by Darius Hinks
Boreas sees more shapes rushing towards us, raises his hammer into the rolling fumes and cries out a litany. Whatever the things are, they must be as tall as oaks. I can’t hear my brother’s words over the hissing and burning of the lake, but I can sense a growing charge in the air as he prepares for an attack.
‘Lord-Celestant,’ shouts Liberator-Prime Castamon as he reaches my side. He waves his hammer at Boreas and the paladins. ‘We need to head back!’
I shake my head. ‘There is no going back.’
Boreas is standing proudly at the head of the paladins with his banner of bones and his hammer raised in defiance. The paladins form ranks behind him, readying their weapons for whatever is about to emerge. They’re perched on flaming, shattered bones a few feet above a lake that would burn them alive. They’re about to be attacked from all sides, yet even now they show no trace of fear.
The lava erupts as a goliath bursts into view. It has the head and legs of an ox and four, powerful arms, two of which end in jagged iron hooks. Strange, crackling energy shimmers over its scarred hide and the lava leaves no mark on it. The monster bellows as it crashes into the bones, surrounded by a rolling cloud of flames and sparks.
Boreas vanishes from sight and Castamon cries out. ‘Ghorgons!’ he yells, preparing to charge back down the bones.
I slam him back into place.
‘Hold your nerve,’ I growl and he nods, stepping back into line.
The place where the paladins were standing is now a wall of flaming spray and pounding, sparking limbs. I see golden figures dashing through the flames, bringing their huge two-handed hammers to bear, but the creatures are so vast they barely register the blows.
‘We can’t leave Boreas behind,’ says Castamon, and I nod.
‘You can. Lead the army to the far side.’
As ever, Zarax knows my mind better than I do and, before I can command it, she races back towards my brother.
We’ve gone no more than a few yards when the lava erupts again, spewing another howling ghorgon from its depths. As it attacks, I notice that it’s trailing a mass of chains and cords.
Zarax leaps clear as the monster smashes through the bones, splintering the fossilised spine with an explosion of cracking sounds.
I cling to her back as a ghorgon dives in our direction, smashing a hole in the bridge.
My army has been split in two. The bulk of my retinues are gathered on one side of the break, watching in dismay as Zarax and I are forced back towards Boreas and the others.
The ghorgon has torn a twenty-foot hole in the bridge of bones. Even if Castamon wished to lead his Liberators back to me, they could never leap the gap.
I look the other way and have to stifle a cry of outrage. Where Boreas and the others were standing, there is only a cloud of spinning bone fragments and embers. I see Boreas pounding his hammer furiously against the snorting monsters, but dozens of Retributors have already been thrown into the lava, and are in their agonised death throes. Moments after the paladins sink from view, lighting cracks down from the heavens, connecting with the lake in a blaze of blue fire as Sigmar reclaims his own.
Boreas staggers under a flurry of blows and I spur Zarax on. She leaps into action, hurtling towards him. There’s a crash of breaking stone as a ghorgon smashes into view, blocking my way. I’m too furious to think about the size of the monster and I drive Zarax to even greater speed. She slams headfirst into its massive chest and I bring Grius round in a wide arc towards the monster’s face.
The warhammer lands between the ox horns with such force that another explosion rocks the fossil. I slump back in my saddle, too dazed to see what’s happened. Then I realise that the ghorgon is on its back, pawing at its bloodied face, blinded by my attack.
The fossil groans and snaps. Zarax almost loses her footing, staggering towards the lava. I grasp on to a broken shard of stone and hold us steady seconds before we plunge to our deaths. I’m just inches from the lava and my eyes stream in the heat.
Zarax leaps back to safety and I draw Evora, preparing to attack the ghorgon again.
The monster’s legs are thrashing wildly beneath it and it is unable to rise. My blow has crippled it. I behead the beast with single clean swipe of my runeblade.
