Blacktalon: First Mark

by Andy Clark

  ‘Leave when I deem it, struggling child…’ comes the voice, and she recoils in revulsion at the hint of something like amusement or affection that she hears there. ‘Let me look upon you. Let me aid you in your time of pain. Hear my voice and know it, that you might follow my call…’

  She is the huntress, not the prey. She will not cower in this trap.

  Suddenly furious, she focuses her will inwards, pouring anger, terror, confusion and frustration into a single point that blazes like a newborn star amidst the darkness.

  The eyes bore into her, and a dreadful hissing rises all around her as the darkness thrashes to a frenzy. Yet she persists, pouring her power into that searing light that flares brighter and brighter until at last, the darkness catches fire like dry parchment and burns and curls away.

  There comes a last shriek, a last flare of those fiery blue eyes, and then the vision shatters like glass and her mind is tumbling free through memory and thought and finally through nothing at all. For a moment, she sees the impossible immensity of the otherplace again as she plunges down the fiery throat of the well.

  Towards damnation.

  Towards oblivion.

  ‘Neave!’

  Neave Blacktalon opened her eyes, took a whooping breath, struck out hard. The blow connected with a clang like a tolling bell and something heavy was hurled away from her. Realising she was lying prone, she kicked her legs, flexed her shoulders and flipped herself up into a fighting crouch. Her whirlwind axes were in her hands faster than thought.

  ‘Neave! Sigmar’s blood, it’s me!’

  As the last shreds of darkness tattered away, Neave saw that she stood in a brightly lit stairway, marble underfoot, golden star-lanterns hanging overhead. Several steps above her, Tarion was sprawled against the wall, clutching a sizeable dent in his sigmarite breastplate.

  Neave snapped a glance down at her gauntlets clenched around her axe hafts, then back at her winded comrade. She blinked, took a deep, steadying breath and swung her axes back into their sheaths.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, taking a step towards Tarion.

  ‘Me?’ he said. ‘What about you? Blacktalon, what was that? What happened to you?’

  ‘What did happen to me, Tarion?’ she asked, trying to marshal her thoughts.

  ‘You collapsed,’ he said, straightening up. ‘You just went down mid-sentence, as though someone clubbed you round the back of the head. Started making this damned chilling noise.’

  ‘Noise?’ A feeling of sick dread was rising in her chest.

  ‘A sort of… keening. Like something lost. I rushed to your side, looking for… I don’t know, an attacker, signs of some sorcery or…’

  ‘Something,’ she said. ‘Something to explain my collapse.’

  ‘There was nothing obvious, so I rolled you onto your back, pulled you up onto a step. If you hadn’t woken I was going to send Krien for aid.’

  ‘But then I woke,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Then you howled with anger, your eyes snapped open, and you punched me in the chest hard enough to throw me ten steps upwards,’ said Tarion ruefully. ‘Krien took wing… We won’t see him before deployment now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tarion,’ said Neave. ‘I’ve never struck a comrade in anger. Worse still it should be you.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ he said. ‘I’m more concerned as to what happened to you. What do you remember?’

  She saw a moment of darkness, heard sobbing and whispers, felt fear, falling, pain. The sensations were gone as soon as she felt them, and she kept them to herself until she could rationally examine what they meant. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing coherent, at any rate.’

  ‘Neave–’ he began, but she cut him off.

  ‘Tarion, I’m not keeping things from you, and I’m not being stubborn. I am not some idiot character in a children’s tale who refuses to name what ails them until it’s too late. I saw… something. But my mind won’t settle on it, I can’t get it straight. Everything is a blur. Give me time.’

  ‘You saw something?’ he said, and Neave frowned at the wary note that crept into his voice. ‘Are you talking about some form of vision?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I told you, I can’t remember the substance of it, just senses, impressions, snatches of image and sound.’

  ‘But there was something. You weren’t simply unconscious?’

  Neave’s frown deepened.

  ‘I don’t know what it was. It could have been memories, fragments, a hallucination of some sort. I don’t know, but if you give me time I swear to you I’ll try to tell you more.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’m not pushing you for details. I’m just… “vision” is a loaded word amongst our chamber, you know this. Thank Dracothion you didn’t have that turn in front of a Lord-Veritant or one of the Sacrosanct.’

