by Darius Hinks
I’m starting to think I should head back to Tylos when a sound makes me pause. There’s something approaching from behind me. I can’t see through the gloom but I can hear the slurping, slapping sound of feet tramping through the mud and gore. I hurry around the next bend and freeze. Up ahead of me, there’s a figure hunched over the bodies, feasting on their ruptured flesh as if it were a glorious banquet. The creature is a stooped, grey-skinned horror, covered with open sores and threaded with writhing worms.
At the sound of my approach, the ghoul whirls around and stares at me with wild, rolling eyes. It’s carrying a half-gnawed femur, and at the sight of me it scampers through the filth, swinging the bone at my face.
My warhammer lands with such force that the ghoul’s skull collapses. It cartwheels back through the ditch, losing its makeshift weapon and collapsing into the bodies it had been feeding on. The blessed sigmarite of my weapon is engraved with holy tracts and as the monster tries to rise, its body collapses and burns under the weight of my faith, shrivelling and boiling into a pale soup that seeps away into the mud.
I’m now left in no doubt as to what is approaching from the opposite direction so I stride on through the bodies, keen to avoid making any more noise, but before I’ve taken more than a few steps, the bodies start to rise. Dozens of the corpses are revealed as wild-eyed ghouls, identical the one I just destroyed. They moan and gurgle as they lurch towards me.
My hammer flashes in the dark as I charge through them. There’s no time to stand and fight and no way to return. All I can do is race on and pray I reach my destination before I draw Khorne’s bloody gaze.
The ghouls swarm around me, rising from the mud and viscera like a pallid fungus. They’ve clearly been waiting for something to fall within their cadaverous reach, too afraid to venture out into the open.
Finally, a whole wall of grasping, broken-clawed hands slams into me, barring my way. I strike them down with furious blows but, eventually, they clamber towards me in such numbers that I’m driven up the wall of the ditch and out of cover.
The nearest of the warbands is less than a hundred yards away and, as I stumble into view, still pummelling the mob of leering ghouls, my golden armour flashes in the moonlight. I am seen.
Horns blare with renewed violence and there’s a great clattering of armour as a host of warriors turn to face me. At the head of the column there is a knight in thick, spiked armour. He bellows a command and his men break ranks, racing towards me with a deafening roar.
‘Where are you?’ I gasp, racing through the darkness. There’s nothing waiting for me but another mound of bodies. ‘You promised me a way back!’
The ghouls are butchered and trampled into the ground as the Chaos warriors bear down on me. I find myself surrounded by rows of heavily armoured killers. They slow as they approach, readying their brutal axes, intrigued by my strange armour.
I back onto a mound of bodies, my hammer raised before me, then laugh as I see what I’m standing on. Piled beneath me are the slaughtered remains of a library – charred remnants of books, trampled into the ash and mud. They are as familiar to me as the faces of my own family. I spent my youth cataloguing these ancient texts and I understand immediately what they mean. He has left me a way back – a way through the glamour that has shielded him from the Blood God. I grab a book and start to chant the old litanies, waiting for the necromancer to hear me.
The Chaos warriors howl in rage as I start to fade from sight.
It’s autumn, as the necromancer likes it, and as my boots sink deep into a mulch of muddy brown leaves I can’t help feeling a little impressed by what he has achieved. The Dark Gods have left their mark everywhere but here. Not a single brass tower mars the sombre beauty of his estates. The valley is lined only with leafless, rain-lashed trees and long, grasping shadows. The necromancer is ancient beyond even my understanding, more of a relic than the trinkets he collects, but despite everything that passed between us, I can’t deny that his learning has served him well. He claimed once that he was born in another age, long before the coming of Chaos. Such talk no longer seems quite so fanciful. Few have the power to mask themselves so completely that even a god cannot discover their presence. I never learned to pronounce my master’s true name, but the appellation I always gave him still seems apt: Mopus.
The fane itself was one of Mopus’ earliest finds. It’s the grandest of his homes and it squats at the end of the valley, as though ready to scuttle away; a crumbling mountain of faceted turquoise, forty feet tall, twice as wide and carved in the likeness of a colossal deathwatch beetle. Its compound eyes watch my approach with hunger and I pick up my pace, jogging through the whirling rain.
