Warcry: The Anthology

by Various Authors

  It straightened, brandishing a single-bladed axe of curious design. Vos’ breath caught in his throat.

  ‘You were right. This is no beast,’ Kolsk snarled.

  ‘I know what it is, signifier,’ Vos spat. There was no mistaking such a creature for anything else. A Stormcast Eternal. Vos’ hands tightened about the haft of his hammer. He took a breath. ‘And I know that it can die – so we kill it.’

  The Stormcast studied them, head tilted, the impassive mask smeared with ash and char. There was nothing human in its gaze, only the snap and snarl of a storm caged in iron. Worse even than a daemon, for at least daemons mimicked men, if only to mock them.

  ‘What is it waiting for?’ Varka hissed.

  ‘It’s gauging our strengths,’ Kolsk grunted. ‘It’s what they do. I fought them once, when the Iron Legion marched on Tukkon, in the Alumic Delta.’

  ‘And?’ Harsk asked.

  ‘That you do not know the outcome should tell you all you need to know,’ Vos said. The Iron Legion did not record its defeats. It learned from them, but it did not glorify them. He stepped forward. ‘Name yourself,’ he called out.

  Silence was his only reply. Vos tried again. ‘Why are you here? This place is not yours.’ Still, the Stormcast said nothing. Infuriated, Vos gestured. ‘Harsk, Crola – shields to the front, centre on Kolsk. Garn, with Varka.’ He lifted his hammer. ‘I will take the flank.’

  At his words, his followers moved swiftly into position, and he allowed himself a moment of pride. They were the elite of the Iron Legion and there was not a foe who could stand against them, if the Gods did not will it. And here, at least, he knew the Gods were with them. ‘Advance on my command,’ he growled. ‘Allow it no room to manoeuvre. Hem it in, wear it down, and–’

  ‘I am not here by choice.’

  Vos froze. The Stormcast’s voice was like the rumble of distant thunder. It had not moved, had not so much as twitched. Vos glanced at the others. He cleared his throat. ‘Surrender, and you will be treated honourably,’ he said. It wasn’t a lie. Death by the hand of a dominar of the Iron Legion was as honourable a death as any. ‘Resist… and we will take your head.’

  The Stormcast made a rough, rasping sound. Laughter, Vos realised. ‘I was about to say the same thing.’ It made a noise, like a sigh. ‘But I suspect you are no more reasonable than the others.’ Quicker than thought, it lunged. He’d seen its speed, expected it. But had not been prepared, even so. It almost cost him his life. He ducked as the axe snapped towards him. He heard the air part with a hiss, as he jerked back, and then it was among them and there was no time for any thoughts save those of survival.

  Harsk died first. He allowed his shield to dip, to strike out – a mistake. The axe, its edge limned with crackling light, passed through his neck in a wet, red arc. Even as the legionary fell, the golden killer was turning. Lightning crackled, and Vos smelled ozone. The warrior held something like a cut-down crossbow, only it spat sorcerous bolts. The shot caught Kolsk in the hip, and knocked the signifier sprawling.

  ‘Close in,’ Vos roared. He charged, hammer raised. His blow barely kissed the Stormcast’s arm, and the one he received in return sent him staggering back against a pillar. Crola and Garn closed in, hammer and war-club striking out in tandem. They crowded their opponent, forcing it to shift position. That crackling axe left blackened craters in the faces of their shields, but the iron held, if barely.

  The Stormcast retreated along the causeway, trying to gain room to fire its hand-crossbow again. Vos stooped to help Kolsk to his feet. The signifier grunted in pain, and used his standard to lever himself upright. ‘Hip’s shattered,’ he growled. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Can you fight?’

  ‘The day I can’t is the day I die, dominar.’ He peered at the Stormcast. ‘Of course, that might well be today…’

  ‘Then we will at least die well,’ Vos said. He heard the snap-snarl of the Stormcast’s crossbow, and heard Crola yelp. A spitting bolt of azure energy nearly tore the shield from her arm, and she stumbled, breaking formation. The Stormcast darted forward, axe swinging down. Garn caught the blow, but Vos heard the bones in his shield-arm twist and crack. The legionary staggered, and the Stormcast slapped him to the ground.

