Sacrosanct & Other Stories

by Various Authors

  Nerio wondered about the point Arnhault had chosen as their objective. He was no aether-mage, but even he could sense the strangeness of the spot. A lone patch of life amidst the Shrouded King’s stronghold. Whatever secret was bound into the plot’s defiance of the wraith’s death magic, it was clear Arnhault thought the Stormcasts could make use of it against the nighthaunts.

  ‘Steady,’ Nerio cautioned his Castigators as they moved across the desolate plain. Each step they took brought a magnification of the sense of menace he felt pressing down on him. He could feel a thousand baleful eyes watching him, despising every breath he drew into his body, envious of each pulse that sent blood coursing through his veins. It was something he had felt before when the Hammers of Sigmar were called upon to oppose the undying legions of Nagash. That strange and hideous hate of the dead towards the living, a remorseless need to destroy what they could no longer possess.

  Nerio and the Castigators gradually moved further onto the ancient battlefield. All around them, in a loose posture that was deceptively relaxed, Penthius and his Sequitors marched with shields on their backs and mauls at their sides. Arnhault kept pace with the Sequitors, his robes fluttering about him in the clammy breeze.

  The change came with such abruptness that Nerio had to blink to be certain that what he saw was not merely a trick of the light. A dark smudge upon the ground, a stain that gradually elongated, slowly expanding before them. From a mere mark on the barren earth, it grew into a wispy shape, definite in form but as intangible as a shadow. What it resembled was a jumble of bones and bits of rusted armour, a decayed sword and a grinning skull. From the skeletal heap, a sense of misery and loss struck Nerio, such that he was forced to stop to shake the impression from his mind.

  As he cleared the cobwebs inside his skull, Nerio saw that the phantom remains that had captured his attention were not the only ones upon the plain. Everywhere there were other shadows seeping up from the earth and taking shape. The ground was becoming black with the skeletal images. The carrion of a great battle boiling up from their forgotten graves.

  ‘Sacrosancts!’ Penthius called out. ‘Close ranks!’ At the Sequitor-Prime’s command his warriors pulled the shields from their backs and unlimbered the mauls hanging from their belts. Nerio’s Castigators formed a compact square while the Sequitors converged on their position, ringing them with a wall of soulshields. Orthan prowled the inner edges of the square with his greatmace, smashing the phantom corpses before they could get underfoot.

  ‘They will attack soon,’ Nerio advised his archers. ‘Be ready to loose the instant I give the order.’ Around him, the Castigators raised their thunderhead greatbows and fitted the crystal-headed maces into their carriages.

  What had been simply jumbles of bone a moment before now began to stir. Like fungi, each shadow rapidly shot upwards, taking on the grisly vestige of a fleshless skeleton wrapped in its own shroud. Great lengths of chain bound some of the apparitions while the bony talons of others clenched phantasmal scythes and mouldy swords. From every eye socket, a green glow shone, a spectral malevolence that glared hungrily at the Stormcasts.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ one of the Castigators cried out as their formation marched past the unmoving masses of nighthaunts.

  It was a question for which Nerio had no answer. Each step, each yard, brought more of the spectres boiling up from the ground. Now he could see the malformed muzzles of gors and skaven protruding from some of the shadowy figures. The Shrouded King was calling up not only the vanquished of Kharza but also the restless spirits of the Chaos horde that had conquered their land.

  ‘Sabrodt is here.’ Arnhault did not say the words in a loud voice, but they cracked across the tense silence like a peal of thunder just the same. Ahead of Nerio, the Knight-Incantor stared at the great cairn that dominated the macabre site.

  There was a patch of darkness between the Stormcasts and the tomb, a darkness that became steadily more substantial until it had assumed the same grisly likeness they had observed in Wyrmditt. A skeletal rider wearing a crown and bearing a sword, his steed draped in black.

  The Shrouded King raised his sword overhead. He swung it through the air three times then from his fleshless jaws a single word issued. ‘Arise!’ And at the wraith’s command, the jumbled bones swelled into spectral warriors with even greater rapidity while more dark stains seeped up from the ground. ‘Arise!’ the monster repeated, and again the ranks of its army grew.

