by C. L. Werner
‘Don’t be deceived,’ Neferata warned. ‘The terrorgheist that slew your comrades. You were told it slipped free of Arkhan’s control. Arkhan assumed responsibility for its attack. Yet I tell you, next to Nagash himself, there is no more skilled practitioner of the Art than the liche-king. There was another purpose behind that attack.’
Brannok drew closer, listening intently while Neferata whispered to him her theories of intrigue and deception.
Neither the Knight-Heraldor nor the vampire queen was aware of the eyes watching them from the darkness.
Or felt the burning malignance of that gaze.
Chapter Eleven
Wan, gibbous light flickered through the blackness, revealing just enough of the subterranean vaults to make the shadows beyond its reach still darker and more menacing. Arches of bone curled overhead, mineral encrustations dripping from them in gnarled spears and jagged fangs. Underfoot was a grainy surface of ash and dust, rippling and flowing as a phantom breeze wafted across it. The walls, when they loomed out from the shadows, were shaped from countless skeletons, each body entwined with its fellows, melding into stony solidity. Bare skulls stared out from the walls, seeming to bemoan the fate that had claimed them… or inviting those who gazed upon them to share in it.
‘This is an unclean place,’ Lord-Castellant Vogun declared, making the sign of the hammer with his hand as he gazed upon the morbid vastness. At his side, Torn whined in sympathy with his master’s uneasiness. The gryph-hound kept close to Vogun’s side, lingering near the warding lantern hanging from his belt as though to draw some comfort from the holy light.
‘We tread upon the dust of nations,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar said, emphasising his words by stomping down on the sand-like surface. The added pressure caused him to sink up to his knee in the ashes. One of the Liberators marching alongside him helped Kreimnar pull free from the hole. Throughout the dark tunnel, the rest of the Stormcasts pushed through the morbid drifts of ash and dust. Sometimes eerie energies would rise up from the ground and swirl around lone knights, fumbling at their armour with wispy hands and vaporous claws. Usually, the spirits vanished as swiftly as they appeared, but several times their persistence had drawn angry sparks from the black sigmarite plate. At such times, the repulsed apparitions uttered dejected wails before flying away into the darkness.
Worse dangers prowled the underworld of Shyish. The Anvils had caught fleeting glimpses of gangrel shapes lingering at the edges of the light. Things with gleaming eyes and slavering mouths, dripping claws and decaying flesh. Some of the stalkers were diminutive, wasted creatures, while others were grotesques far larger than a mortal human. Others still bore no resemblance at all to human shape, but instead suggested slithering reptiles and venomous arachnids in their nebulous outlines. Human or inhuman, tangible or phantom, the hostility and hunger radiating from the stalkers was undeniable, impressing upon each Stormcast that he was trespassing in a forbidden land. Only the presence of Nagash kept the horrors from rushing out of the shadows and consuming the intruders. It was a lesson that wasn’t lost on the Anvils.
Lord-Celestant Makvar felt the weight of responsibility pressing against him as never before. At every turn, the Stormcasts were exposed to the enormity of Nagash’s power. The grisly underworld through which the Great Necromancer led them was like nothing they had been prepared to imagine. The scope and magnitude of these endless vaults fashioned from the materials of death staggered credulity. The dust through which they trod represented an ocean of graves, each mote and speck a particle of some extinguished life. From these ashes, Nagash had shaped an entire world, an empire buried beneath the conquering hordes of Chaos.
Yes – when Kreimnar said the Anvils marched across the dust of nations, he spoke the truth. How many peoples had been vanquished? How many kingdoms drawn into the endless night? In death and destruction, they served Nagash more completely than they could ever have in life. Mortal debris became the brick and mortar of the Great Necromancer’s domain, spirits became the fuel of his magics. The transition from life to death fed Nagash’s power. It was this that made the Death God so mighty. It was this which also made the Lord of Death so formidable and fearsome. Each display of his power impressed upon Makvar not only his strength but the grisly source of that strength.