  Neave shuddered at the implication. One amongst the Hammers of Sigmar had become infamous for the visions that had struck him. Vandus Hammerhand was arguably the greatest hero of their number, the most lauded and well known, who had stood in Sigmar’s presence many times and had led the first ever sortie of Stormcast Eternals into the Mortal Realms. Yet for all his heroism and nobility, there were those who whispered that the visions were a curse, placed upon him by the servants of Chaos. That, or worse still, some inner failing or spiritual deformity brought forth by his Reforgings.

  ‘I’m not him,’ she said. ‘They raise statues in his honour then whisper about him in the shadows they cast. I’m nothing like him.’

  ‘No, you are something altogether better,’ said Tarion. ‘But, Neave, I sensed something amiss when I joined you on the balcony, and I see clear evidence of it now. This is between us, of course it is, but–’

  ‘But we need to know what happened, and why,’ she finished for him. ‘And we will. Give me time to remember what I saw, to order my thoughts. Meantime, we press on. The war won’t fight itself, and we’ve duties to attend to.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Tarion. ‘Talk to me when you are ready, yes?’

  ‘You have my word,’ she said. ‘Just as soon as I understand what in the realms I’m talking to you about.’

  The stairway led them down to a grandly arched hallway, which in turn took them through a suite of armouries and libraries and feasting chambers, then down another sweeping stairway, into another corridor, and then onwards again. The interior of the Thunderpeak was a vast and elaborate confluence of structures, its layout and manifold interlocking floors echoing the complex nature of the warriors that inhabited it.

  Neave and Tarion saw few other living beings as they walked. They passed a couple of servants clad in gold and blue robes, who paused in their duties to genuflect to the Stormcasts. Otherwise, the Thunderpeak was virtually deserted. The two comrades strode along in silence, their earlier good cheer driven away by what had passed between them.

  Neave’s thoughts turned inwards, as she furiously attempted to order and clarify the images that had passed through her mind’s eye. To her frustration they remained elusive. She snatched at fragments and pictures, but now that she was conscious it was as though she fumbled beneath the surface of a muddy pool, grasping at half seen shapes that squirmed from her grasp. The sensation was nauseating, and not a little disconcerting. The few times she felt she was coming close to something, her vision would shimmer at the edges with visual artefacts like sparks or motes of light and the pain would lance back into her skull, forcing her to relent.

  She still had not gleaned any revelations by the time she and Tarion emerged from a griffon-carved archway and into the morning light. A lavender-blue expanse of sky yawned above them as they strode out onto a long, shallow ramp of stone and marble. In this part of Azyr, stars and constellations wheeled overhead even in daylight, spreading lambent illumination across everything. The ramp swept down from the fo
othills of the Thunderpeak, coursing with enchanted light; though it was many miles in length, the enchantments placed upon it sped the passage of those who walked the ramp, carrying them along swift as the wind though they appeared to travel no faster than a walking pace.

  The rampway passed between looming bastions and smaller structures before plunging into the flank of a vast dome of black marble and stained glass. Huge golden buttresses spread from the dome’s sides, and an orrery of enormous size hung above its apex, crackling with celestial energies as it rotated.

  ‘It is a long while since I’ve set foot in the Argent Dome,’ said Tarion as they strode down the ramp.

  ‘That explains why your blade skills are so rusty,’ said Neave. It was a feeble stab at their usual companionable mockery, and Neave was grateful to Tarion when he barked a laugh regardless.

  ‘Not so rusty that I couldn’t best you in a duel, Blacktalon. It has been too long since we sparred.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll get a chance today,’ she said, gazing upwards. ‘The orrery is in its martial configuration. Deployment is near.’

  The dome was vast, an enormous structure that rose higher than the foothills of the Thunderpeak. Its entrance was a towering double-door of black marble, flanked by gem-flecked statues of Vanguard Rangers with their weapons raised in defiance. As Neave and Tarion neared, the doors swung silently inwards, hidden duardin mechanisms turning smooth as silk to open the portal wide. Veils of dense mist billowed inside the doors, and beyond them could be heard a muffled susurrus of voices.

