Hammers of Sigmar

by Darius Hinks

  ‘What is this?’ asks Celadon, stamping on the shifting ground.

  I shake my head and wave him on. There’s no time left to think, we just have to act.

  We’ve only taken a few steps when Celadon’s question is answered.

  As the rock cracks and opens, fleshless, gleaming bones begin hauling themselves from the ground. This is the vision I saw when Boreas healed my eye – this was the nightmarish scene that Sigmar poured into my mind. I pause and mutter an oath as a leering, sword-wielding skeleton climbs into view.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil

  (Mopus)

  Returning to the Kharvall Steppe is even worse than I remember. The air is so hot and sulphurous that I’m wracked by a violent coughing fit. When I wipe the spittle from my face there are a few withered molars lying in my palm and I curse Sigmar for dragging me up here. I warned Boreas against playing war games and now look what’s happened. My stomach lurches again, but I manage to steady it with a quick draft of my philtre. My head is full of metallic buzzing, and energy is fizzing over my skin.

  Giraldus is riding as close to my Coven Throne as he can. A tempest of souls separates us, but I can still see his outrage at what has been done to his former kingdom.

  Behind us, our fleshless host is clawing itself up into the moonlight. I ignore Giraldus and study the army we have created. Despite my misgivings, I can’t help swelling with pride as my morghast heaves its huge frame from the blackened stone as I form the crowds of skeletons into orderly ranks. We’re in a fume-filled crater that must be a mile wide but we’ve filled it with revenants and cadavers from every realm. Such a horde could lay waste to anything the gods have to offer. Death is the great level­ler, after all.

  ‘There it is,’ says Giraldus, his voice tight with anger.

  I turn back and see that the fumes have rolled away to reveal a soaring wall of brass. It’s stained with centuries of dried blood and I steer my chariot backwards, unable to take it all in. I can make out the jawbone of a skull but the rest of the brass idol reaches so high that it seems to support the clouds. This is the source of the energy that’s rattling my teeth and humming over my skin. Rage is pouring from the bloodstained metal, rippling the air and churning my shrivelled guts.

  I hold a hand in front of my face as though blocking the sun.

  ‘We’ll have to be fast,’ I say. I turn to Giraldus. ‘How do we enter? Tell me that you learned that much before destroying anyone else’s chance of gaining knowledge about this place.’

  He’s too furious to notice my harsh tone. ‘There are steps to the mouth. We enter through the teeth.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ I grimace, steering the Coven Throne towards the jaw. I deploy most of the army around the perimeter of the crater, but I take a few hundred skeletons with me, to keep an eye on Giraldus as much as anything else.

  As we approach the skull, the power spilling from it becomes almost overwhelming. There’s a deafening grinding sound in the air and my bones ache as the throne lurches and sways above the black rocks. Even the spectral steeds that are drawing my chariot twist and writhe before the wrath of the skull, but I do not allow the princes to pause. I have no desire to be here when Khurnac awakes. I want to be travelling through the realms by then, raiding the mausoleums of a hundred cities and plundering wells of long forgotten learning. Or perhaps just back in the fane, safe in the knowledge that I control a route between worlds. The thought drives me on through the pain and we finally reach the wall of metal. The sound here is deafening and there are streams of energy billowing over the brass.

  ‘Over here!’ yells Giraldus, leading the way, and I drive my throne after him. My heart is pounding furiously now, as though I’m being charged by the skull. I shout at the princes until they pull the Coven Throne faster, speeding past Giraldus.

  A few minutes later I see the steps. They’re wide enough to front a great palace and we race up them, the spirits of my chariot rolling tendril-like across the brass.

  Khorne’s rancour rises through my seat and eats into my flesh. I can feel my skin starting to blister and burn, but I ignore the pain. My mind whirls with visions of greatness. The higher we go, the grander my visions become. Why stop at merely accruing knowledge? With this army and passage to other worlds, might I not use my scholarship for something greater? I could become the wisest lord who ever walked the realms. Everything starts to make sense. As I travel faster up the steps, I see that I was born for this. It is my destiny to rule with a wise and just hand; bringing the realms into the kind of unity that others have failed to do. And all those who deny my right to rule will face the wrath of the greatest host ever to emerge from the underworlds. If Nagash can no longer protect his kingdom, perhaps it is time that the undead had a new master? If I control the realmgates, who could stand against me?

