen fell back into the guildhall, the great arcane machinery spitting and protesting overhead as the battle raged. Those cultists that could follow suit did so, while the rest were hacked apart beneath the vengeful blades of the Iron Bulls. The regiment charged through the great iron doors of the Prophesier’s Guild, Synor’s personal guard at their head. The great hall soared high overhead, the domed ceiling barely visible beyond the hanging walkway that housed the occulum fulgurest. Toll could see figures up there, tiny and pale. The arcane machine spat filthy energy into the sky through a great rent torn in the domed ceiling, bathing the hall in a sickly pink light. The air warped in the far corners of the chamber, became greasy and oil-slick. Wretched, gibbering forms tumbled through these rents in space, giggling and skipping as they bounded towards the soldiers of the Eighth. They were little more than fleshy maws housed in torsos of violent pink, surrounded by a shifting, warping array of gangly limbs. As they leapt across the hall, they conjured streams of eldritch flame that seared through shields and devoured flesh.
One of the things bounded up to Toll, clapping its hands together like an eager child and chortling manically. It leapt at him, teeth gnashing for his face. He angled his blade and leaned to the side, letting the thing impale itself upon the blade. It gurgled and choked on foul purple ichor, still chortling idiotically. Then it collapsed into two separate chunks of torn meat. The clay-like flesh twisted and reformed, darkening and roiling with chaotic energy. New limbs emerged, and two new and identical faces took shape, leering daemonic visages that snapped and hissed at each other. The Witch Hunter levelled his pistol and blasted one of the blue monsters to pieces. Each fragment of the creature’s flesh took on yet another form, this time several tiny, dancing flames that scattered underfoot, hissing furiously and snapping at ankles. The remaining blue horror scampered away, its limbs flailing and rancid spittle drooling from its chortling mouth.
Toll scanned the battlefield. His eyes locked on a small, unremarkable and yet recognisable figure duelling an Iron Bull swordsman, backed by a cadre of blood-smeared cultists. Toll watched the former High Arbiter Ortam Vermyre step aside to avoid a clumsy sword stroke before plunging his rapier into the unfortunate soldier’s chest. Vermyre kicked the corpse free, and looked up to meet Toll’s eyes.
‘You are mine,’ muttered the Witch Hunter, striding towards the traitor.
Armand Callis hurtled up the last few steps and burst out onto the walkway that hung suspended over the carnage of the guildhall below. Arcane machinery pulsed and thrummed on all sides, and the metal path beneath his feet shook and groaned in protest. With a startling roar, a spear of lightning shot from the great sphere that loomed over their heads. It arced into the air, tearing through the roof above them and sending chunks of masonry and shards of broken amberglass raining all around. Looking up, Callis felt the sickness of vertigo. The sky above was an open wound, a seething maelstrom of black storm clouds and baleful, bruised-purple light. He could see the crystal tower that had stabbed its way into this realm, and behind it, looming like something half-glimpsed beneath the surface of a roiling sea, was the greater fortress. Though still obscured by the warped clouds, it was becoming clearer and more distinct with every passing moment.
He and the Lord-Veritant’s soldiers clattered along the walkway. It curved around the bulk of the whirling occulum sphere, and opened into a large, semi-circular platform dominated by a collection of levers, gears and unknowably complex mechanisms that rippled with fingers of sapphire energy.
Before this strange device stood Velorius Kryn.
The old archmage clutched a tome bound in pale leather in a claw-like hand. He was muttering arcane phrases that made Callis’ head thrum painfully. Beneath him, burned into the brass of the platform, was a dizzying array of symbols, arranged in perfect order like a mathematical equation.
Sentanus had with him six warriors. Three held greatswords, one a wicked-looking longaxe, another a device that looked more like a portable ballista than anything, and the final warrior bore two shorter blades that were still almost as large as Callis. They spread out in a semi-circle behind the Lord-Veritant, whose gaze was locked on the wizard Kryn.
‘Heretic,’ the White Reaper growled. ‘Turn and face your death.’
Kryn seemed to only now notice the group. He turned, and Callis felt a cold shiver as he gazed into those eyes he knew so well for the first time. They shone with mad ambition, and Kryn’s thin, pale lips creased into a wide grin. He seemed even more wizened and drawn than he had appeared in Callis’ dream. His skin was maggot-white, stretched so thin over his bones that he looked more like a risen corpse than a living man.
‘Welcome,’ he cackled. ‘You are just in time, Lord-Veritant. Or should I call you the Reaper? Simple-minded men like you do so love their sobriquets, do they not?’
Sentanus did not even seem to move, but suddenly his staff was lowered and a spear of blinding light burst from the lantern mounted at its tip. It struck Kryn in the chest, and his frail form was hurled across the platform, his own staff and tome tumbling away. The old wretch rolled to a halt, and Callis could hear his pained wheezing.
‘You are done, wizard,’ said Sentanus, the lantern light of his staff fading.
There was a choked, rattling sound. Callis realised that it was Kryn. He was laughing. The wizard staggered to his feet, and his hands formed grasping claws. He slowly lifted off the brass platform, shimmering particles of metal condensing underneath his feet in magnetic circles. His black iron staff whipped through the air into his waiting clutch, and Kryn span it in his hands, muttering an arcane phrase as he did so.
A few yards from the Stormcasts, the brass floor of the platform folded and rose into the air, like an inverted raindrop. It rippled and split apart, forming three roughly humanoid shapes that towered
over Sentanus and his men. Their torsos and faces were as smooth and featureless as a dressmaker’s mannequin, but their forelimbs ended in wicked hooks. The brass golems advanced upon the Stormcasts, weapon-limbs raised.
Sentanus roared in fury and leapt forward, drawing his great blade. His fellows charged in his wake, bellowing their battle oaths. Callis threw himself to the side as the monsters clashed together.
There was a resignation and, Toll fancied, a hint of sadness in Vermyre’s eyes as he turned to face the Witch Hunter. The raging battle around them seemed to fade into the distance. Vermyre readied his blade, a simple rapier of silvered steel, unadorned but clearly well made. His cadre of cultists stepped forward, brandishing their own long knives, but Vermyre barked an order at them and reluctantly they slipped away, leaving the two former friends alone in the midst of the chaos that was tearing through the guildhall.
‘Is it not fate, Hanniver?’ the former High Arbiter said, and shook his head with a smile. ‘That we would meet here, I mean. I was a fool to believe my dungeon could hold you.’
‘I am going to kill you, Ortam.’
Vermyre shook his head. ‘You forget, old friend, this is not the first time we have sparred. You’re a fair enough duellist, Witch Hunter, but you’ve never comprehended the art of it.’
‘That was practise. This is real.’
With that the Witch Hunter came forward, leading with an eye-level thrust. Vermyre stepped back, not even raising his own blade. Toll whipped his rapier out and jabbed forward twice more, seeking to score a lethal wound and end this fight quickly.
Vermyre swayed left then spun on one foot, pirouetting to the right and flipping his blade to his off hand as he did so. He let the turn add momentum to a low slice, and Toll felt a searing pain across his thigh.
‘Ah, it’s been too long since we last danced,’ the traitor said, twirling the rapier in a mocking salute. ‘You’re getting old, Hanniver. A novice could have seen that coming. Too much time in the company of dull duardin, perhaps?’