Bladestorm

by Matt Westbrook

  ‘Form ranks!’ yelled Thostos. These were no simple, mortal warriors. They had to hold them here, for if the bloodletters overran the defenders all would be lost.

  The Liberators began to lock shields, responding with admirable speed to the shocking emergence of the daemon warriors. They formed a wall of gleaming sigmarite upon the platform before the portal, using the rock cluster that wound behind the realmgate to hem the attackers in and prevent them from breaking out into the fortress proper. Against a mortal enemy the Stormcasts’ defence would have been almost impregnable.

  With howls of atavistic rage the daemons leapt at the Stormcasts, hell-forged blades digging deep into sigmarite and reaching over the defenders’ shields to pierce chests and helms. The bloodletters gave no thought to their own safety. All they knew was aggression, and this single-minded rage forced breaches in even the disciplined shield wall of the Celestial Vindicators. A dread note reverberated from the bronze, spiral warhorn of one of the daemons, and its fellows hacked and slashed with ever-greater fervour.

  Yet the Celestial Vindicators did not fall back a single step.

  Heaven-wrought warhammers sought daemonic flesh, pounding and blasting the hated foe back into the nightmare realm they called home. As fallen Stormcasts disappeared in flares of light, new warriors stepped in to take their place so quickly and efficiently that it almost seemed as if the movement was mechanical, that of a magically-charged automaton. There was no fear or uncertainty in the Stormcasts’ mind, simply a surety of purpose and a fierce joy at the destruction of their most hated enemy.

  ‘Vengeance for the lost!’ they shouted as they fought. ‘Glory to Sigmar’s chosen!’

  Thostos entered the fray, crossing his warhammer and runeblade to intercept a falling sword that screamed in some unknowable tongue as it fell, wrenching the leering daemon’s blade down low, and reversing the momentum to send the creature stumbling to the side. It hissed and cut across with a backhand slice, but Thostos span inside the cut and sank his blade into the monster’s chest. It gurgled and choked, and as he let it fall to the ground its body burst into flame. He blocked another strike, left a bloodletter reeling with a returning blow from his warhammer.

  Something heavy struck him a mighty blow on the side. He felt the air rush by as he somersaulted through the air, rolling twice in the dirt before coming to rest on his side. He was up in a moment, weapons raised and ready.

  A colossal metal abomination paced towards him, a bloodletter perched screeching on its back. It was the rough shape of a horse, but squatter and far more heavily muscled, encased entirely in dull red metal and bronze. Steam hissed from its nostrils, and its smouldering hooves left brimstone prints in their wake.

  The beast’s dread rider cursed at him in a tongue of molten hatred.

  Thostos charged. The creature came right at him, scattering Stormcasts before it, kicking itself forwards on powerful hind legs, the daemonic rider lowering his heavy blade like a tourney lance. It ate up the ground towards him at a terrifying pace, bellowing with mindless rage.

  A few yards from the creature, close enough to smell its brimstone stench, Thostos hurled himself forwards and to the right. As he passed, he heard the crunch of the beast’s hooves narrowly missing his skull, felt a blade rush past his head so close he could feel its foul heat.

  He swept his sword across, allowing the beast’s momentum to add to his own. It sliced deep into the thing’s flank, and hot black liquid spurted out. The creature bucked, swaying to one side, and the rider came free, clattering to the ground with a metal thud. Dragging himself to his feet, Thostos ran the ten paces to the downed daemon, and swung his hammer at its head. The bloodletter screeched in rage as the weapon fell, a scream that was cut off abruptly as its skull shattered into fragments.

  Ahead, the beast was struggling upright. It kicked out savagely with its rear hooves, and an unfortunate Stormcast was sent sailing backwards into his fellows, chestplate battered and deformed. Outraged, the warriors fell on the daemonic steed, hacking and blasting it apart with furious blows.

  ‘Lord Thostos!’ came Eldroc’s voice, and Thostos turned to see the Lord-Castellant barrelling towards him, clearing a path with his halberd and gesturing wildly towards the gate itself. ‘The Lord-Relictor is overwhelmed!’