  The two Stormcasts strode into the mist, and the doors swung silently shut in their wake.

  The Argent Dome was the Shadowhammers’ principal training facility and also doubled as their mustering point before each campaign into the Mortal Realms.

  It was an enchanted structure whose complex orrery could be manipulated to fill the vast space with artificial weather systems, varying levels of light and darkness and a variety of ensorcelled landscapes ideal for the Stormcasts to spar in, and to wage mock wars across. The dome could even conjure forth illusory enemies for the Vanguard to fight, from howling warriors of Chaos and rampaging greenskins to the shambling undead and verminous skaven hordes.

  As she passed through the magical mists that veiled the dome’s circumference from scrying magicks and supernatural spies, Neave reflected upon the countless hunts she had performed through the dome’s cavernous interior, its tangled upper levels of false floors, narrow beams and coiling stairwells. She had slain hundreds of illusory foes in this place, and been sorely wounded more than once by their all-too-tangible bites and blows.

  Now, though, the dome had been turned to its martial configuration, a crystal amphitheatre that filled the centre.

  ‘It might be made of magic, but it’s no less magnificent for it,’ said Tarion.

  The ensorcelled structure curved in a half moon shape, its walls high and seemingly formed from translucent emerald and amber. Draconic statues reared from its walls to loom over the marble courtyard at its heart. There, the Shadowhammers were readying themselves for war.

  Several hundred warriors filled the space that had been created for them. They donned and checked segments of armour, Vanguard Rangers inspecting the fastenings and joints of one another’s wargear in a process that was as much a reaffirmation of trust as it was a necessary pre-battle precaution. They took up their weapons from wheeled racks that had been hauled into position by teams of robed servants. They spoke amongst themselves, but not loudly. Bombast and braggadocio were rare traits amongst the Shadowhammers, for the Vanguard included many taciturn hunters and loners amongst their ranks. Such warriors were well suited to the long-range scouting missions and subtle, cerebral campaigns that the Vanguard were expected to wage.

  The Raptors, the master marksmen of the Vanguard Chamber, checked the sights of their longstrike and hurricane crossbows, worked their mechanisms and ensured that all was in readiness. The cavalrymen of the Palladors stood in small groups, conversing quietly with one another, and with the noble gryph-chargers that they would soon ride into battle. The beasts growled and clacked their beaks, stamping taloned hooves as aetheric energies flickered and sparked through their manes.

  Around the Stormcasts bustled almost twice their number of attendants, armourers, prognosticators, scribes, priests and more. Stern-looking duardin craftsmen ran their own inspections on the Stormcasts’ wargear, pronouncing the warriors battle ready only when they were satisfied of it and ignoring any protestations to the contrary. Arco-divinators tottered in ritual circles around the gathering, inspecting invisible omens through their bulky arrays of lenses and goggles, waving electrothaumic wands wired with copper to their bulky backpacks. Warrior priests of Sigmar intoned prayers for the success and safety of the Stormcasts, and blessed each in turn with Azyrite waters and the sigil of the hammer.

  As Neave and Tarion approached the muster, numerous warriors turned and saluted them, while others called greetings. Neave spotted Karias Wintercrest nearby with his Ranger brotherhood, all of them diligently readying themselves for war. She headed in their direction, nodding farewell to Tarion as he peeled off towards the gathering of Palladors.

  ‘Karias, it has been a long time,’ she said warmly. The Ranger-Prime favoured her with a smile, sketching a shallow bow. Wintercrest was so named for the wild shock of white hair that swept back from his brow and flowed across his armoured shoulders, and he wore it proudly, never confirming whether it was a peculiarity from his Reforging, or from his life before. Despite his white mane, his eyes were youthful and lively, albeit set within a visage weathered by howling winds and strange suns.

  ‘Neave, we haven’t fought together since the Crimson Hollows! It is good to see you,’ he said. The two slapped each other’s shoulders in a clatter of armour, then stepped back, sharing another mutual smile. Neave’s smile faded as she saw Karias’ falter and a look of concern enter his eyes.