  ‘The judgement of Sigmar be upon you!’ Arnhault shouted. He raised his staff aloft, its tip far above the heads of the other Sacrosancts. From above, a crackle of lightning swept down from the sky. The bolt flashed into the aether-mage’s staff and then burst forth in a rolling wave of sparks and flashes. The arcane energy flew towards Sabrodt, immolating those spectres caught in its path, reducing them to puffs of ash and cinder. The Shrouded King himself was caught in the blast, the magic crackling through his essence. The wraith sank to the ground as the steed beneath him evaporated.

  Protected from Arnhault’s spell by his own black magic, Sabrodt pointed his sword at the Knight-Incantor. ‘There!’ he snarled. ‘There stands Volkhard, the faithless king who led you to defeat! There stands Volkhard, the foolish king who thought to defy your conquest!’

  At the Shrouded King’s shriek, the gathering spectres raised their own howls of rage and despair. A black wave of hate, the nighthaunts came sweeping towards the Stormcasts from every side.

  ‘Stand fast!’ Penthius shouted as he locked shields with his troops. The Sequitors’ soulshields formed a wall against which the oncoming wraiths crashed. The undead were stunned by the divine energy that emanated from the shields, fed into them by the esoteric discipline of Penthius and his warriors. Scorched and singed, the creatures drew back. As they did, the glow from the shields passed over into the spiked mauls the Stormcasts bore. Before the wraiths could recover, the Sequitors lashed out, striking them with their enchanted weapons. Dozens of the spectres burst apart under the assault, their essence unable to endure the holy aura that infused the mauls.

  ‘Falcon!’ Nerio shouted, and at his call the Castigators swung around to the right and raised their greatbows. At the same instant, the Sequitors there dropped to one knee, leaving a gap through which the archers could shoot. Loosing the crystal-headed maces, the Castigators sent an explosive barrage into the horde of wraiths. As each mace struck, whether connecting with the phantasmal essence of a nighthaunt or smacking against the unclean ground, it exploded in a blast of draconic flame. The unleashed breath of Stardrakes consumed the wraiths, extinguishing their deathly energies in an instant, leaving behind only splotches of rancid ectoplasm.

  ‘Eagle!’ Nerio cried out, and this time it was the Sequitors at the head of the formation who dropped down and made way for the missiles the Castigators sent into the undead horde. Again the wraiths were consumed by the exploding maces, scores felled in the blink of an eye. Yet still more of them came, surging upwards from the barren earth, determined to claim the lives of the warriors who dared trespass in their domain.

  ‘Our advance is too slow!’ Penthius cried out. ‘They are too many to keep back!’ A second wave of wraiths came sweeping in, crashing against the soulshields. This time, mixed amongst the chainrasps were some of the skaven-skulled apparitions. Baring their chisel-like fangs in grotesque snarls, they brought long glaives to bear, stabbing past the guarding shields to pierce the warriors behind them. Three Sequitors collapsed, spilling into the mass of Castigators behind them. Orthan lunged to plug one of the gaps, his greatmace obliterating the scythe-wielding ghost that came sweeping through the breached shield wall. Arnhault rushed to another gap, his staff crackling with arcane power as he drove it through the ghostly head of another wraith that tried to exploit the lapsed defence.

  Nerio ran to plug the final hole. ‘Hawk!’ he shouted to his men as he hurried to confront the beast-headed phantom that fl
ew into the middle of their formation. While the Castigators turned to loose their maces into the mass of wraiths converging on the left flank, Nerio moved against the glaive-wielding ghost. The thing slashed at him with its weapon, missing him by such slight measure that he could feel the chill of its necrotic blade rush through him. In response he brought his greatbow up and shot a mace through its chest and up into its skull. The bestial ghost disintegrated in a flash of crackling energy and burning shadows.

  ‘Sigmar protect and defend!’ Arnhault’s voice sang out. ‘Sigmar smite and avenge!’ The Knight-Incantor’s body briefly glowed with aetheric energies as he tapped into the arcane storm and focused his will upon it. An instant later, a tremendous gale descended upon the plateau, lashing across the plain with tempestuous force. Entire clutches of wraiths were buffeted by the punishing winds, shredded by the elemental force unleashed upon them. Phantasmal tatters writhed through the dark sky as the wraiths lost cohesion.