To cement the alliance between Azyr and Shyish, Makvar knew he had to gain the trust of Nagash. Without the undead to support the assault upon the gate of Gothizzar, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer would be unable to press their attack into the Allpoints. They needed the creatures of Shyish at their side. Facilitating that meant stifling his own qualms and suspicions. He had to believe in the purpose of his mission, had to embrace it with uncompromising conviction. He had to accept the realities of what they had seen in Nulahmia and Schloss Wolfhof and Mephitt, to appreciate that such extremes were the price of defying Chaos when the enemy had all but devoured the entire realm. Cruelty and terror were often the only things that could defy the lure of Chaos, to keep a people fighting when all seemed hopeless. Compassion was a luxury the conquered couldn’t afford.
It was towards a greater good that they had to rouse Nagash from his seclusion and draw his undead legions into the larger fight. Anything else had to be ignored. Even the security of Makvar’s own warriors. He knew how completely they were in Nagash’s power now. The forces of death were all around them, waiting in the dark. The slightest gesture, the simple withdrawl of Nagash’s protection, and those hungry wraiths would flood the Stormcasts in a sea of death. Even if they could find the path back to the desolation of Mephitt, Makvar couldn’t envision many of them making it back to the surface.
‘How much further do you reckon we must march?’ The question came from Knight-Heraldor Brannok. He kept his sword drawn as he walked beside Gojin’s flank, eyes roving across the lurking shadows. Of all the Anvils, it was Brannok who exhibited the most suspicion of their grim allies. It was telling of his sense of loyalty and duty that he expressed that suspicion by keeping close to Makvar in hopes of shielding the Lord-Celestant from harm.
‘The Realm of Death is vast,’ Makvar said. ‘Nor can we be certain these vaults can be measured in leagues or miles as we understand them. I cannot say how far we’ve come. It would be even more impossible to say how far we have yet to go.’
Makvar studied Brannok for a moment. It wasn’t the length of their journey that disturbed him, but the question of what they would find waiting for them at its end. He had brought Neferata’s message to the Lord-Celestant, tidings that gave Makvar much to ponder. The disappearance of Kismet in the Mirefells was certainly an ill portent, if it was truly as mysterious as the vampire queen suggested. The Mortarch of Blood had her own aspirations, a facet that added a new wrinkle to the web of intrigue that characterised the shadowy world of the undead. She was most eager to prove her friendship towards the Anvils, even at the expense of her fealty to Nagash. That very fact forced Makvar to be sceptical of her warnings. She could be trying to curry favour with him by sowing suspicion of her master.
Still, Makvar had to admit, there was some truth bound into Neferata’s warnings. Whether she was genuine or simply clever enough to clothe her deceptions in a mantle of reality, he couldn’t say. It was certainly true that the Obelisk of Black had exerted a disturbing energy on the Stormcasts who bore it away from Nulahmia. It was also true that Arkhan had remained behind in Mephitt, ostensibly to replenish the forces lost combating the minions of Nurgle by reanimating the city’s ancient dead. Might he also be gathering the relics Neferata had described?
Brannok stepped ahead of Gojin, placing himself between the dracoth and the rider who came galloping towards the Stormcasts. It was a messenger from the entourage of Nagash and Neferata. No skeletal herald this time, but a leering vampire in blood-red armour. Makvar recognised the cruel visage of Lord Harkdron as he drew his decayed horse to a halt several yards ahead of the Anvils.
‘Great Nagash exten
ds his salutations to you, Lord Makvar,’ Harkdron announced, not quite able to keep the distaste he felt from tainting his words. ‘He commands me to inform you that the redoubt of Lord Mannfred is near.’ The vampire leaned forwards in his saddle, his face curling back into a sneer. ‘The seclusion of Nachtsreik has been disturbed. The enemy lays siege to it, seeking to force their way past its defences.’
‘Nagash expects us to lift the siege?’ Brannok returned Harkdron’s scorn.
Harkdron glared back at the Knight-Heraldor for a moment, his eyes glittering with hate. ‘The Great Necromancer expects nothing,’ he snarled back. ‘What Nagash commands is that Lord Makvar select a small contingent of his storm-knights to accompany him into the fortress.’ The vampire shifted his attention back to the Lord-Celestant. ‘Much time will be lost if we try to fight our way through the enemy host,’ he explained. ‘Mighty Nagash is aware of the urgency of your embassy and would spare a needless effort. A handful of your warriors – no more than a score – should suffice.’
‘What is Nagash’s intention?’ Makvar asked.
‘There are ways into Nachtsreik known only to him,’ Harkdron said. ‘Passages too small for an army but where a smaller company can move with ease.’