  Varka’s flail drew sparks from the Stormcast’s helm. It whirled, driving the drillmaster back with a wild sweep of its axe. She struck again and again, seizing every opening. Her blows did little, but it served to keep the Stormcast occupied, while Crola and Garn climbed to their feet. Vos looked at Kolsk. ‘I will drive it to you. Be ready.’

  Kolsk nodded. He could barely stand. But he was a legionary, and knew his duty. Vos sidled around, waiting for an opening. When Varka was knocked off her feet by a glancing blow, he lunged. The Stormcast interposed its axe at the last moment, catching his hammer. They reeled together, stumbling towards the edge of the causeway. Below, the river of molten rock curled red, and streamers of fire rose, as if in anticipation.

  Vos strained against his foe. He was strong, but it was stronger. And hurt, he realised. Not by them – the wound was old. He could smell the blood seeping through the joins of the golden armour. So Khoragh’s followers had hurt it, after all. The armour was damaged as well. This close, he could see the cracks and gaps, as well as places where it had been scorched by great heat. Months and weeks of hard fighting wore down the strongest metal – even magic metal. ‘You can be hurt,’ he growled. ‘You can be broken.’

  The Stormcast didn’t reply. It twisted, throwing Vos from his feet. He rolled aside as the axe came down, gouging the stones of the causeway. The Stormcast kicked him in the belly, as he sought to rise, and the blow sent him sprawling, breathless. His hammer clattered from his grip, and he saw Crola and Garn retreat as the Stormcast’s strange crossbow spat lightning at them. A golden boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him.

  ‘Surrender.’ The word crackled on the air.

  ‘What?’ Vos spat. He groped blindly for his hammer.

  The Stormcast held its axe to his throat and he froze. ‘Surrender. Get the duardin to open the gate. I will allow you to live.’

  Vos stared up at his opponent. Surrender was inconceivable. Especially to a foe such as this. He thrashed beneath his opponent’s weight, and hammered a fist against the armoured leg. The Stormcast gave no sign that it had noticed the blow. Vos realised that he might have been striking a statue, for all the good it did him. ‘No,’ Vos said, defiantly.

  The Stormcast straightened and raised its axe. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Dominar!’ Kolsk roared, as he drove the ferrule of his standard into the Stormcast’s back. The golden warrior staggered as the standard shivered apart in Kolsk’s grip. The signifier cast the shards aside and reached for his weapon as the Stormcast whirled on him. The instant the Stormcast’s foot left his chest, Vos rolled towards his hammer.

  As he snatched it up, he saw Kolsk fall, the Stormcast’s axe buried in his chest. The signifier caught at the weapon as he collapsed, dragging it from his killer’s grip. The Stormcast released the axe, and raised its crossbow. Vos rose and brought his hammer down, even as the Stormcast fired.

  Lightning erupted in all directions as the crossbow shattered. Vos and the others were driven back, their armour and flesh left smouldering. He saw the Stormcast reel, its armour scorched and warped. As it straightened, Varka brought her flail down against the side of its head. He heard a sharp crack, and the Stormcast sank to one knee. It backhanded the drillmaster, knocking her off balance. She flung herself aside as Crola and Garn bulled in, buffeting it with their shields.

  Vos straightened as it was forced back towards him. He swung his hammer with all the strength that remained to him. The blow caught the Stormcast on the back of the skull, and the metal of its helm warped at the point of impact. The Stormcast collapsed onto all fours. ‘Finish it,’ Vos said.

  The Iron Golems surround
ed their quarry and struck as one, hammering their fallen foe relentlessly. Even so, it took longer than Vos thought possible to end the creature’s struggles. By the end, his arms and shoulders ached, such as they had not since his youth in the deep forges.

  When it was done, the Stormcast came apart in shards of blue lightning that arrowed upwards with blinding speed. Vos was hurled back against a pillar by the explosion. He blinked, trying to clear his vision of stinging motes. His ears rang with the drawn-out rumble of thunder, shuddering down from impossible heights. The sound cut through him like a blade, and he thought again of the box at the bottom of the tunnel, and its strange song. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

  Panting, he turned. Every limb hurt, and it was agony to draw breath. But at least he lived to do so. ‘Kolsk,’ he said. Varka shook her head.

  ‘Harsk as well.’