I hurry through the gloom and realise that not all of the shapes lining the valley are trees. I stop, peer through the drizzle and realise that there are hundreds of pale figures standing in rows around me, clutching ancient spears and staring away from the fane. They’re as motionless as the trees, but a cold light flickers in their shattered skulls. I step towards the edge of the path and see that the ranks of undead continue out of sight. There must be thousands of them, an army waiting patiently for a command. They pay no attention to me, but their presence gives me pause. Mopus was never one for wars. That was our great bone of contention – the wedge that drove us apart. It seems that many things have changed in the realm of the dead. I continue on my way with even more wariness. If Mopus is still the master of this place, then he is not the man I remember.
The entrance to the fane lies between the beetle’s broken antennae at the base of its head, and as I hurry towards the door a pair of milk-eyed cadavers step from the shadows to greet me. I would expect to be remembered at this place, but I lift my hammer just in case.
Mopus’ attendants twitch, as though tugged by invisible strings, then back away into the shadows, leaving the way clear.
I climb the steps to the towering slab of turquoise that passes for a door. It’s buried beneath a robe of dead ivy and clearly hasn’t been opened for months, so I am forced to tear and pull at the knotted mass until, finally, I uncover an iron handle. The door is locked, but the handle is so rusted that one good shove breaks it free and the door screeches open. A gentle sound seeps out through the gap: a whispered tapping, the sound of tiny pebbles pouring into a tin bowl.
I glance back and see the sentries staring blankly at me. They make no move to attack so I shove the door wider and stumble inside.
I’m met by a wall of clocks and mildewed books, stacked in mounds and filling the entrance hall. The smell of damp is overwhelming and there is something tragic about the scene. The books are rotting into an inseparable mass of gilt-edged pages and sagging, broken spines. It’s like the site of a mass burial. The clocks are in just as poor condition but, by some charm of Mopus, they are all still ticking. This is the tapping I heard – so many mechanisms working at once sounds like a distant hailstorm.
Cold blue light pours through the walls and washes over the dying books, revealing how tightly packed they are. For a moment I think there is no way to proceed, but then I spot a gap near the ceiling, to the right of the passageway. Time spent in the fane will bear no relation to the battle at the Anvil, but I cannot allow myself to dawdle. Already I can feel the lure of Mopus’ quiet cold, and I doubt the God-King would offer me a second chance at salvation.
I clamber up the wall of books and clocks, wincing at every torn cover, and reach the ceiling. The gap is too small but the air is so damp that I can shove my hammer through the barrier as though it were a bank of mud. After a few moments I manage to haul myself through the hole.
On the other side there are more piles of sodden books and broken timepieces, but I am able to crawl across them, just inches below the ceiling, until I reach the lintel of a wide doorway. I squeeze myself through the gap and into another room.
I slide down the slope of books but there’s still no sign of a floo
r. In this chamber, as well as more books, there are mounds of idols and fetishes. I see bronze, dog-headed statues and carved, wooden birds piled together with no obvious sense of order, but I notice that all of them carry Mopus’ tiny, handwritten labels.
It’s only as I approach another door that I notice I’m not alone. There are figures slumped amongst the relics. Some look up as I pass, but most remain intent on their work, poring over drooping pages or scratching at mouldering paintings. They’re as pale and lifeless as the monsters guarding the door, and the eyes that turn towards me are clouded and blue. Mopus has long made a habit of employing the studious dead and I start to feel more confident that my journey will not be wasted.
No one speaks so I hurry on. It’s a long time since I visited the fane, but I easily remember the way to Mopus’ chambers. If he lives, there is no question of his being absent. That much, at least, I can be sure of.
Another pair of hooded figures is watching over the entrance to his chambers, but, again, they back away at my approach, and I step through the door.
