Blacktalon: First Mark

by Andy Clark

  ‘By rotsom slop and ruinous grue, Grandfather shall sup upon your soul!’ yelled one of them.

  Krien came from nowhere, a blazing projectile that struck the lead Blightlord in the face. The impact smashed the surprised Chaos worshipper from his saddle and sent him tumbling like a fleshy boulder into the abyss below. Krien gave a fierce cry as he streaked away, and Tarion let out a laugh before launching himself airborne again.

  ‘In Sigmar’s name, I shall add your sundered carcass to the tally of your foul kin,’ he yelled at the remaining fly-rider. His enemy heard him and shook his scythe menacingly, turning his steed and droning in towards Tarion with his wrecking-bell swinging. ‘No, not falling for that twice,’ said Tarion. He powered upwards, magical updrafts surging through his wings and propelling him over his enemy’s head. At the same time he drew and loosed, drew and loosed, drew and loosed, raining crackling arrows onto the Blightlord and his revolting steed.

  Impaled and shuddering with electrical current, the rider and fly plunged away into the abyss, still glowing with the light of Sigmar’s vengeance. Tarion spat after him, then turned his attention to the battle again.

  Danastus led the Shadowhammers’ charge home, slamming into the rear of a surprised enemy warband with the force of a raging typhoon. Even as they stormed into battle, a number of his Palladors windshifted with expert skill and precision. They flickered into streaks of lightning and gale-force wind, before reappearing on parallel bridgeways to slam into enemies who had thought themselves safe. Nurgle-worshippers screamed as they plummeted into the abyss below. Others were mauled, their bloodied corpses crushed into the stonework by the gryph-chargers’ lithe bulk.

  The momentum of the charge was phenomenal, and Rotbringers spilled from the bridges like a fleshy bow-wave as the Lord-Aquilor and his warriors forged multiple paths towards the beleaguered sylvaneth. Behind them, Ranger and Raptor brotherhoods dropped into firing crouches and sent hissing volleys of stormbolts into the Chaos forces. Cultists and Blightkings who had been scrambling across the gantries were peppered with shots, toppling over railings to their doom or slumping in carrion heaps upon the teetering metal frameworks. Aetherwings shot through the air, calling back to their Stormcast comrades in eerily human voices to warn of threats and direct volleys of fire.

  The foe reeled, but Tarion could see their full numbers, and knew that they outnumbered the Stormcast and sylvaneth combined, several times over. The foe would not be on the back foot for long.

  He dipped his wings and swept low, sending volleys of lightning arrows into the enemy as he flew. Crackling blasts flowed in his wake, marching along the nearest of the bridges and blasting foes from their feet. Tarion soared in above Danastus, Gallahearn Ironstrike and Kalparius Foerunner, matching their pace. Skimming above the charging Palladors, he sent arrow after arrow whistling down to shred the tightly packed enemy and aid his lord’s charge.

  ‘What are your orders?’ yelled Tarion as he shot.

  ‘This is not a viable conflict – it can’t be salvaged without the sylvaneth weapon,’ replied Danastus, slamming his blade through the chest of his next enemy and riding them into the ground. The charge was slowing, Tarion saw, as the tight-packed ranks of the foe absorbed its momentum. Abominations bulled through the press of bodies to reach for the Stormcasts with stitch-ridden limbs. The Shadow­hammers had reached maybe three-quarters of the way to the sylvaneth, but it was not enough.

  ‘We facilitate its invocation, then?’ asked Tarion.

  ‘We do,’ said Danastus. Shenri reared with an angry shriek as a rusted speartip stabbed through her breastbone. The gryph-charger wrenched the weapon from its attacker’s hands and flicked it aside before ripping off the luckless cultist’s head. Still, Danastus’ steed staggered as her fore-claws came back down. ‘And we do so quickly, before we lose our chance,’ finished the Lord-Aquilor.

  ‘Understood, my lord,’ said Tarion.

  ‘Until we meet beyond the anvils,’ cried Danastus, then drove forward into the enemy with a snarl. To his right, Foerunner took a thunderous axe-blow to the midriff and toppled from his saddle, flashing into lightning before he even hit the floor. His charger screeched in fury and laid into the enemy, blood flying.

