Contents
Cover
The Neverspike – Darius Hinks
Champion of Oaths – John French
Savage – Guy Haley
The Claw of Memory – David Annandale
The Darkling Hours – Rachel Harrison
Child of Chaos – Chris Wraight
The Death of Uriel Ventris – Graham McNeill
About the Author
A Black Library Publication
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THE NEVERSPIKE
DARIUS HINKS
I glare at the ember-shot tide, listening to the hiss of the waves and the tick of my cooling armour. Escaping death is always so much harder than finding it. Returning from the underworlds has been like another Reforging, another flaying of my soul. My mind is as fractured and distorted as my armour, but slowly my memory pieces itself back together. Every one of my retinue has fallen. My anger flares. They faltered. They failed. They paid the price. 'We fight. We Kill.' My voice cracks with rage. 'We win.'
I am standing on a shoulder of the Slain Peak, three hundred feet above the Ardent Sea, drenched in blood and caked in soot. I look like one of the ruins that litter the foothills below. The Realmgate spat me into the shallows and my warhammers are still smouldering where the god-wrought metal punched through the heat of the Ardent.
I whisper the names of the fallen, in accusation rather than benediction, then turn inland, spilling ash from my blue-green armour. From this height I can see the length of the valley. At the far end is a stormkeep, silhouetted before the hammered-gold sky. Ipsala. Pride of the Zullan coast. Home to five glorious retinues of Celestial Vindicators, all of them veterans of the Realmgate Wars; the guardians of the Southern Wards. Two days' march. Then I will stand before warriors worthy of the name Stormcast Eternal. My own, vengeful kin. They will understand why I have returned. They would never fail me as the Hammers of Sigmar have done.
As I clamber down the slope, tongues of steam rush up through the blackened rocks, hissing and sighing.
'The Hammers of Sigmar did not fail you, Trachos. It was the other way around. You failed them.'
The accusation halts me in my tracks and my mind falls back to Shyish. My pulse drums as I recall pale, emaciated bodies, still smouldering in the ruins. Thin, broken limbs, grasping at smoke-filled air.
'I failed no one. The Hammers lacked steel.'
'You murdered those people.'
'I was relentless. As I must be. Those wretched souls all worshipped the Betrayer God. They bore the sigils of Nagash. None of them deserved mercy. The Hammers of Sigmar were blinded by pity. The fault was theirs.'
'What of their souls, Trachos? This is why you were made. You cannot simply abandon them.'
I limp down the slope, shaking my head, trying to rid myself of the wretched voice. I'd hoped to leave it in Nagash's underworlds. There's something unnatural about it. It's not simply my mind questioning itself - it's a distinct voice, ringing through my skull, accusing me.
'If you hadn't spent so long torching those huts, the Hammers of Sigmar would still be alive. You lost yourself in violence. You forgot what you were doing. The kill-fever took you.'
I clang my gauntleted fist against my helmet.
'What do you think they'll say when you reach the stormkeep? When you tell them how many men you've lost? What will you say when they ask you how it happened? How will you explain so many deaths? They will know, Trachos. They will know what's happening to you. Why would they send you back to Azyr? Your work is unfinished. They will send you back into the darkness.'
I can't go back. Not yet. Not until I can be sure of myself. I struggle to keep my voice level.
'The Hammers of Sigmar are to blame for what happened. They should have burned the place down before I ever reached it. The gheists were already leaving their roosts. We had to go before—'
'You're afraid to go back. You're a coward.'
'Who are you?' I cry. 'Get out of my—'
A howl rips through the air, silencing me, echoing across steam-shrouded peaks.
I crouch, a hammer in each hand. It was the cry of a beast, a large one by the sound of it.
Something moves on the next outcrop, a monstrous shape, coiling through the clouds.
Someone bellows a war cry, deep and savage, almost as bestial as the howl that preceded it. There's a flash of light and clang of metal hitting stone.