I take a look back at the way we came and see a breathtaking sight. Boreas stands alone and his golden armour has been torn away in several places. He’s swaying like a drunk as ghorgons charge towards him, perched precariously on a single, massive vertebra, only hanging on with one hand and holding his warhammer aloft with the other. His reliquary has gone and there’s blood rushing from his skull mask, but he will not yield an inch. I can hear his voice from here, hoarse but defiant, ringing out over the noise of the monster’s thrashing limbs. He’s surrounded by blinding columns of light as paladins die all around him.
‘Drusus!’ I howl, scouring the skies for a sight of the Prosecutors. Most of them are gathered at the opposite end of the fossil, defending Castamon and his Liberators as they try to reach the shore, but there is no sign of Drusus’ red-plumed helmet.
I cry his name again and look back to Boreas.
A ghorgon lunges with its rusted hooks and Boreas swings his hammer but as he does a staccato blast of lightning explodes along the creature’s head. It jolts back from the fossil, letting out a furious howl, and Boreas tumbles from his perch towards the lava.
I curse, but as the blast clears I see a pair of blazing wings and Drusus soars into view, holding Boreas aloft with the aid of another Prosecutor. Others dive into battle, blasting the enemy back into the lava.
A wounded ghorgon prepares to lash out at Boreas and his rescuers, but Zarax gets there first, bounding over a final section of bone and fastening her jaws around the monster’s tree trunk throat.
I bring both sword and hammer down into its face.
The afterglow of Drusus’ attack is still shimmering over the monster’s hide and it ignites my weapons, creating another dazzling blast.
The creature is thrown backwards, towards the lava. I turn to land another blow. A volley of hammer-blows lights up the monster’s flank as Drusus and the other Prosecutor swoop by, still clutching Boreas. The final ghorgon drops into the lava but manages to clamber back onto the bridge and slice its hooks into Zarax.
I thrust Evora into one of its eyes and ink-black blood smashes into me with such force that I’m knocked back in my saddle. By the time I rise, the monster has almost vanished back into the lava. The last of its hooks is still buried deep in Zarax’s hide.
She staggers and slips towards the edge of the bones, unable to free herself. Almost in the lava, she turns her proud, draconic head and unleashes a bolt of crackling energy into the ghorgon. The light burns with such violence that she becomes a silhouette, haloed by blazing white power.
A final, agonised howl bubbles up from the lava as the sinking ghorgon releases Zarax and she staggers back to safety.
She pauses to steady herself, then pads back towards the shore, majestic and magnificent, smoke trailing from her jaws and lightning sparking between her midnight blue scales.
Chapter Thirteen
Vourla – High Priestess of the Steppe
‘What were they?’ I ask, looking up at the sky and not expecting an answer. It is the first time I have crossed Lake Malice, and I’ve only ever heard rumours of what lies beyond. The ground is an ugly mass of dull black stone, but the scene overhead is breathtaking. Huge shards of masonry hang motionless in the air, defying gravity or explanation. They are carved from flawless white stone and covered with the most beautiful murals and statues – serpentine, mythological creatures that wind around graceful, arched doorways and looping, spiral stairs. They’re clearly the product of an elegant, cultured civilization, quite unlike the brutal Chaos architecture that has looked down on my entire life. But something terrible must have happened. All that remains are
these broken, drifting fragments: steps that lead to nowhere and rooms that are open to the elements, revealing sad glimpses of forgotten halls and abandoned terraces. The lowest of the fragments is over thirty feet above the ground and it’s hard to gauge the scale, but I can tell the proportions are all wrong. No humans could have lived in these grand chambers. The rooms and doors are ten times the height of a man. This was the abode of giants.
‘It was a palace.’
I’m so shocked to get a response that I almost laugh. Since Khorlagh ushered us down onto the lakeshore no one has spoken. We’ve trudged beneath these ruins for half an hour in silence.
‘Whose palace?’ I ask.
Hakh looks up at the shards of white stone. The embers in his eyes flicker into life as he studies the floating remnants. ‘Can’t you see them?’ he asks, sounding surprised.
‘See who?’ I follow his shimmering gaze and think, perhaps, I can see something – a vague flicker of shadows near one of the doorways. But the harder I stare, the more it slips away.