  Tarion soared upwards and turned for the beleaguered sylvaneth.

  ‘Brothers, sisters, all who can, follow me and lend me your fury!’ shouted Tarion as he flew. Rangers ran and leapt, braving the hungry abyss as they hurled themselves onto nearby gantries. Most of them made it, clanging along the rusted metal to flank the enemy warbands and charge towards the sylvaneth position. Several Palladors windshifted in Tarion’s wake, crackling away from their enemies and arcing upwards.

  Tarion looked up as a monstrous thrumming filled the air. He paled as he saw the vast bulk of Ungholghott’s fly-dragon swooping down towards him, its enormity blocking out the light from above. The drone of its many wings was so low that it shuddered in his chest, causing his broken ribs to jar painfully together. Tarion caught a glimpse of Ungholghott sitting high in his saddle, his yellow-eyed gaze imperious. Then the monster’s over-stuffed snout bulged and spread open like an obscene flower. A pressurised jet of digestive filth spewed forth.

  Tarion barrel-rolled desperately. Tucking his wings in, he dropped perilously close to the bridge and the massed warriors that fought upon it. The stinking jet missed him by inches, splattering instead across Rotbringers and Stormcast alike. Screams of agony rose amidst the sizzle of flesh and armour as the spew ate its way through everything it touched. A reeking backdraft buffeted Tarion as Ungholghott and his monster swept past.

  Tarion rose again and saw with horror that Danastus and his warriors were gone, along with most of those they had fought and a good portion of the bridge itself. Grim-faced, he flew on, sweeping over the last few foes and dropping into the midst of the sylvaneth circle. He slammed down next to the Branchwych, who spun with a hiss and almost sank her sickle-scythe into his neck.

  ‘We’re allies!’ shouted Tarion. ‘We come to aid you as the pact between our peoples demands!’ He glanced about, recognising these sinister sylvaneth from his encounter atop the mountain crater. He saw the twisted Branchwraith from Highcrater Watch, who bared blood-slicked wooden fangs at him before plunging back into the fight with a shriek.

  ‘Tarried late, have you?’ spat the Branchwych. ‘Too few of us remain for victory.’

  ‘Neave Blacktalon told us of you and your weapon,’ said Tarion. ‘You are Wytha, yes? You must invoke it now. We will willingly pay the price with our lives if we must to defeat this den of evil.’

  ‘I cannot invoke it here,’ said Wytha. ‘To be sure of its effects, I must unleash it at a confluence of realmroots. One such site exists beneath the very heart of this fortress, knotted there to hold back the foulness of Ungholghott’s fortress.’

  ‘Neave did not mention that,’ said Tarion.

  ‘The girl-child knows what she needs, and still she chose poorly. Do not presume to tell me how to cast my invocations, stormling.’

  Tarion restrained his exasperation.

  ‘There isn’t time for this,’ he said. ‘You need to reach the dais, yes?’

  ‘And remain undisturbed while the invocation takes place,’ said Wytha. ‘The weapon will for scant moments be exposed. Should the plague lord come to claim it at that time, I could not protect it from him.’

  ‘I’ll forge you a path. Together, your warriors and I will hold Ungholghott off. Just swear to me that this weapon will work.’

  ‘On the life of the Everqueen, I swear it will slaughter all,’ said Wytha.

  Tarion saluted, then launched himself straight up.

  ‘Be ready to go when the smoke clears,’ he shouted, before drawing out his star-fated arrow. Tarion could hear the lumbering drone of Ungholghott’s fly-dragon sweeping back towards the fight, and could see the massed Rotbringers who still hacked and sta
bbed and pressed relentlessly forward between the sylvaneth and the dais. He felt with all his heart the desire to spin and send his assassin’s arrow winging its way into Ungholghott’s rotted heart. Neave had entrusted the hunt to him, and he had this one chance to finish it.

  Instead, Tarion drew back his bowstring and loosed the arrow straight into the midst of the tight-packed Rotbringers. It streaked down like a thunderbolt and struck a bloated abomination. The explosion of storm-fury blew the monster apart in a red spray and rocked the bridge with its fury. Blackened corpses were hurled in all directions as the crackling blast expanded outwards, scorching dozens of Nurgle-worshippers to death and hurling countless more from their feet into the abyss below.