  ‘Quickly!’ Arnhault shouted to the Sacrosancts. He gestured with his staff towards the patch of greenery.

  ‘Forwards!’ Nerio ordered his troops, urging them to haste. Penthius, too, spurred his Sequitors onwards, seizing the advantage that had been gained.

  A momentary advantage. Nerio could see a grey phantom flitting about the plain, a ghoulish lantern clenched in its hands. Wherever its cadaverous light shone, the tattered wraiths began to coalesce while more of their number came bubbling up from the cursed earth. It would not be long before a revivified undead legion came sweeping down upon them once more.

  Nerio had served with Arnhault before and knew something of the toll the Knight-Incantor’s spells took on him. He would not easily be able to conjure another gale to batter the nighthaunts a second time. Moreover, as he looked ahead, he could see the Shrouded King moving his own forces to intercept them.

  The wraith had conjured another steed for himself, this time an assemblage of equine bones that exuded a gibbous glow. Around him, a cadre of spectres wielding long scythes and with blindfolds lashed about their faces came shrieking and howling towards the Stormcasts.

  ‘Eagle!’ Nerio shouted, but this time when the Castigators loosed their missiles the wraiths were hardly disturbed by the explosive detonations. Instead an eerie green light enveloped them and absorbed the very worst of the blast. Sabrodt laughed as his undead soldiers came surging onwards.

  ‘Return to the graves which are your rest!’ Arnhault shouted. Standing behind the Sequitors, he aimed his staff at the charging mass of nighthaunts. A deafening thunderclap boomed across the plateau, its force hurling the wraiths back with hurricane force. Sabrodt alone defied the power of Arnhault’s spell, his steed digging in its hooves and sliding back across the lifeless earth for several feet before the intensity of the storm was expended.

  By then it was too late. Only a few yards separated the Hammers of Sigmar from the patch of greenery they had been striving to reach. ‘For the Heldenhammer!’ Arnhault cried as he dashed through the ranks of the Sequitors and made for the one spot on all the plateau that had resisted the malignity of the necroquake and the spells of Sabrodt.

  Nerio was not sure what he had expected to happen when they actually reached that spot. Some infusion of divine energies perhaps, some aura of holy protection that would render them immune to the ravages of the undead.

  None of that happened. Instead, Arnhault just stood there for a moment. There was a strange look in his eyes, an expression Nerio had never seen there before. But whatever strange spell held him, it quickly abated. When it was gone, Arnhault did not rejoin the Stormcasts. Instead, he turned towards the Shrouded King.

  ‘I know who you are,’ Arnhault hissed, and in his voice there was a measure of hate and rage that chilled even Nerio’s heart.

  The Shrouded King whipped his steed around and galloped into the huge cairn. Arnhault howled in fury and charged after the wraith, pursuing him towards the tomb.

  ‘Arnhault! My lord! Come back!’ Nerio shouted after the Knight-Incantor.

  ‘Castigator-Prime Nerio!’ Penthius snapped. He swung around to see the other Stormcast glowering at him. ‘The undead are regathering their strength. They will attack soon. I task you with holding them back.’

  Nerio shook his head. ‘Me? But you are senior in rank! You should be in command.’

  Penthius had already broken ranks and was hurrying after Arnhault. ‘You are in command,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I have to help Arnhault!’

  Nerio watched him go, then glanced at the patch of greenery. What was that place? And what had it done to the Knight-Incantor?

  He set aside those questions as the spectral horde came sweeping towards them once more. ‘Close ranks!’ he commanded. ‘Sequitors, hold the line! Castigators be ready to loose on my mark!’

  Chapter five

  A fury such as Arnhault had never known roared through his heart. Standing upon the small plot of grassy earth had opened him to something. He could not say if the images that seared through his mind were drawn into him from outside or borne to his awareness by some deep, forgotten fragment of his psyche. Whatever their source the effect was like being struck by a thunderbolt. He no longer merely felt the name Volkhard belonged to him; he knew he was Volkhard.