I look at Zyganium Keep. As soon as I reach it I can make my report and be gone. The voice in my head lies, but its presence troubles me. The gaps in my memory trouble me. I need to get home. I need to see the spires of Azyr and bathe in their holy light. I need to consult with the Lord-Celestant.
'You're afraid.'
'Never,' I mutter, but I know something is wrong. The voice is too clear. Too alien. Who is speaking to me?
There's another deafening howl and an answering battle cry, followed by the sound of smashing rocks. I peer into the steam clouds. There's something big fighting in there. The peaks are juddering like they're in the grip of an avalanche. I look up at the jagged slopes. Perhaps there will be an avalanche.
'Run home, Trachos. Hide. Before you lose what's left of your mind.'
I curse and turn away from the valley and the stormkeep, striding across the rocks towards the opposite crag, my boots pounding through the heat haze as I drop down into a crevasse and haul myself up the opposite side, climbing towards the sound of the fighting. Perhaps some of the Hammers of Sigmar made it back and are trying to reach Zyganium Keep? If there was a survivor, what might he say? My memories of Shyish are a shroud of screams and blood. What exactly did I do down there? Could some of the Hammers of Sigmar have survived? I did not see them all die. Sigmar's light fell from the clouds, slashing the gloom of Shyish, hauling some of their souls back to Azyr, but I could not count the blasts.
I look around. Slain Peak is a famously treacherous place. Skin-roasting geysers erupt constantly from brazier-pits, and landslides are common, but the wildlife is the real threat. If one of my men is here, I'm duty-bound to help him, whatever he might have seen in Shyish.
The sound of fighting grows more frantic as I crest the ridge and rush through the clouds, hammers glinting.
I break through the clouds and stagger to a halt in shock.
I've reached a broad, bowl-shaped hollow, a few hundred feet in circumference and ringed with tusks of rock. There are three figures at its centre and none of them are Stormcast Eternals. The first is inhumanly slender and pale, an aelf, dressed in black, clutching daggers and weaving back and forth, nimble and quick, looking for a chance to lunge. At her side is something peculiar. For a moment I struggle to name him. He's shorter than a man, but clad in so much scarred, chiselled muscle that he looks like a piece of the mountain. He's a duardin, I decide, with the fiery mohawk and beard of a fyreslayer, but he's big - much bigger than any fyreslayer I've seen before. He's as broad as an ox and his biceps are like tree trunks. I would have placed him as a great king or lord if he didn't look so deranged. He's wearing a patch over one eye and there's a single metal rune embedded in his chest, burning with the ferocity of a fallen star. The rune is the source of the light I saw through the clouds. Even without using one of my implements, I can tell that it's unlike the runes worn by other fyreslayers. There's so much aetheric power radiating from it that the devices hung from my belt are crackling and humming in response.
The duardin is naked apart from a loincloth and, as his slab-like fists tighten, rune-light floods his frame, shimmering across his muscles and igniting a brazier at the head of his battleaxe. His gaze is wild and unfocused and there's sweat pou
ring down his filthy, tattooed limbs. There's such a thick animal stink coming from him that I can smell it a dozen feet away. He lets out another war cry and pounds across the rocks towards his foe.
When I see what he's about to attack, I can't help but laugh. It's a drake. One of the stone-clad behemoths that thrive in the brutal heat of the Slain Peak. It's as tall as a watchtower and its spreading wings block out the sky, throwing us all into shadow.
The duardin must be insane. Even I would baulk at tackling such a colossus.
The drake opens its long, sabre-crowded jaws and spews a landslide, hurling rock and scree across the hollow.
I shake my head and turn to leave. The duardin is doomed. There's nothing I could do to help even if I wished it.
The duardin keeps roaring as the rocks smash into him.
I hesitate, looking back.
Dust and flying debris fill the hollow and, for a moment, I'm blinded. When the clouds fade, I laugh again.
The duardin is still standing. There are mounds of rock and gravel heaped around him and he's shrouded in dust but the drake has failed to injure him.
I shake my head. That blast could have levelled a fortress.
The aelf is hunched next to him and she seems unharmed too, protected by his bulk.
