by Darius Hinks
I fasten the chain tighter and stagger across the lurching bridge, barging between crowds of tumbling bodies. I grab those I can, fixing them to the structure, while crushing those in red with Grius until they are as broken as the birds. It’s hard to fight cleanly in this madness, but I refuse to slip into brutality. I’m no longer the animal Sigmar lifted from the slave pits. I’m a good man; a devout man. Every kill I make is in Sigmar’s name.
My men follow my lead and soon we’re on the attack again, bloody and shackled but twice as determined. The laughter of our foes ceases as they find themselves once more facing a wall of hammer-emblazoned shields. I doubt we look as glorious as when we arrived, but I’m sure we are more terrifying.
Drusus and his men loop through the night sky, supporting our advance, hurling Sigmar’s twin-tailed judgement.
The bloodreavers fight on. They can’t hope to win, but the pitiful few that remain throw themselves at us, fuelled by a senseless kill-fever, thrashing and hacking as we trample them.
The final push is over in minutes. The storm is definitely fading now and the bridge becomes calm. Eventually, the moon is high enough that we can smash our chains and charge, finishing the bloodreavers in a silent, efficient slaughter.
I grab the last of them by the throat and drag him to the edge of the bridge. He kicks as I hold him out into the night, studying him with silent dispassion. He stops struggling and spits on my mask, his phlegm sizzling angrily on the metal, and stares at the blood flowing from the eyehole of my mask.
‘Blood for the Blood God.’ He starts laughing.
I remain silent.
The bloodreaver’s eyes become lucid and I am pleased to see that I have confused him. He continues to laugh but it sounds forced. He strains to free himself whilst staring at my mask, trying to see what lies behind.
There was a time when I would have crushed him just see his pain, to see him beg for mercy, but I stay my hand. I am no longer that man. I brought the bloodreaver out here to denounce him, to list his crimes and vent my rage, but now I realise that would be as clumsy as revealing my face.
I drop him from the bridge.
As the bloodreaver falls from view, the insanity of this place hits me. I know the name of this kingdom – the Kharvall Steppe – but little else. I had assumed that the bridge spanned a great river, but the thundering noise I can hear is coming from something far stranger. Below us is an ocean of black fire, boiling with tormented creatures. I have no doubt that this place was once magnificent, but now it’s a monstrous sight. I look down on a frenzied tsunami of reptiles, mammals and crustaceans, bound together by flames and ash, tumbling and rolling over each other in a furious rush to escape the heat. Some of the scorched creatures resemble things I can recognise, but others have been warped into lunatic creations of horn and scale. The moon paints them red; a torrent of claws and blood.
Boreas’ cool tones interrupt my thoughts. He has left the other commanders behind and followed me to the edge of the bridge. Now that we are alone, he finally drops my title.
‘Your first taste of victory, brother.’
‘Victory isn’t enough,’ I reply. ‘You know that. If we’re to win the wider war, we must be a beacon. We must ignite these realms, not with flames but with hope. Vandus’ victory at the Igneous Gate has bought us passage this far, but we have to be worthy of him. We must show the people of this land what they can be.’ I draw back my shoulders and take a deep breath. ‘We must show them how to be stronger, better.’
Boreas glances back across the bridge. ‘Sixty Liberators are gone,’ he says, with no trace of emotion.
I look past him and see the truth of it. Of those that remain, many have dark stains on their golden armour.
‘The pull of the moon,’ he explains. ‘I can do nothing for them. They will endure hours of agony before their souls can return to the Celestial Realm.’
I look up at the sky. Which of those lights are not stars but men, screaming as they drift into the lonely void?
I turn to Boreas, wondering what kind of man he is now. We have shared so much and yet I feel like he is a stranger. Where has he travelled in Sigmar’s name? Every inch of his golden armour is draped in talismans: skulls, bones and scrolls, all inscribed with tales of the underworlds. There is a grandeur to him that I don’t recognise, and a coldness.