  The next instant, the fly-dragon’s talons hit Tarion from behind like a battering ram.

  Pain exploded within him as he was flung through the air. He heard Krien’s dismayed screech as though from far away, then felt a crushing impact as his face met the stone of the dais. Tarion skidded, trailing blood and shattered wing-crystals until he came to a stop near the dais’ heart.

  Vision greying, Tarion tried to push himself up but couldn’t. He craned his head, and let it fall back with a groan as he saw the mangled ruin of his torso spilling blood across the stones. Smoke billowed, and through it moved angular shapes, their stride sinister and their eyes glowing blue.

  Somewhere above him, Tarion could hear the monstrous drone of the fly-dragon’s wings, but the beast had passed overhead and its sheer bulk and momentum meant it would take precious moments to turn and sweep back in on the attack.

  A figure stopped, looming over Tarion, chanting jagged words in a strange tongue. He blinked up at Wytha as she stared impassively down at him. Tarion’s pupils flicked to the glowing cylinder she held aloft, the acidic green light that pulsed faster and faster from within. The ethereal illumination strobed through the smoke, making the world flash grey and green, and a terrible whining sound filled the air, causing Tarion’s teeth to itch. Blue sparks lit the air as they crackled to life, billowing like fireflies and swirling faster and faster.

  Wytha’s chant rose to fever pitch, even as the monstrous roar of the fly’s wings filled the world with thunder.

  ‘Hold it back!’ he heard a voice screaming, and another, ‘Turn away, foul beast! Turn away!’

  ‘Neave… Let… Neave… get…’ Tarion’s eyes fluttered shut; there was a flash, then he knew no more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Daylight ahead!’ yelled Katalya.

  ‘I see it,’ said Neave, piling on as much speed as she dared. The fortress was shaking around them, its living corridors convulsing and its chambers groaning as though trying to tear themselves apart. Cultists dashed in panicked masses and skaven scattered in all directions.

  Neave vaulted a brass railing and dropped twenty feet, Kat’s scream following her down. She hit the ground running, weaving past a rampaging abomination whose flailing tentacles smashed skaven and Rotbringers through the air. The chamber was some sort of entrance hall, lit by sickly green braziers atop columns of maggot-riddled bone. Tattered banners hung down its walls, showing scenes of corruption and of Nurgle the Plague God ascendant.

  Nurgle would not approve of the mad panic that now gripped his servants, Neave thought, as she passed dashing Chaos-worshippers. Ahead was a cavernous doorway that looked for all the world like the rotted jaw of some huge monster, and was studded with rolling yellow eyes the size of cannon balls. Beyond its noisome arch, Neave saw the swamp and beyond that, the forest.

  A terrible note was rising behind her, felt as much as heard, and blue motes billowed past her as though borne on some invisible updraft. Despite all that had transpired, the sight still filled her with cloying fear for her sanity.

  ‘You see those too, yes?’ she said as she ran.

  ‘The blue fire? I see it,’ said Katalya. ‘Is it the weapon?’

  ‘It must be,’ said Neave.

  Ahead, a band of especially brave or foolhardy Blightlords turned and tried to block her path. Neave leapt, sailing over their heads and landing in a full sprint, their roars of anger chasing her towards the light. The keening grew louder by the second, and Neave felt a wetness on her upper lip that she knew must be blood. Katalya was moaning with pain, her fingers crabbing and clawing at Neave’s neck where she strove to hold on.

  Screams rose behind them, cries of agony too terrible to bear. Neave didn’t dare glance back. There was no time. Crimson tinged her vision and she felt blood burst from between her lips on her next breath.

  ‘Neave!’ screamed Katalya. The keening rose to fever pitch, and sounds of destruction rolled up behind them like a wave.

  The doorway was too far.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  One chance.

  ‘Katalya, shut your eyes and breathe out as hard as you can. You must trust me,’ she shouted, hoping that the tribesgirl heard and understood. Hoping, even more fervently, that what she was about to do wouldn’t leave Katalya in her wake, or even worse, kill her. She took three more paces then windshifted in a storm of arcing light.