  Tharros was kneeling, hands clasped together around the haft of his stave, which was pointed at the enemy like a spear. Coruscating energy surged and crackled around the artefact, spools of lightning sparking out at the bloodletters desperately trying to reach him. They could not get close without Sigmar’s storm searing the flesh from their bones, but Thostos could see that Tharros would not be able to maintain his heroic defence for long.

  ‘With me, brother,’ he shouted to Eldroc, and together they surged into the fray, clearing a path towards their fellow warrior.

  Rusik screamed. In all his life he had never felt such a pure and constant agony. Yet there were no knives digging into his flesh, no flaming brands or bone-crushing mallets mutilating his body. Instead it was as if he was being devoured from within, great strips of his flesh being torn away, fingers running across his brain.

  ‘By the Great Changer, silence his whining,’ came a voice from his side.

  Strong, cold hands forced a filthy wrap into his mouth. He choked and felt his gorge rise as he tasted dried blood, but his hands were bound and the gag was tight. His back ached with the chill of cold stone.

  His eyes flicked about, taking in a low, roughly-hewn stone chamber, walls lined with bookcases and display cases filled with all manner of sorcerous ephemera. Shrunken heads screamed silently at him from jars filled with pulsing green fluid. Bones, hides and other fragments of almost-human things lined the walls, and around each specimen were notes scrawled in luminous blue, in a language Rusik could not read. There were other slabs like his, and other figures were draped across them. They were all long dead. He could smell the sweet stench of putrefaction, mixing with the spicy, metal tang of fresh blood.

  A face leaned over him. A thin, sallow face that shimmered oddly in the flickering blue light that filled the chamber.

  The cruel face spoke. ‘You may not recognise me, my friend, but I know you so very well. Oh yes. Rusik the betrayer.’

  A cackle turned into a hacking cough.

  ‘I walked amongst your filthy tribesmen many times,’ the voice continued. ‘It was something of a hobby of mine. A word in the ear here and there, and the next time you sent out a hunting party, it would go exactly where I wanted it to. Well, those savages at the Dreadhold needed to eat, after all.’

  More pain. Rusik screamed again, louder and longer than before.

  ‘To gather the quantity of sacrifices needed for the ritual, though, that required a defter touch,’ the figure continued to talk. ‘And that was where you came in. So angry. So guilty. So mortal.’

  No. Rusik knew what the man was going to say, but he tried to turn his face away. He did not want to hear the words.

  ‘Oh so very easy,’ came the voice again. ‘I barely needed to tax myself. You saw what you wanted to see, heard what I let you hear.’

  He strained against the bonds that held him fast, spat and cursed and raged. Try as he might, he could not break free. Something struck him in the face, and his vision swam.

  ‘You made it so simple. I did not even know what your dead woman looked like, but that hardly mattered to you. You chose to see her. You tried to salve your conscience by pretending it was she. But it was you, Rusik. This is what you wanted.’

  A blade sank into his chest, and began a long, circular cut. He screamed and choked on the foul gag in his mouth. Deeper and deeper went the knife.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ said the voice. ‘Your moaning is really quite irritating, and most unnecessary. Think of this as a gift. When I am finished with you, you’ll be much improved. More powerful than even those toy soldiers who dared destroy
my work at the Dreadhold. And no more guilt, Rusik. No more regrets, no more shame.’

  The knife made a complete circuit, and Rusik felt something pull the torn flesh of his chest apart. He dared to look down. In one pale hand the sorcerer grasped a fleshy, pulsing organ.

  ‘Only pain,’ the man said with a broad smile.

  Judicator Atrin held his boltstorm crossbow high, jammed tight to his shoulder and ready to fire the moment that the shadows shifted. It had not happened yet, but he was sure it would. This place had an ill feel to it.

  Atrin had a second sense for trouble. It took a good eye to join the ranks of the Vindicators’ archers, but even amongst that hallowed number, Atrin was known to have the sharpest vision. The rest of the warriors called him Eagle-Eyes, much to his embarrassment. Titles and glory had never meant much to Atrin, and he always felt slightly awkward and uncomfortable when others lavished praise upon him.