‘The scholars of the Celestial City did not foresee this,’ he says. ‘I did not foresee it. The storm should have landed us inside Hakh’s kingdom, at the foot of the Crucible of Blood. Instead it brought us here, to the Red Road.’ His words trail off and he shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft that I can barely hear him. ‘Dawn will soon be here and there are now many challenges between us and victory. Hakh’s realm is encircled by a great fortress known as the Anvil. My visions have–’
‘Brother,’ I interrupt. ‘There are no walls tall enough to stop this army. You know that. It doesn’t matter where we’ve landed, Sigmar will not abandon us. We will reach the Crucible of Blood.’
He nods. ‘I just want you to know what lies ahead. After the Anvil, we will reach Lake Malice, a mile-wide stretch of lava. Our souls may be immortal, but our flesh is not. You will need to find a way across that liquid inferno.’
‘Then we have little time. How fast can we reach the Crucible of Blood?’
‘If we follow the road for another mile or so past the bridge’s end we’ll reach the Anvil. Lake Malice is not much further from there. If we can find a way across, the Crucible of Blood will be in sight.’
‘How long before the sun rises?’
‘Maybe as little as three hours.’ He looks up and I find myself trying to discern the eyes behind his skull mask. There’s something strange about the colour, or maybe it’s the absence of colour? I step closer, intrigued.
‘If the sun rises before we capture the crucible, even Sigmar can’t help us,’ he says, turning to the horizon.
‘Then three hours will have to suffice,’ I say. ‘Do you still have our key?’ I glance at the collection of relics that adorn his armour. ‘Is it intact?’
He takes a heavily bolted box from his belt and opens it with a muttered prayer. Then he lifts out a fume-filled bell jar. The opaque, green glass is thicker than my shield and locked to a silver base by a row of filigreed clasps. The jar is beautiful, in stark contrast to the contents. As Boreas lifts the glass from its base, a cloud of mist drifts away to reveal a shrivelled, black heart. The Kuriat, ancient beyond imagining, a living fossil from another age, still beating with a steady, unceasing thud. Tiny lights flutter around it, golden motes that dance and sparkle as Boreas holds the relic up in front of his mask to study its rhythm.
‘The Kuriat has already slowed,’ he mutters. ‘The radiant storms have been cast astray. Something has perverted the will of the Celestial City. Or someone perhaps.’ He glances at me, then looks down again. The golden lights billow and roll, forming symbols under his fathomless gaze. He reads something in the tiny constellations and nods, before closing the jar and locking it carefully away again.
‘The Kuriat is still true. Its potential is undimmed. If we bring it to the Crucible of Blood, Khorne’s legions will find that a new power has dominion over their prized realmgate.’ He notices the crimson smear across my metal mask. ‘You’re wounded. Let me see.’
I remove my helmet and allow him to examine my eye.
Pain explodes across my face as he touches me but I consider it just penance for being so careless. How absurd to have been injured in my first battle.
‘The eye is punctured,’ he says, a hint of humanity in his voice, a hint of my brother. ‘And the cut is messy. I’ll need to mend the wound as best as I can to avoid infection.’
I try to shrug him off, impatient to move on, but he points at the madness below. ‘Lord-Celestant, this is not a place to be careless, and your life is too precious to
be taken lightly. Your soul may survive a corrupted wound, but your flesh will not, and I do not intend to lead this army in your stead.’
I loosen my grip on his arm. ‘Then work quickly, brother.’
He takes an object from his armour and presses it to my face. Something plunges deep into my eye socket. The pain doubles and fresh blood pours down my face, then the world turns crimson. I struggle to see what my brother does next. He chants in a language I’ve never heard before and the words sound furious and alien, then he reaches up, as though trying to grasp something from the air.
‘How long will–’ I start to say, when a blazing column of light slams into us. It hits me with such force that I almost topple to the ground. Only my brother’s firm grip holds me upright. The air crackles with arcane power and a sickening heat washes over me.