  Vos nodded. He felt no sorrow for their deaths – to die in battle was all that a warrior could ask. He studied the others. All of them were injured – Garn cradled one of his arms to his chest, and Crola had burns on her chest and legs. Varka limped towards him, clutching her side. From her strained panting, he could tell something was broken inside her. ‘A good fight,’ she said. ‘Why did it come here, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows why they do anything. Can you still fight?’ he asked.

  She nodded and looked at the portcullis. ‘You think he knows we won?’

  The portcullis started to rise with a groan. ‘He knows,’ Vos said.

  Khoragh was waiting for them on the other side, his thumbs hooked into his belt. His two ogor slaves stood behind him, ready to leap to the defence of their master. Vos eyed them warily and kept his hammer close.

  ‘You survived,’ the duardin said. ‘I am pleased.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ Vos said.

  Khoragh shrugged. ‘They can be replaced.’

  Varka took a step towards him. Vos flung out his arm, bringing her up short. ‘Not easily,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the duardin. ‘They were warriors without equal.’

  Khoragh chuckled. ‘Debatable, given that they died.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Still, it is of no concern to me.’ He looked at Vos. ‘You beat it, then?’

  ‘Not it. Stormcast.’

  Khoragh snorted. ‘Ah.’

  ‘You played us false,’ Vos growled. ‘You lied.’

  ‘I did not lie. Duardin do not lie. Especially to umgash.’ Khoragh laughed. ‘A waste of words. Might as well lie to a sheep.’

  ‘It came here for the thing you found.’

  Khoragh smirked. ‘So? It is dead. Isn’t it?’ He peered at them, his smile wide and black. ‘Well… where is my trophy, boy? Where is the proof of your valour? Proof that you have done as you promised, eh?’

  ‘You know it is gone.’

  Khoragh sighed in mock sadness. ‘Aye, that it is. And so, you have broken your oath. How shameful. How… disappointing.’ He leaned forward. ‘Yes. I am well within my rights to kill you now. But I am inclined to mercy. I shall content myself with my prize.’ He stepped back and turned away. ‘Go. Take your lives and return to my false brother, Mithraxes. Tell him the iron promise is broken, and that my debt to him is paid in full.’

  ‘No,’ Vos said.

  Khoragh paused. He glanced back. ‘No?’

  Vos lifted his hammer. ‘Your debt is paid when Mithraxes says it is, duardin. You are not the arbiter of your obligation, and the Iron Legion will have its due.’

  Khoragh laughed – an ugly, harsh sound. Like two blades scraping together. He turned, his black smile stretched to the width of his seamed face. He tugged on his beard thoughtfully. ‘You have courage, boy. There is iron in you, in truth. But iron is worthless, save that it can be forged into a useful shape. And before that can be done, it must be broken, again and again. Shall I break you, boy? Shall I ­hammer you into something useful?’

  Vos, already in motion, did not reply. He ran as fast as his aching limbs could carry him. There was no time to warn the others – not without warning Khoragh as well. He would have to trust in their discipline. The ogors lumbered forward to intercept him, raising their mutilated weapon-hands. He ducked beneath a sweeping blow and drove his hammer into the first ogor’s unprotected knee, shattering it. The brute lurched off balance with a wail. Vos left it to Varka and the others, and concentrated on the second ogor.

  It barrelled towards him, lifting arms tipped by heavy, spiked maces. The brass bull-mask gleamed in the firelight. Vos avoided the first blow, but not the second. He felt a crunching sensation, and was lifted from his feet. It was stronger even than the Stormcast had been. He slammed down and rolled aside as the ogor tried to stomp on him. Wheezing slightly, tasting blood, he lurched upright and caught the ogor across the head with a desperate blow. The bull-mask was ripped from its head and sent flying.

  It had no face, only a raw mass of flensed meat. Exposed veins twitched as a hole of a mouth flexed and twisted. Its eyes were held open by an arrangement of copper hooks, and its nose was a cavernous divot. It gargled in fury – or perhaps pain – and raised its bludgeoning fists over him. He drove his hammer forward as if it were a spear, slamming it into the pulsing meat of the ogor’s exposed face. Bone crunched and veins burst, filling the air with blood. The ogor staggered, whining like an injured cur.

  Vos did not give it time to recover. He struck again and again, hammering at its joints – elbows, knees, ankles. It took him longer than he’d thought to cripple it. Ogors were tough, and even with broken bones, it still tried to grapple with him. It only ceased when he thrust the sharpened ferrule of his hammer through one of its eyes and into its brain.