‘And, of course, Nagash will join this foray,’ Brannok’s voice came like an audible scowl. Makvar gave the warrior a reproving glance.
Harkdron nodded. ‘Great Nagash and Queen Neferata will accompany you, along with such attendants as they feel needful.’ The vampire smiled, displaying his sharp fangs. ‘Without them, it is doubtful you could even find Mannfred’s sanctuary, much less treat with him before he ripped out your throats.’
Holding his hand towards Brannok, silencing whatever rejoinder the Knight-Heraldor might be tempted to make, Makvar dismissed Harkdron. ‘Tell Nagash that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer stand ready to aid him in restoring contact with his vassal. Tell him that we appreciate this concession to the urgency of our mission and the furtherance of an alliance that will benefit both our realms.’
The vampire started to ride away, then turned back, an almost frightened look on his face. He hesitated a moment before relaying one last command from the Great Necromancer. ‘When you decide which storm-knights are to join you, Nagash asks that you include those who carry the Light Celestial among your entourage.’
Brannok watched as Harkdron rode off, then turned and spoke to Makvar. ‘Why does Nagash want to draw Lord-Castellant Vogun and Knight-Azyros Huld from our ranks? Why them specifically?’
Makvar felt he knew the answer. From all he had witnessed, even Arkhan and Neferata were sensitive to the light Vogun and Huld carried in their lamps. ‘I think Nagash is unsure that Mannfred will be as eager to submit to his master as the other Mortarchs. He may feel that Sigmar’s light is necessary to subdue the Mortarch of Night.’
A shroud of mist marked the doorway between the forbidden underworld and the secret redoubt of Nachtsreik. Even to Neferata, the mist had a clammy, parasitic feel to it. She knew that for a mortal, the phantasmal barrier would be even more repulsive, sucking at their veins and drawing out their essence. Such spectral walls had the potential to ward off all but the most powerful slaves of Chaos, though the arcane demands to maintain such barriers went beyond the abilities even of the Mortarchs to sustain for long. Only Nagash had such power. Walking through the mist, Neferata was reminded of his dominance and the strength of his fell shadow.
The barrier opened into the mouldy confines of an ancient crypt. The caskets had long ago been pulled from their niches in the walls, the bones of their occupants strewn about the floor. A winding series of steps rose up from the tomb, climbing towards the smashed timbers of a narrow doorway. Neferata could see the skeletal figure of Nagash already ascending those steps, one bony hand curled around the haft of his staff, Alakanash. With his other hand, the Lord of Death evoked the ancient spirits of the crypt, surrounding himself in a circle of ghostly energy.
Only a few of Neferata’s vampire knights accompanied her from the underworld, the rest remaining behind with the remainder of her army. Lord Harkdron followed the blood knights through the mist, his expression sullen. Her lover had grown increasingly attentive to her since his failure to defend Nulahmia, as though his eagerness to please could blot out his deficiencies. She had made no secret of her displeasure, fully aware how her disapproval only fed the vampire’s devotion. In the presence of beings like Nagash and Arkhan, it did her pride immeasurable good to have someone at her side who still worshipped her as a goddess.
The fearful adoration she had enjoyed in Nulahmia would be hers again. Neferata was determined to regain everything that had been lost. Even if it meant defying the intentions of the Great Necromancer.
Neferata turned to face the veil of mist, watching as Makvar and his Stormcasts marched out from the underworld. Not so much as a shudder passed through their armoured frames. The only evidence of their fearful passage was found in the gryph-hound that crept alongside Vogun. The half-bird’s feathers were ruffled and his lean body shivered with the trauma of his trot through the veil. Neferata considered it a testament to the might of the Stormcasts that they not only withstood the barrier, but had even been able to compel a simple beast to follow them through.
The vampire queen noted that Brannok was among the warriors Makvar had chosen to accompany him. She took that as a reassuring sign, evidence perhaps that he was taking her warnings to heart. Whether Nagash intended to support the Stormcasts or not, Neferata saw only advantage for herself by gaining their goodwill.
The rest of Makvar’s followers consisted of a mixture of archers and swordsmen, as well as the winged storm-angel Huld and the formidable healer-priest Vogun. The skull-helmed Kreimnar wasn’t in evidence, however. Left behind to command the rest of the Anvils while they awaited the return of Nagash and their commander.