Everything is as I recall, a fact I can’t help but find comforting. Tapestries still cover every inch of the antechamber, so threadbare and thick with dust that the heroic scenes have faded into abstraction. The blurry, indistinguishable shapes, combined with the hazy, filthy air, make me feel almost drunk. That, along with the gloom, spare me from seeing most of the other things in the room. Crooked bookcases lean against much of the wall space, crammed with crumbling tomes and rows of jars. There’s enough light for me to see that the pale, half-formed shapes suspended in the jars are twitching and moving, excited by my arrival. There are countless other mysteries vying for my attention: abandoned sketches, broken pieces of scientific equipment and piles of bleached human bones, all covered with Mopus’ little labels.
I walk through into Mopus’ study and, to my surprise, the ancient scholar almost rises from his desk. He can’t quite force himself to leave his mouldering texts, but he sits in a more upright position than I have seen before, and actually turns to look at me. His face is as pallid and skull-like as ever, but his eyes flash victoriously as I approach his desk. His skin is so tightly stretched around his skull that it seems to shine in the candlelight. Every inch of him is tattooed with intricate, cabalistic designs – spidery blue wards of protection that enable to him to converse with even the most dangerous spirits. His gaunt face conjures up memories of our final fierce argument, but I can’t help feeling a little pleased to see that, amongst all this death, Mopus is still clinging to life.
I notice other figures loitering in the darkest corners of the room – ephemeral wraiths, draped in robes of pale mist, and newcomers to the fane. They drift a few feet above the dusty floorboards and I can see at a glance that Mopus has dragged them from the grave. The candlelight refuses to illuminate them fully, but I sense them staring at me with interest.
Mopus shows no anger as I reach his side, only pride that I could not stay away. Whatever passed between us, I sense I am forgiven. He waves me to a chair and grasps my hand as I sit. His long, filthy digits lock around my gauntlet and he gives me a smile of genuine friendship.
‘The Crucible of Blood,’ he says finally. His age-ravaged voice is hard to understand. ‘You kept me waiting for all these years, Boreas. You left me here alone, with no word of your whereabouts, take up a new religion, and then you embark on adventures without ever asking me for help. Why didn’t you come to me, Boreas? Can it really be that you no longer value my advice?’
I have few cards to play. The old scholar clearly knows why I’m here, and my new name. He probably knew my purpose before I did. I nod and then glance again at his spectral attendants. His tone is pleasant enough, but I’m in no doubt as to how much danger I’m in. His guards carry weapons of some kind, knives perhaps, but they’re too hidden in mist for me to make them out.
‘Look,’ says Mopus, shifting rotten books from the pile on his desk until he finds the volume he’s after. It’s a slim portfolio of prints and sketches and as he flicks through them he laughs. ‘Have you seen the thing?’ He jabs one of his crooked fingers at a particularly disturbing painting. It shows thousands of daemonic beings boiling in a vast pool of blood, surrounded by a rim of brass. Even so crudely rendered the daemons make a shocking sight.
I look away from the painting and he smiles at me again, making his face even more skull-like. ‘I imagine your new friends did not explain the whole story, did they?’ He traces his finger over the text beneath the image and reads aloud. ‘Beneath the ruins of the Nomad City stands the Crucible of Blood. It is an enormous brass skull. It is a gruesome relic of an ancient war, filled with the blood of a thousand mortals. It is charged with the power of the Lord of Rage.’
Mopus gives the robed figures a wild-eyed glance, as though expecting a reply. They give none, so he continues.
‘The skies above the Crucible of Blood are filled with the drifting fragments of the Nomad City. The ruins may once have been a great civilisation or perhaps, a single, fortified structure, crafted by forgotten beings in the time before Chaos.’
Mopus shakes his head in wonder as he stares at the painting. Then he turns to me, his eyes narrowing. ‘What have you got yourself embroiled in, young Boreas?’
So he doesn’t know everything; his omniscience clearly doesn’t stretch as far as the Celestial City. He doesn’t seem to know the significance of the crucible. So much has changed since we last met. Mopus, the great scholar of our age, is ignorant of our prize. His books have finally failed him.