  Panting heavily, he looked for Khoragh. The duardin was fleeing across the causeway, as fast as his stumpy limbs could carry him. Vos realised he was making for the landing, and the mechanisms there. He thought of burned masses of bone and brass nozzles and knew that he couldn’t allow the duardin to reach his goal. ‘Crola!’ he roared.

  Crola looked up and immediately reached for her bolas. A moment later, they were whirling towards the duardin with lethal precision. The chains wrapped about Khoragh’s lower half with bone-cracking force, knocking him from his feet. He howled curses and struggled to free himself as Vos strode towards him.

  ‘Cheat,’ Khoragh shrieked. ‘Coward!’ He flailed at Vos with his ­hammer, and Vos caught the blow on his palm and yanked the weapon from Khoragh’s grip.

  ‘No,’ he said, looking down at the duardin. ‘Unlike you, I am neither of those things.’

  Khoragh snarled and tore at the bolas. ‘Idiot – fool. Can’t you see I was doing you a favour?’ He flopped over and tried to crawl away. ‘More of them will come – that box stinks of Azyr, and they will come looking for it. Help me open it – Mithraxes will reward us both for its secrets…’

  ‘Too late,’ Vos said. He dropped both hammers and reached down. With a grunt of effort, he dragged Khoragh up and lifted the duardin over his head, as if he were a sack of salt. Khoragh thrashed in his grip. ‘Wait – wait! You can’t kill me, boy – you need me! Mithraxes needs me. Who will scrape ore from the mountains for you, if not me?’

  ‘You can be replaced,’ Vos said, spitting Khoragh’s earlier words back at him. The duardin stiffened in his grip.

  ‘No, no – no!’

  ‘One way or another, all debts will be paid,’ Vos said, through gritted teeth. He carried Khoragh to the edge of the causeway. ‘One way or another, all oaths are fulfilled. Even yours.’ With that, he threw the struggling duardin off the causeway and into the roiling river of lava below.

  Khoragh fell like a stone, cursing the entire way. Vos almost admired him, in those final moments. The duardin struck the surface of the lava and sank without a trace, swallowed up by fire, his final moments hidden by a pall of smoke. Vos stared down for a few moments, just to be sure. Then he turned.
<
br />   ‘It is done. The debt is paid.’

  ‘What now?’ Varka asked. Her flail was clotted with ogor blood, and she still clutched her side, but she seemed otherwise uninjured. He quashed a flicker of relief. Crola and Garn were still standing as well.

  ‘We claim this place in the name of Mithraxes,’ he said.

  ‘What about… that thing? Khoragh said others would come for it.’

  Vos retrieved his hammer and set it across his shoulder. He fancied, for a moment, that he heard the sound of distant thunder. He thought of the box, singing down in the dark, and a shiver ran through him. Khoragh was right. More of them would come. But this place belonged to the Iron Golems – this place, and all it contained. ‘The iron promise holds,’ he said, finally. ‘And we will take what we are owed.’

  They were as iron, and they would endure, whatever came.

  About the Authors

  David Annandale is the author of the novella The Faith and the Flesh, which features in the Warhammer Horror portmanteau The Wicked and the Damned. His work for the Horus Heresy range includes the novels Ruinstorm and The Damnation of Pythos, and the Primarchs novels Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar and Vulkan: Lord of Drakes. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine, the Yarrick series, several stories involving the Grey Knights, including Warden of the Blade and Castellan, as well as titles for The Beast Arises and the Space Marine Battles series. For Warhammer Age of Sigmar he has written Neferata: Mortarch of Blood. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

  Peter McLean has written several short stories for Black Library, including ‘Baphomet by Night’, ‘No Hero’, ‘Sand Lords’ and ‘Lightning Run’ for Warhammer 40,000, and the Warhammer Horror tale ‘Predations of the Eagle’. He grew up in Norwich, where he began story-writing, practising martial arts and practical magic, and lives there still with his wife.

  Sarah Cawkwell is a freelance writer based in north-east England. Her work for Black Library includes the Silver Skulls novels The Gildar Rift and Portents, and the Architect of Fate novella, Accursed Eternity. For Warhammer, she is best known for her stories featuring the daemon princess of Khorne, Valkia the Bloody.