  This was what he lived for. The hunt. The chase. In another life he had been a forest ranger, and the skill of navigating a landscape without disturbing it had not been lost in the forges of Azyrheim.

  ‘Yet no sign of the enemy,’ came the deep bass of Retributor Callan. ‘How long shall we traipse through these wretched caves before we accept that this is a waste of our time?’

  ‘With due respect, Paladin,’ said Judicator Oreus. ‘The Lord-Celestant gave the order, and we obey.’

  His brother’s tone was even, but Atrin knew Oreus well enough to recognise that the warrior was no happier than Callan about being sent off with the mortals while the rest of the Chamber prepared for war. He was simply far too reserved and professional to complain.

  Callan, however, was not.

  ‘Who knows how long it will take for Tharros to unseal the realmgate,’ he muttered, loudly enough so that the rest of the mortals, and indeed anyone in the surrounding few miles, could hear his every word. ‘Imagine it. We return to find our brothers gone on to glory without us, while we wasted our time wandering around in the dark.’

  Atrin could hear the irritated murmurs of the mortals who had accompanied the priestess Alzheer on this expedition. They might see the sky warriors as heralds of their sky god, but they had formed a distinctly negative impression of the belligerent Callan.

  ‘The Lord-Relictor believes it will take many hours to finish his work,’ said Oreus. ‘We were given strict instruction by the Lord-Celestant as to how long we continue this search. They will not leave us behind.’

  ‘So you hope,’ said Callan, and lapsed into sullen silence.

  The Retributor barely even raised his head as they passed into a cavernous chamber so vast it could have housed the entirety of Sigmar’s grand throne room. They trod a path that wound around the right side of the cavern, and on their left was a sheer drop coloured an azure blue by phosphorescent light. Above, a forest of stalactites as large as dracoliths hung, so thick and jagged it seemed to the party like they stared up at the teeth of a shark.

  ‘Throne of Sigmar,’ muttered Atrin.

  ‘Look,’ said Alzheer, ignoring the sight before them and kneeling down to study the rough-hewn path of stone. ‘Fresh kills.’

  Several yards down the path lay two corpses, both mutilated by deep wounds. There was a spatter of gore on the ground, as well as an arc splashed across the cavern wall. The priestess turned one of the bodies over, examining it. She traced the edge of the wounds, and winced slightly as the stench of the dead things hit her. They looked humanoid, but their too-thin figures were hidden under leather smocks and bloody, rotting bandages. The eyes and mouths of both bodies were stitched closed. They reeked like month-old corpses.

  ‘This may not be the work of your man,’ Callan said. ‘More than a few Chaos scum fled into these mountains after we broke their back. This could be down to any number of them.’

  Alzheer shook her head.

  ‘These wounds,’ she said, indicating the long, wide slashes in the creatures’ flesh. ‘These are from an eskar, a curved blade. See the wide, deep cuts? Cleaner work than the jagged axes and cleavers of the fortress men. No, this is Rusik.’

  ‘And what in Azyr are these things?’ said Callan, indicating the corpses.

  She frowned. ‘The sorcerer in the tower used them as… servants. Butchers. They answered only to his command. I thought that we slew them all.’

  ‘Evidently not,’ said Callan. ‘Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a fight down here after all.’

  ‘We should move,’ said Alzheer. ‘The blood is still flowing. These kills are fresh. He is close.’

  The daemon was only an inch from Tharros’ face, but he could not release his magic, for that would not only spell the end of the Celestial Vindicators’ hopes of carrying out Sigmar’s word, but would in all likelihood force open the already-substantial breach and allow yet more of these filthy creatures through. He managed to raise his relic staff to block the swing of the creature’s blade, but its strength was hideous. Its leering, coal-black eyes stared deep into the apertures of his skull helm, and he felt its sulphurous breath sear and scorch his armour.