He leans across his desk and, as he moves, his thin, parchment skin slides over his ribs. He peers through the eyeholes of my mask and runs one of his bony digits across the golden sigmarite of my armour, tracing the contours and sacred runes. ‘A uniform.’ The idea seems to amuse him and he glances mischievously at the figures in the shadows. ‘Boreas has joined a regiment.’
I say nothing.
‘But he has become no less taciturn,’ he laughs, flopping back into his chair and spreading his arms. ‘What do you want, boy?’
‘I do value your advice, Mopus, and I need your help.’
He keeps smiling but I sense that he also wears a mask. Behind that smile he’s worried. Another sign of how much things have changed. I can’t remember ever seeing fear in him before. He looks from me to the painting of the Crucible of Blood and then back at me again.
‘We all need help, Boreas,’ he says. ‘There’s still magic in the fane that those Chaos wretches could never hope to comprehend, but it’s failing.’ He grimaces and looks at his empty palms. ‘You know I have no appetite for war, but I have been forced to prepare for it just the same. I fear my solitude may soon be taken from me.’
I nod, thinking of the pale legions I saw in the valley.
‘And, after all these centuries, my second sight is failing.’ He waves his hand. The gesture draws a column of letters from the pages on his desk and they begin to whirl and spin. Mopus licks his ink-stained fingertips and jabs them at the luminous characters. After a while, images appear in the storm of words. I see Tylos and the others, battling furiously, trapped in the heart of the Anvil. I lean closer, trying to discern details.
‘They won’t break through.’ Mopus stares at the images, fascinated. ‘I can still see that much. Not without my help. Which, of course, is why you came.’ He peers at the tiny gold figures. ‘But what are they? I have scoured my libraries for a clue but found nothing.’ He turns to me, looking at my armour again. It must be galling for the great collector to see such an unfamiliar design. ‘What’s happening, Boreas? What have you become?’
‘The Age of Chaos is over.’ I try to keep my voice flat and impassive, but the words ring out through the darkness. ‘The Celestial Gates have opened, Mopus. The Lord of Storms has returned.’
Mopus licks his thin, cracked lips and glances at his shadowy entourage. ‘Sigmar?’ He frowns. ‘If
that were true – if you are really his vengeful host – this is not the most impressive crusade, is it? You’re trapped in the Anvil, miles from the Crucible of Blood.’
‘We were thrown off course. We should have landed in the ruins of the Nomad City, right at the foot of the Crucible, but the storm was sent astray and we landed in the borderlands. We should already have completed our mission.’ I glance at him. ‘We were betrayed.’
‘So, Sigmar’s great homecoming ends with a whimper, just because you got lost?’ He softens his voice. ‘Come home, Boreas. Take off that ridiculous suit. Study with me, as you did before. Since you left, I’ve collected treasures you can’t imagine. Why get yourself embroiled in the wars of gods? They’ve always fought and they always will, but only we get killed. They’re not like us, Boreas. They don’t care about us. And there’s still so much to do here – so much to learn. There is knowledge here that you couldn’t dream of. If you joined me we could survive a hundred wars.’
‘Survival isn’t enough,’ I say calmly. ‘Murder and cruelty can’t just be ignored. Things have to change, and we have to change them. I won’t hide any more.’ I nod at the image of Tylos and the other Stormcast Eternals. ‘This is just a fragment. You’re seeing the tiniest glimpse of what will follow. We’re a raindrop at the cusp of a great storm.’
He keeps staring at me and I sense that I’ve touched something in him – some vestigial spark of honour. Then he slumps back into his chair.
‘I’ve lived too long to follow heroes, Boreas. I tried that once before. Their failure caused me more pain than all the gods combined. Change is not so easily brought about. I could get you past the Anvil, but I can’t see why I should. You’ve made it clear I no longer have your allegiance.’
For years I’ve suppressed my disappointment in him, the fury I felt at our final parting, but now it boils out of me. ‘You’re not the things you own, Mopus. You are not dead. You have knowledge and possessions here that could make a difference. You could end the suffering of thousands if you dared to apply the things you have learned. But you hide yourself away here, studying life so that you don’t have to live it.’