I try to cry out but my body is shaking so violently that I can’t speak. My weapons drop to the ground and I slump in my brother’s grip. Light pours through me, cramming my consciousness with dazzling energy as the celestial majesty burns through my skull. For an agonising, rapturous moment I feel not Boreas’ hand but Sigmar’s on my flesh. The light deepens and grows before revealing a hellish vision: thousands of grinning cadavers, rising up from a shattered wasteland. They crawl from their graves and swarm towards me, carrying ancient, rusting spears. One of them is a great, winged horror and, as it dives towards me I see its bleached skull in gruesome detail. I’m about to cry out in defiance, to denounce it, when the vision vanishes, replaced by the polished skull mask of my brother’s helm.
The light fades and night returns. Strength floods back to my limbs and as I look around, I see that I’m still on the bridge of birds.
‘You saw something,’ says Boreas, keeping hold of my arm. ‘What?’
I shake my head, confused.
He stares at me in silence for a moment, then gives a disapproving sigh that takes me right back to our childhood.
‘You are doubly blessed, brother. The God-King has worked a miracle through my humble flesh. I only meant to safeguard you from infection, but it looks as though Sigmar does not wish to be served by one-eyed lords.’
I blink and realise that he’s right: the vision has returned to my eye. As I study the storm clouds overhead, though, I feel as though I am seeing more than I should. The heavens are strangely vivid and mobile. I shake my head. ‘We need to go.’
I click my mask back into place and clasp my brother’s shoulder in thanks, then we stride back across the bridge to the others.
Some of them are wounded but there’s no doubt in their eyes as they see me approaching. Zarax is there, waiting patiently for my return. She looks unharmed and is scratching and pawing at the bridge, eager to carry on.
Drusus lands a few feet away and as he removes his helmet I feel again that I’m seeing more than I did before. Now I can clearly see how the Reforging has changed him. When I first met Drusus, barging his way to the front of a crowd of aspirants, he was a broken man, tormented by an illness of the mind. Now a steady, missionary zeal burns in his heart. He folds his lightning-bright wings behind his back and drops to one knee. The trust in his face feels like another inch of armour across my chest.
‘Forgive me, Lord-Celestant,’ he says. As he speaks, his head twitches to one side, a ghost of his former madness, but he refuses to let his voice waver. ‘I will not fail you again.’
‘True,’ I reply. ‘You will not.’
Ranks of Liberators, Retributors and Judicators climb slowly to their feet. They raise their weapons in silent tribute, ready to begin again. I’m so proud I could roar.
I climb onto Zarax’s back and survey my incorruptible host.
‘Your baptism is complete,’ I cry. ‘Prepare for war!’
After half an hour’s march we leave the bridge of birds and I lead the army through avenues of cloud-scraping, shattered towers. Drusus and his Prosecutors glide overhead, slicing through storm-wracked clouds, clutching their hammers and javelins as they search for signs of danger. From Zarax’s back I survey the lines of Liberators marching ahead of me. Even their presence in this wretched place is an act of defiance. They move in flawless, perfectly symmetrical phalanxes, illustrating everything that an army should be. They’re riven with faith and pride. Behind me stride the paladins, Celadon at their head and further back march the ranks of Judicators. Chaos-spawned horrors scuttle for safety as our boots crunch towards them.
‘Soon,’ says Boreas, looking up at me. There’s a trace of humour in his voice.
‘Soon?’
He waves his hammer at the army that surrounds us. ‘Soon you’ll have your chance to truly test them and see what Sigmar has entrusted you with. It won’t be long until you can show your mettle.’
I smile behind my helmet. How easily he still guesses my thoughts. I glance at the heavens, trying to discern our home in the stars. ‘They say that when Vandus opened the Igneous Gate, the heavens cried out in gratitude. They say a chorus of lost souls sang his name.’
Boreas nods. ‘You have a lot to live up to.’
We reach the plateau and leave the shadow of the towers, heading for a glittering, moonlit expanse of scorched earth that leads to endless fields of rippling grass. There’s a tinkling sound on the breeze, like hundreds of tiny bells. I look back and notice that the lunacy of this place is so profound that the moon has already resumed its natural place in the night sky. Sigmar’s tempest still flickers overhead and clouds race through the darkness. Our target is clear though. I don’t need Boreas’ relic to point the way. Across the fields stands a vast wall of shadow. It stretches over the horizon and flickers with crimson pinpricks of light.