  ‘Something troubles you though, does it not? Your aura is conflicted,’ he said.

  ‘My last hunt was difficult,’ she said. ‘It was long, and hard, and at times deeply unpleasant. I lost more than one mortal comrade that I valued.’

  Karias nodded sympathetically, but Neave’s senses were sharp enough to read his body language like a beacon fire. The Ranger-Prime was not wholly convinced by her words. She and Wintercrest had fought together on several hunts, during which time she had been glad of his unique talent for seeing the aetheric auras that played around living beings. It was a gift of his first Reforging, or so he claimed. Neave was not so glad of that talent now, nor of the necessity to lie to an old and trusted comrade.

  ‘Where have you been fighting?’ she asked.

  ‘Ghyran, the Jade Kingdom of Burgeonyl,’ he said, allowing Neave to redirect the conversation. ‘These are strange days in the Realm of Life. Since the Genesis Gate was sealed, the sylvaneth forest spirits have been on the resurgent. You know we have a standing alliance with them now? Not just a tentative hope, but a true accord, agreed between Lord Sigmar and their Mother Goddess Alarielle herself.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, it hasn’t made them trust us any better,’ said Neave.

  ‘True enough,’ said Karias ruefully, accepting his boltstorm pistol back from the hands of a duardin armourer. ‘We spent six months fighting a guerrilla war alongside several clans from the Oakenbrow and Dreadwood Glades. The Oakenbrow were cordial enough, formal and long-winded but solid fighters. But I don’t think in all that time we spoke directly to the Dreadwood sylvaneth more than twice. Mostly they sent messages by mutterling and shivergaw, when they deigned to tell us their plans at all.’

  ‘Who were you fighting?’ asked Neave.

  ‘Maggotkin, Nurgle-worshippers,’ said Karias with disgust. ‘Burgeonyl lies along the threadwynd line, north of the Genesis Gate by a hundred leagues or so. We’ve all but pushed the Chaos scum out of that regi
on, yet the blight forts along with threadwynd have proven tenacious and their castellans stubborn in the extreme. We were working to cut their supply lines, drive the Teshetti tribes out of the high passes to restrict their source of fresh recruits, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did the tribes resist?’ asked Neave, wincing. The Stormcast Eternals were meant to be reclaiming the Mortal Realms for the good of all Sigmar’s children, and those of his godly allies. But the reality of the war was far muddier, and often the primitive tribes of mortals that clung to life within Chaos-held territories were caught in the crossfire.

  Neave closed her eyes momentarily as she saw a glimpse of a body sprawled in a herb garden, things crawling in its flesh. Somewhere, she smelt wafting smoke, and heard a child’s cries.

  ‘They were tainted,’ said Karias sadly, looking away and missing Neave’s jolt of shock. By the time he looked back, she had mastered herself again. ‘They had given their worship to the Plague God in exchange for their continued survival, and were too far gone to be enlightened.’

  Neave shook her head.

  ‘Too many of the outwilders have gone that way,’ she said. ‘They lost themselves before we could return to save them. I hope you made their end quick.’

  A shadow passed over Karias’ face.

  ‘We did. The sylvaneth were less forgiving. The Dreadwood far less. They struggle to differentiate one human from another regardless of faith or loyalty.’

  Neave was about to reply when a peal of thunder rolled through the dome. The mists around its edge shivered and turned a golden hue, and jets of flame leapt from the maws of the dracon statues dotted around the amphitheatre’s edge.

  As one, the Shadowhammers turned towards the dome’s hidden entrance and dropped to one knee. The thick mists swirled, then parted as Lord-Aquilor Hawkseye emerged, flanked by Gallahearn and Kalparius, both mounted upon their lithe gryph-chargers. He sat astride the saddle of his own huge charger, Shenri, the beast sweeping its furious avian gaze over the assembled warriors. Shenri was even larger than either of the Vanguard-Palladors’ steeds, and she held her head high as she stalked into the heart of the amphitheatre. As the gryph-chargers passed, the Shadowhammers rose to their feet. The servants and attendants stayed kneeling, simply shifting on the spot to face the Lord-Aquilor.