Hakh grunts a laugh. ‘For once I see more than you. You’re too mortal.’
I stare harder, annoyed that this brute can perceive things that I can’t, but it’s no use.
He shrugs, still watching the figures I can’t see. ‘It doesn’t matter. They were nothing. Just stupid giants. They refused to kneel so Khorne gave them a gift.’
‘The Crucible of Blood,’ I stare through the moonlit ruins at the flashes of brass through the gaps in the crumbling walls.
He nods and spares me a proud glance. ‘Their magic could not save them – instead it trapped them.’ He laughs again. ‘Now they die, over and over again, forever.’
The pleasure in his voice hardens my resolve. Whatever guilt I feel over that golden knight is meaningless. All that matters is that Hakh pays. All that matters is destroying him.
‘Not far now,’ I say, looking further into the ruins.
He nods, but that’s clearly all the conversation he can manage.
As we march on beneath the drifting stones, I start to sense their architects even if I can’t see them. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I hear a low, alien cry filled with increasing desperation. At first it is intriguing, but it quickly becomes distressing. The voice sounds tormented. The centuries have done nothing to lessen the pain. It sounds like something forever on the brink of salvation, but unable to quite reach it. I try covering my ears to block out the sound, eliciting an odd look from Hakh, but it’s useless – the sounds are all in my mind.
As we reach the centre of the ruined city, the ground starts to become more uneven and slopes up towards the lip of a vast bowl – an enormous crater at least a mile across. At the centre is the thing I’ve been trying to avoid looking at, but as I reach the edge of the huge pit that cradles it, I’m finally forced to face the destination I’ve dragged us all to.
Grinning at us in the moonlight is a single brass skull. It’s so tall that my eyes struggle to make sense of its design, but I’ve heard enough to know this is the Crucible of Blood. It gleams a lurid yellow in the predawn light, but its expression is the thing that takes the strength from my legs. Its leering, rictus grin speaks of a bloodlust so full of vigour that I feel as though I’m facing a living beast, a merciless hunter, about to pounce. The eye sockets stare at me, revealing what lies inside – thousands of gallons of human blood, lapping gently at the thick, brass walls. Some kind of sorcery stops the blood pouring through the eye sockets, so it looks as though the skull is watching me with a pair of blind, crimson orbs.
Hakh shoves me aside and glares down into the pit of charred stone. ‘Where is he?’ he demands, his voice a low snarl.
‘What?’ I mutter, hypnotised by the skull’s bloody stare.
Hakh rounds on me, trembling with rage. ‘Where is the golden champion?’
He goes into a kind of spasm and swings his sword. The blade smashes into the ground a couple of feet from me, creating an explosion of black, glinting splinters that knife into my legs.
I cry out in pain and try to back away, but immediately bump into the armoured bulk of Khorlagh. He locks one of his white-skinned hands onto my shoulder and holds me in place.
‘He’s on his way!’ I cry, waving back through the ruins. ‘He’ll be here within minutes.’
Hakh is too angry to speak for a moment. Veins bulge from his tree trunk neck and he clutches his head.
‘Dawn,’ he manages to snarl finally, jabbing his sword at the brass skull grinning at us from the bottom of the crater. ‘We must be gone by dawn.’ He looks up through the ruins at the quickly vanishing stars. ‘There’s no time.’
I nod eagerly. ‘There is time! I’ve foreseen your victory. There’s still an hour before the sun rises and…’ I glance at the skull and lose my thread.
‘She’s lying,’ says Khorlagh. His flaccid lips brush against my cheek as he holds me tighter. ‘I saw that she was tricking you the moment you arrived.’
Hakh reels away from us, teetering across the lip of the crater, drunk with fury. ‘Tricking?’
Khorlagh pulls a long, rusty hook from his belt and presses the point against my trembling stomach. ‘We should gut her and leave.’
Hakh grabs one of his horns and starts wrenching his head from side to side, as though trying to shake understanding from his skull. ‘Tricking?’