The drake hesitates, confused, as the duardin shrugs off the rubble and rushes forwards, rune-light sparking in his beard and pulsing through his veins.
The drake recovers from its surprise and screams. Then it rears on its haunches and spews more rock.
Again, the hollow fills with noise and dust. Again, when it clears, the duardin is unharmed, chin raised defiantly, infernal light burning in his eye.
The drake leaps forwards, landing with such force that the rocks beneath my feet slide away and I stumble down into the hollow.
It swings a tail the size of an oak, bringing it down towards the duardin's head.
There's a seismic boom as the duardin smashes the tail away, parrying it as easily as a sword-strike.
The drake stumbles, claws scrambling on the rocks, vast wings kicking up dust clouds.
As the drake struggles to right itself, the duardin runs across the hollow, bounds off a rock and leaps through the air, axe gripped in both fists and raised over his head.
The drake spews more rock, but the duardin is too fast, slamming his axe into its chest like he's attacking a cliff face.
The drake is about to launch itself into the air when the aelf sprints through the dust clouds and plunges her daggers into its leg. The blades are clearly no ordinary weapons. They cut through the drake's stone hide and the aelf has to dive away as black, steaming blood hisses from the wound.
As the aelf rolls clear, the duardin climbs higher, slamming his axe into the drake's jaw, knocking its head back.
I race for cover as the creature staggers towards me, ripping rock from the walls and thrashing its wings.
The aelf flips onto her feet and plants her blades in the drake's other leg and, as the monster falls, the duardin slams his axe into its skull.
There's another resounding boom as the drake hits the rubble-strewn ground.
When the dust clears, I find myself face to face with the duardin.
He's standing on the stone carcass, glaring at me with his single, infernal eye, axe raised and beard sparking, his whole body trembling with violence.
'Maybe we should gut this one too?' His voice is a low snarl. He glances from me back to the aelf.
I raise my warhammers and face him side-on.
'Wait!' cries the aelf, rushing forwards and grabbing the duardin's arm. 'He's one of us.'
The duardin grips his axe tighter. 'One of you, maybe.'
'He serves Sigmar.' She steps in front of him.
The duardin looks unimpressed, but allows her to speak.
'I'm Maleneth,' she says, still gripping her daggers as she approaches me. 'I belong to the Order of Sigmar.'
She's a Khainite. I've dealt with the Murder Cults before. Her blades are most likely edged with poison. I keep my hammers raised.
I nod to the duardin. 'And this?'
She gives me a strange look. I can't tell if it's a warning or a plea. Despite fighting beside him, she does not look comfortable in his presence. 'Gotrek.'
This close, he cuts an even stranger figure. The light is fading from the rune in his chest, but it's still fierce enough to give his face a hellish aspect. I notice that one side of his head is oddly weathered, as though scorched by acid. His only concession to armour is a metal pauldron on his left shoulder, but that's clearly borrowed, its design too crude to be of duardin manufacture.
'Show your face, manling,' he growls, narrowing his eye. His beard bristles as he barges past the aelf and squares up to me. He slams into my armour and I stagger. His head barely reaches my chest but I feel like a cart has thudded into me.
I remove my helmet and glare back at him.
He holds my stare, then, just as I think he's about to attack, he shrugs and turns away. 'Another prancing knight.' He mutters something in his own language as he heads back over to the fallen drake.
I look at the aelf. 'Does he serve Sigmar?'
'I serve no one!' yells the dwarf, without looking back at me. 'Least of all gods.'
I give the aelf a questioning look, but she holds up a hand, indicating that I should wait until he is out of earshot.
'What is that rune in his chest?' I ask when the duardin has reached the fallen monster.
She speaks in an urgent whisper. 'I need to explain,' she begins, but then I cut her off.
'What's he doing?'
The duardin has clambered up onto the fallen drake and begun hacking at the carcass, filling the air with sparks and noise. Incredibly, his axe cuts through the stone scales, severing chunks of hide and spilling torrents of black gore. Blood hisses as it splashes across the ground.