  Arnhault could see the barren plain around him as it had been long ago, on that day when he’d led his army at the head of his household guard against the hordes of Chaos. He saw again the horde of marauders and monsters as they came charging up onto the plateau. He braced his forces. It was here and here alone they had any chance of stopping the invaders and protecting the heartland of Kharza. Here the awesome numbers of the Chaos horde could not be brought to bear. Here it would be the quality of the warriors and the righteousness of their cause that would prevail.

  So it might have been. But Arnhault knew the strategy was doomed from the first, doomed by treachery. Before battle was joined, a dark shadow appeared atop the stony rise and cast his foul spells upon the field. Magics steeped in the deathly energies of Shyish. A moment of terror and pain, the strangled cries of thousands of warriors… And then nothing. The battle lost, for none were left to fight it.

  The dark shadow had a name, one that spurred the fire in Arnhault’s soul. Sabrodt the Usurper. The undead filth that dared now proclaim itself the Shrouded King.

  Arnhault pursued as Sabrodt retreated into his mouldering tomb. Before it had been duty and necessity that drove him to confront the wraith, his obligations to the people of Wyrmditt and his devotion to Sigmar. Now he pursued Sabrodt for far different reasons. He knew what this creature had done and what his fell deed had cost the people of Kharza. These were crimes that Arnhault would see avenged!

  The scythe-wielding spectres came flying towards Arnhault, seeking to intercept him before he could overtake Sabrodt. The Knight-Incantor pointed his staff at the one of the skull-faced haunts, a pulse of lightning snaking away from its glowing head to rip through the shadowy creature and reduce it to a foul-smelling smoke. Another of the fiends rushed for him, slashing its scythe for his helm. Arnhault whispered one of the arcane songs he had been taught and sent a punishing gale of wind tearing across the ghost, scattering its essence across the battlefield.

  The Knight-Incantor dealt with the other ghostly reapers in similar fashion, destroying or rebuffing them with his magic. Such was the anger driving him onwards that he gave no thought to conserving his energies, or what the toll taken by so hurried and rapid a string of conjurations might be. Once, he thought he heard Penthius calling after him, warning him against so reckless a course, but Arnhault ignored the cries. None of that mattered now. All that mattered was Sabrodt and meting out upon the wraith the justice he had escaped for so many centuries.

  Baleful wards guarded the Shrouded King’s tomb. Arnhault could see a red haze flickering before the entrance. He paused for only an instant, then he clenched his staff and pointed it at the virul
ent light. His head reeled at the terrible strain as he willed his arcane powers to pierce the eldritch barrier. The prudent action would be to slowly unwind the enchantments that shaped the ward, unravelling them gradually until they were harmless. Such caution would mean time, however, and Arnhault would spare none for Sabrodt’s reckoning.

  The barrow mound was a great heap of jumbled stone, its entrance a gash in its face framed by heavy blocks of marble carved into macabre figures. As Arnhault strove to penetrate the warding haze, he could see the eyes of stone ghouls and gheists smouldering with profane energies. Feeding more power into the wards, the carved guardians began to shiver, trembling as though an earthquake shook the plateau.

  Arnhault poured more of his own magic into the effort to break the guarding spell. Liquid dripped down his forehead and only when he tasted it on his lips did he realise it was not mere perspiration but blood sheening his skin, such was the strain. His ears rang with a maddening cadence, his vision became awash with the red haze of the ward so that he was all but blind. A mortal wizard would have been crippled by the stresses Arnhault was allowing his body to endure, much less the fantastic exertion necessary to maintain the ordeal.

  Bit by bit, Arnhault pushed through the haze. Each step he felt the hostility of the ward increase. Through the red blur, he could see chips of stone cracking away from the carvings as their quaking became more and more violent.

  Finally, he was through. It occurred with such abruptness that Arnhault found himself lunging into the darkness of Sabrodt’s barrow. Behind him, the chipped residue of the carvings clattered to the ground, shaken into fragments by their struggle to defy the Knight-Incantor’s determination.