Then he halts and his expression goes slack. For a moment I wonder if his anger has broken his mind, but then he grins and strides towards us, raising his sword.
I struggle to free myself but Khorlagh tightens his grip.
Hakh swings his sword and I find myself lying on the hard rock in a pool of blood. The warm liquid pumps over me, filling my eyes and mouth but, after a few seconds, I realise I’m not in pain. I’m still alive.
I feel my blood-slick throat and find that my head is still attached to it.
I wipe my eyes just in time to see Hakh reaching down to take my hand. He hauls me to my feet and I see Khorlagh’s corpse. Hakh’s blade has sliced down through the top of his skull and travelled almost to his waist. I find myself wondering at just how much blood can emerge from a single body.
‘Another fool,’ says Hakh.
I slump in his grip, weak with shock, unable to do anything but slap feebly at my clothes, trying to clear away bits of Khorlagh’s insides.
‘You didn’t lie. Khorlagh did,’ continues Hakh.
I’ve no idea what he’s talking about until I see what he’s looking at.
Tylos. I didn’t dream him. He’s here.
Chapter Fourteen
Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound
Boreas lives on at least, even though so many others are lost. He’s delirious with pain, muttering and flailing at shadows as though surrounded by ghosts only he can see. He’s struggling to walk, too – one of his legs drags awkwardly as we help him across the black rocks. Before we moved on from the lake I asked him if he needed to rest, but he just stared at me in proud silence until we continued our gruelling march.
As we crunch over the blasted basalt, we make a very different sight to the army that crashed down onto the bridge of birds. Along with the warriors dragged skywards by the lunar storm, I must now count those we lost in the battle for the Anvil and the retinues of paladins that were hurled into the lava attempting to defend Boreas. They will all find their way back to Sigmar’s halls, but I would have preferred to have them marching at my side. Nearly half of my army is gone and as we near the Nomad City I can’t mistake the pale glow of an approaching dawn. Anger simmers in my gut, testing me, daring me to revive my barbaric past. It is as though part of me is still in a vaulted chamber, watched carefully by the God-King himself. I will not fail the test. I suppress my rage and wave Castamon on, leading the lines of Liberators with calm disdain.
As Zarax carries me towards the city, I have the overwhelming sensation
that I’m walking into a dream. After all the noise and violence of our crossing, these drifting ruins seem eerily calm. Strange, incongruous sections of rooms hang next to each other like an unsolved puzzle. If the scholars of the Celestial City are right, the ruins were left by a god. The fire of the spheres was still blasting through my bones when they told me the bloody history of this place. It’s hard to imagine such violence now, as the warm breeze whistles through the drifting towers, but I can see the skull clearly enough – a vast dome of brazen metal, flickering beyond the lip of the crater, just half a mile into the city. It’s so big I can barely comprehend it.
Between us and the realmgate lies our final challenge. Waiting in shadows beneath the city is another host of Khorne worshippers. These aren’t the bare-chested rabble that attacked us on the bridge, but lumbering, red-armoured knights, just like the unstoppable killers we faced at the Anvil, and this time they are not on foot but are mounted on horrific steeds that I recognise only from the darkest legends. Juggernauts – massive, hulking beasts, clad in plates of serrated steel and brass. As their riders sit patiently in their saddles, the metal creatures paw at the ground with blood-caked hooves, spewing gouts of steam and oil from the hinges in their flanks.
The lead rider is the largest knight I’ve yet seen and, even from here, I can tell that he is barely human. He has a pair of low, swooping horns jutting out of his forehead and his eyes burn like a pair of tiny dying suns.
I turn to face my men and draw a deep breath, preparing to rouse them from weariness and despair. My words fail on my lips, unneeded. They’re already preparing for battle, readying their hammers with silent, unshakeable faith. They’ve watched their brothers be butchered, hurled into the void and boiled alive, and now they face an army more horrific than anything we’ve yet seen, but not one of them shows any fear. My breath catches in my throat as they raise their shields and form a perfect wall of gleaming sigmarite.