Makvar looked around the crypt, seeming to take especial notice of the layers of cobwebs and mould that coated the walls and filled the niches. ‘What is this place?’ he asked Neferata.
‘You might call it an antechamber,’ she said. ‘A threshold between the underworld and the rest of Shyish. There are many such places in the Realm of Death, though only Nagash knows them all.’
Huld came forward, gesturing at Harkdron and the other blood knights. ‘Forgive me for what may seem an imprudent observation, but I expected you to bring more warriors.’ The words brought a frown to Neferata’s face and a glower to that of Harkdron.
‘You are in the presence of the Lord of Death,’ Nagash’s words echoed through the crypt. ‘There is no mightier power in this realm.’ The Great Necromancer turned from the top of the steps, staring down at the Stormcasts below. ‘If it is disparity of numbers that unsettles you, I will put your fear to rest.’
Neferata felt the power gathering into Nagash’s claw as he pointed down to the floor of the crypt. She recognised the nature of the magic he was conjuring, though it was of a magnitude that surprised her. The litter of bones tossed about the tomb began to tremble, bouncing upon the cold floor with spasms of animation. A green nimbus of energy gathered around each fragment and with a speed she found to be incredible, they leapt from the floor. A dozen whirlwinds of shattered bone gyrated about the crypt, waves of necromantic energy streaming from Nagash’s hand into each eddy.
The spirals of bone began to take a distinct shape as Nagash’s magic fused the fragments together. They were forms which Neferata realised could never have been natural to the occupants of the crypt. Skeletal apparitions, each as big as a Stormcast, that had tattered wings sprouting from their backs and canine jaws distorting their bestial skulls. The Great Necromancer wasn’t reanimating the dead, he was using the mortal debris as a shell to house the primordial spirits of his own guard. In appearance, they were not unlike the morghasts who served Neferata, but she knew the spirits that lurked within these skeletal monsters were far more powerful. These belon
ged to divine avengers dispatched aeons ago to destroy Nagash, only to fail in their purpose and be enslaved by the Lord of Death. These were the morghast archai.
The Stormcasts weren’t cowed by the frightful feat of necromancy that unfolded before them. Still, Neferata noticed that Vogun drew slightly ahead of his comrades and had one hand poised above the lantern he carried. Brannok, too, exhibited an increased wariness, drawing closer to Makvar. The Lord-Celestant himself, however, gave no sign of trepidation. Boldly, he walked towards the steps.
‘Lord Nagash,’ Makvar called up to the Great Necromancer. ‘We have no doubt as to your power. Accept my apology if any offence has been paid to you.’ He pointed to the shattered door at the top of the steps. ‘Mannfred’s refuge lies beyond that portal?’
Nagash turned, waving his staff towards the door. At his mere gesture, the remaining timbers decayed, collapsing into a heap of black dust. Through the doorway, a sinister red light spilled into the crypt. ‘Nachtsreik,’ he declared. ‘The Stronghold of Night.’
Neferata felt the mockery in Nagash’s voice, the sardonic amusement woven into his words. She glanced aside at the Anvils, but it appeared none of them had noticed the sinister tone. Yet when Makvar climbed the steps, the Lord-Celestant drew back. He had stood without flinching within a few feet of the morghasts as they clothed themselves in shards of bone, yet now he retreated from the doorway. The vampire queen rushed up the steps to see for herself what could alarm the stalwart Stormcast.
What she found beyond the door of the crypt was something that shocked even her jaded sensibilities. The crypt in which they stood looked out across an immense cavern, its furthest reaches lost in shadow. It wasn’t the size of the cavern that stunned her, however, but the fact that everything seemed inverted. When she gazed up, she saw not the roof but the floor of the cavern, covered with pools of murky water and a twisting road of colossal flagstones. Immense statues lay shattered about the rocky terrain, sprawled between a forest of stalagmites. More, there were creatures moving along that road and within the stony forest, a teaming mass of verminous shapes cloaked in filthy robes. It was as though the mouth of the crypt in which she stood was positioned above the cavernous landscape, and those within the tomb were hanging over it like flies on a ceiling. Even the sight of the great pulsating light that smouldered at the heart of the cavern like some miniature moon couldn’t match the uncanny sensation of standing on the roof of the world.