  Reality blurred, rushing past like storm clouds in a hurricane. There came a crack of overpressure as Neave slammed back into full physical form and fell into the swamp water on her hands and knees. She felt Katalya’s weight detach from her shoulders as the girl was flung bonelessly over her head. Kat hit the water with a splash and vanished beneath the surface.

  ‘Sigmar’s hammer, no,’ snarled Neave, scrambling forward and plunging her arms into the mire. She felt Katalya’s submerged form and dragged her to the surface, cradling the girl to her chest as swamp water streamed off her. Katalya’s eyes were shut, her face pale, her chest unmoving. Her hair drifted like some strange halo where the windshift had bathed her in the lightning of the heavens. Sparks crawled over her skin, slowly fading.

  ‘Breathe, girl, breathe!’ urged Neave. Her throat tightened and pain filled her chest as Katalya hung, seeming small and forlorn, in her arms. Neave held her tight against her breast and fought back a cry of rage.

  The ground trembled more violently beneath them and the screaming crescendo rose at Neave’s back. Flickering jade lightning lit the swamp and made the treeline dance with monstrous shadows. Blue sparks whirled over her like a blizzard, clinging to the metal of Katalya’s vambraces and the sigmarite of Neave’s armour.

  Neave twisted herself, shielding Katalya’s body with her own as she stared back over her shoulder at the cataclysmic effects of Wytha’s weapon. Ungholghott’s fortress shuddered and bulged, venomous green light pouring from every window and doorway, every rent, split and crack. Segments of stonework and bloated flesh blew out in violent green fireballs, raining debris across the swamp. Chaos-worshippers spilled from the fortress’ innards in profusion, yet they were too close, had fled too late. Even as Neave watched, their bodies twisted and contorted as the light caressed them, and their vital fluids jetted from them in a shocking mass-exsanguination that tainted the swamp waters crimson.

  Ungholghott’s fortress sagged, collapsing in upon itself. It twisted and changed, as though one last burst of excess life caused it to mutate into new, unnatural forms. So savage was the glare that Neave could see precious little besides warped silhouettes, then even those vanished as the emerald supernova expanded to fill the world.

  Neave cried out but couldn’t hear herself over the weapon’s blast. Green light bathed her and Katalya, jade tendrils racing across armour and flesh. For a second, Neave feared that she still hadn’t got herself or her friend far enough away.

  But then, at last, the light faded, and the shrill wail dropped away. The last blue embers fell like flurries of snow, vanishing as suddenly as they had come. The tides of the swamp subsided, and a monstrous silence came crashing in to smother everything.

  Neave shook with shock and adrenaline, so much so that it took her sever
al moments to realise that the movement she felt was not all her own. She looked down with a gasp to see Katalya stir. The girl groaned. Jade light still radiated from her vambraces, though it was slowly fading, along with a last few blue sparks.

  ‘Kat, can you hear me?’ asked Neave gently.

  Katalya responded by coughing up a mouthful of swamp water as her eyes opened blearily. She turned her head and the Stormcast Eternal supported her as the girl threw up what looked like half the swamp.

  At last, Katalya’s convulsions subsided and she fell back in Neave’s arms, pale and shaking.

  ‘Did we die?’ she asked, and Neave couldn’t stifle a laugh of pure relief.

  ‘No, Kat, we made it,’ she said.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Katalya. ‘In the end, when we…’ she gestured weakly.

  ‘I windshifted. It is a process by which we of the Vanguard Chambers can–’

  ‘I don’t care about the finer details,’ said Katalya. ‘Just don’t ever do that to me again.’

  Neave snorted and rose to her feet, helping Katalya stand with her.

  ‘What about the swamp king?’ asked Katalya. She looked back to where Ungholghott’s fortress had once stood above the swamps. Swirling smoke and billowing jade mist hid its ruin, spreading gradually outwards, but the cadaverous remains of spires and towers could be seen, jutting up at crazed angles through the haze.

  ‘Dead, along with all his followers, and all of my comrades, I would think,’ said Neave. She was awed and horrified by the power that Wytha had unleashed, her blood running chill at the sight of it. ‘I never imagined the sylvaneth had something this destructive in their possession. And for it to be Dreadwood, of all the glades… I have to return to Azyr at once, Kat. My superiors need to be warned of this.’