‘The Anvil,’ says Boreas. ‘The border of Hakh’s kingdom. Manned by an army to make those bloodreavers look like a gathering of fishwives.’
‘Instruct my captains,’ I say. ‘Order them to spread the army out.’
Boreas snaps out commands to my captains and Zarax carries me to the edge of the fields. The tinkling sound grows louder and I realise my mistake: what I took for blades of grass are in fact real blades. We’re standing before an expanse of rusting metal – millions of swaying, broken swords, each one held erect by a rotting skeletal hand that juts out of the dusty soil. They chime gently against each other in the breeze.
‘What’s this?’ I say looking down at Boreas.
‘The Field of Blades. The last army of the Kharvall Steppe.’ He steps closer to Zarax and looks up at me. ‘Khorne found their attempts to defend themselves amusing. He buried them here in mockery.’
I glance back at the paladins. ‘Do we need to clear a path?’
‘No, Lord-Celestant, there’s no threat left in this army. They are simply a warning. Not even a warning – an illustration of what happens to those who brave the Anvil.’ He prods a sword with his hammer. ‘We’ll pass through them easily enough.’
‘There are so many,’ says Drusus, landing a few feet away.
He’s right. I look out at the Field of Blades and attempt to estimate the size of the army that Khorne found so unworthy. There must be millions of weapons quivering in the breeze while the Anvil overlooks them all, like a sated lion.
‘This must have been the greatest army that ever bore arms,’ says Drusus.
I laugh and signal the advance. ‘The second greatest.’
Chapter Four
Vourla – High Priestess of the Steppe
Hakh parades me along the battlements like I’m a prized pet rather than a woman. There’s no chain, no leash; the fool is so sure of his hold on me he never dreams I could be a threat. Others are less sure. As we pass ranks of crimson-armoured soldiers, they stare at me, outraged by the sight of a sorceress in their brainless ranks. None of them would dare to question Hakh’s will, though, not if they treasure their heads. Even the hounds don’t bite, although their presence is enough to cause me pain. A
s they pad at my side, the power of their collars crushes the magic out of me, draining me of power. They are as tall as I am and so close I can smell the brimstone in their veins.
I stagger on, playing the part of a tyrant’s consort, pausing occasionally to glare at one of Hakh’s soldiers, as though singling them out for punishment. They’re more afraid of the figure walking behind me. Vhaal is captain of Hakh’s honour guard and almost as massive as his lord. He’s clad in the same thick plate armour, painted blood red and edged in brass, and he carries a double-headed axe that I doubt I could move, let alone lift. From the neck up, though, he’s dramatically different to Hakh: the skin of his face has been flayed, leaving a mask of glistening muscle. His flesh is so corrupted that it never scabs. Blood weeps constantly from his eyes, flowing down into a long, knotted beard that hangs like a piece of intestine from his dripping chin. Hideous as his face is, it is his expression that unnerves me most. His peeled, lipless mouth seems to wear a constant smirk, as though he knows something that nobody else does.
I turn away from Vhaal and shiver. The Anvil is as high as a mountain and my tattered cloak does little to keep out the chill, but it’s a relief to be outside again. The Dark Gods long ago robbed us of clean air, but even this fume-filled miasma is better than the stench of Hakh’s throne room. Furnaces and forges work constantly in the Anvil’s bowels, rumbling and hissing behind the wall, and we are surrounded by lurid sparks that spiral up into the darkness. But high in the heavens I glimpse true stars and they hurt me more than the hounds’ collars. Their untouchable beauty is an unwelcome reminder of what has gone. As Hakh snaps orders at his men I recall folktales I learned as a child – tales of gods drenched in light, rather than blood. My father used to sing of immortals that walked the heavens, riding great star drakes into battle, driving back the daemons of the void. I try to shake my head free of such nonsense, annoyed at myself. Khorne’s butchers killed my father long ago and such thoughts can only bring me pain. My only hope now is revenge and I won’t risk it by dreaming of things that can never be.