'We're going to perform a rite,' she says, sounding weary. 'He's going to fish out the innards and then I'll inspect them. Hopefully it will work this time.'
'This time?'
'Someone told him that only drake entrails can point us in the right direction, but we've tried five times so far and I've found nothing but half-digested herdsmen.'
I can't hide my shock. 'This is the sixth drake you've killed?'
She nods. 'If you only count the winged ones.'
I stare at the duardin. 'What is he?'
'Gotrek, son of Gurni. Apparently he was born in somewhere called the Everpeak and, if you believe what he says, he belongs to an earlier age than this - and another world, for that matter.'
I raise an eyebrow.
She still has that warning look in her eye. 'He's unlike any duardin I've ever met. He calls himself a Slayer; but he hates fyreslayers as much as anything else we've encountered. They said he's one of their gods, sent to help them, but that made him even angrier.' She looks over at him. 'He's not keen on gods.'
She scowls at me. 'Look, I want nothing more than to be rid of him, but that's the Master Rune of Blackhammer he's got jammed in his ribs. It's more powerful than you realise. I'm sworn to return it to Azyr.'
'To Azyr?' My pulse quickens. An idea starts to form.
She nods. 'But Gotrek has other ideas.'
'Then kill him. If the rune is needed in Azyr, why have you left it in the possession of a lunatic?'
'Did you see what he did to that drake?'
'I know your kind, assassin. Brute strength is no protection against you. You could scratch him in his sleep and he'd never wake.'
'He never sleeps,' she snaps, but she looks away, suddenly unwilling to meet my gaze. There's more to their relationship than she will admit.
'You like him.'
Her face darkens and she tightens her grip on her knives. 'He's a fool.'
'But?'
She glares at me, her eyes full of vitriol. I can't tell if she's angry with me or herself. 'It's not just the rune. There's something strange about him.'
I k
eep looking at her.
She spits, her rage palpable. 'I can't explain it. He says there's a doom hanging over him and, after spending all this time with him, I'm starting to understand what he means. He's unstoppable. Something wants him to succeed. Or someone.'
I nod. I've seen such things before. Primitive savages, sure of their destiny, oblivious to the facts, tumbling headlong through life, gathering doe-eyed disciples until they finally crash, taking everyone else with them. The aelf is beguiled by him. She mistakes his wild momentum for destiny. She's in thrall to his fearlessness, not seeing that it's only born of stupidity.
Gotrek laughs as he snaps the drake's shoulder bones apart, filling the air with a black fountain.
'You said you're killing these beasts because you're trying to find somewhere.'
She nods. 'The Neverspike.'
The name gives me pause. I've heard it before, but can't place it for a moment. 'Why?'
'Because of some drunk in Axantis. He told Gotrek that there's an immortal there - someone who has been bound to the rocks by Nagash. The drunk called him the Amethyst Prince. And now Gotrek's got in his head that, if this prince is an immortal, he must be from the same world he's from.'
My blood cools. 'I've heard of the Neverspike. Your drunk friend was right about the prince but the Neverspike is dangerous. It's a fragment of the underworld.'
She raises an eyebrow. 'Gotrek doesn't go anywhere unless it's dangerous.'
There's a thunderous slap as Gotrek rips the drake's stomach open and spills innards across the rocks.
'Aelf!' he cries, backing away from the wound, his arms drenched in blood and triumph flashing in his eye. 'What do you see?'
She hesitates. Still looking at me. Weighing me up. She wants me to leave. She's worried about what I might do to the Slayer. She's protective of him for some reason. It's the rune, I realise. She's worried I'll snatch the rune from under her nose. Then she'd have endured this boorish duardin for nothing. I smile as I follow her over to the mound of innards, my idea crystallising in my head. If the aelf can't take the rune to Azyr, I'll do it for her. No one could question my logic. What more important reason could I have for returning home? And then, in Azyr, I will rid myself of all these troubling memories and doubts. I will be renewed.
Black Library Events Anthology 2018-19 Page 1