  There was a sharp rush of air, and suddenly the beast had no head at all. A gaping neck wound pumped boiling black ichor across his face, until a gauntleted hand grasped the dead thing and flung it away to crash in the dirt.

  ‘Are you injured, Lord-Relictor?’ came the soft, alarmed voice of Mykos Argellon.

  Tharros did not risk speaking, but managed to shake his head as he continued to chant the ritual of cleansing.

  Around him, he saw, the battle continued to rage. The Celestial Vindicators had recovered from the shock of the initial incursion, but these were no blood-mad savages that they faced. These were the shock troops of the Blood God himself, creatures forged and hardened by countless millennia of warfare.

  Throne of Azyrheim, he was tired. His old bones rattled like dice in a cup as he staggered to his feet.

  Another red-skinned nightmare capered forwards, and Lord-Celestant Bladestorm met it with a flurry of strikes from warhammer and blade. The thing toppled to the floor, bursting into flames as it was banished to the hellish realm that it called home.

  ‘Close this breach, Lord-Relictor,’ shouted Thostos, who was already assigning a formation of shield-bearing Liberators to surround Tharros. ‘And do it now.’

  Tharros declined to launch into a lengthy explanation of exactly how complex the magic at play was, and how one did not simply decide when it was done. Thostos Bladestorm was a warrior, a being of action. Let him be about his work. The Lord-Relictor felt the song of the storm surround him, let its power course through every fibre of his being. He heard the rabid howls of delight that echoed from the mouth of the Manticore Realmgate, and beneath that frenzied madness he heard a softer whisper, that same cold and ancient promise that haunted his dreams and his nightmares. The promise that one day, the scales would be balanced, and his eternal soul would be reclaimed. Perhaps that would be this day.

  So be it.

  ‘Something nears,’ said Alzheer. She was sharp, that one, thought Atrin. She did not let much show, but she took things in. You didn’t live as close to the earth as her people without being able to tell when danger drew close.

  ‘Let us take the lead,’ he told her. They had left the grand cavern and passed through a seemingly endless coil of tunnels and hollows, eventually entering a far smaller chamber packed with glistening stalactites, each of which shone with a faint, flickering luminescence. Ahead, a vague path led through a field of mushrooms, before spiralling up around a colossal column of black rock to a shelf of stone some dozen yards above them. The roof of the cavern was far overhead, and in the soft light Atrin could see movement up there – a flock of small, dark creatures that twitched and jostled nervously as the warriors passed.

  ‘Cave hawks,’ said Alzheer, gesturing at the movement. ‘Their presence is a good thing. They would not nest
here if other predators were close.’

  As one, the entire flock of dark, black birds took flight.

  They whipped around the heads of the hunting party in a mass of whirling feathers and jabbing beaks. They moved too fast and the light was too poor for Atrin to get a good look at them, but he caught a glimpse of pale, milk-white eyes and sharp, toothed beaks.

  ‘And what does this mean?’ shouted Callan, buffeting the small birds away irritably with the haft of his great hammer.

  ‘Either we made too much noise,’ said Alzheer, drawing her shortbow and peering into the darkness, ‘or something worse…’

  A terrible, hollow shriek echoed around the cavern, and they heard the sound of running boots. The sound reverberated around the cavern, making it almost impossible to pick out which direction it originated from.

  ‘Something worse then,’ said Retributor Callan, hefting his weapon and not even attempting to hide his delight. ‘Finally.’

  No sooner had he spoken than the shadows before them shifted. A figure stood on the ledge before them at the top of the stone stair, curved blade in hand. Its eyes shone with a cold, white malice, and it bellowed in a voice that could not possibly come from a mortal throat.

  It was him, Alzheer was sure. Rusik the betrayer, the man who had abandoned her people to the depredations of the men of the fortress.

  She stood, raised her bow and felt the tickle of the crow-feather arrow at her cheek. She loosed, and it zipped away into the darkness and struck the thing that looked like Rusik in the chest. He did not even stagger. The arrow whipped away as it struck something hard as stone, and he looked straight at her.

  His pale eyes glittered, and he raised his blade towards her silently.