  I’m vomiting now and blood is rushing from my nose, but the spirits struggle on and haul the throne up the last few steps.

  I notice that Giraldus and my army are no longer with me, but there’s no time to wait. I ride the chariot towards an opening between the skull’s enormous brass teeth. The doorway towers over me and I see that it’s framed by a huge portico wrought from the same bloodstained brass and forged to resemble snarling, reptilian hounds clawing and tearing at each other. It’s an unnerving sight but I drive the chariot on and, as it hurtles down the passage, I see that there is no door – just a wall of rippling blood, rising hundreds of feet over my head.

  ‘Now what?’ I try to ask, but my words come out as muffled gibberish.

  I look back and see that Giraldus is dragging himself up the last few steps towards me. His sorcery has failed him and his face has assumed its true form. He looks like a reanimated cadaver, smeared with gaudy makeup. His shrivelled flesh has fallen away from his mouth, revealing long, inhuman teeth.

  He tries to say something, but I can’t hear him over the roaring sound that is pouring through the brass.

  He jabs his finger at the crimson wall, shaking his head. He looks to be in horrible pain.

  Of course. He’s afraid of the power I will hold over him, but he need not be. I will be a benevolent, wise ruler. All my centuries of learning will inure me to the folly that has left Nagash battling to preserve his own domain. I turn to face the wall of blood that fills the doorway and try to ride closer, but the power flooding out is like a physical wall.

  I kick the base of the throne and it lurches forwards. We’re still several feet away, but the chariot’s moving with slow, spasmodic bursts, as though wading through mud.

  The closer we get, the more my mind slips away. All I can see is my vast army crushing the realms beneath skeletal feet, with me at their head.

  Finally, we reach the wall and I prepare to enter the portal, preparing myself for unimaginable power.

  Before I can enter the skull, the visions become even more violent. I picture myself crowned in the blood of a thousand slaughtered foes. I am standing above a mountain of corpses, screaming words of tribute to my lord as he watches from his throne of skulls.

  I look down and see that my robes are drenched in blood, and steaming and shrivelling in the heat. I look like a slaughtered corpse. The sight shocks me and, suddenly, my thoughts seem deranged. I’m no servant of the Blood God – what madness has taken hold of me?

  Giraldus hauls himself up the ribcage frame of my Coven Throne and drags my face away from the portal of blood.

  ‘This is not the way!’ he cries, finally managing to be heard over the din. ‘Not for us! We were wrong. All that lies through this gate is damnation.’

  The skull’s power is smashing through my body with so much force that I think I might be thrown from my chariot. Dazed, I look from Giraldus and down the brass steps to the crater below and our wonderful army. Have I really summoned this host just to create more ruin? Visions of slaughter linger in m
y head and I’m filled with a growing sense of horror. Is this where all my learning has brought me?

  Then I see something else. Racing across the crater towards the skull is a triangle of golden figures. Barely a few hundred of Sigmar’s warriors are left, but they make an incredible sight. Vast storm clouds are rolling in their wake and lightning flickers across their shields. There is something so righteous about them, so pure. They could never be consumed by the madness that just filled my thoughts. They are unassailable.

  ‘Boreas,’ I whisper, sensing that I might have made a terrible mistake.

  The energy pouring from the skull suddenly triples its force. My whole body judders and my teeth begin to clatter against each other.

  Giraldus points his sword at the sky and I see that it is grey. Dawn has come.

  I look back towards the skull and the sight that greets me makes me collapse back into my throne.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

  Sigmar’s wrath carries me through an avalanche of bones. Unnumbered hordes of skeletons press around me, crashing, tumbling and rolling in great waves, grasping with their brittle fingers, hacking with rusty swords. I stride on across the crater, leading what remains of my army in a glorious, martial tribute to the God-King. Despite the ivory waves smashing into me, I swing Grius with a grace and serenity I have never achieved before, shattering skull after skull after skull and filling the air with splintered bone.

  ‘We are the exalted!’ I cry. ‘We are vengeance! We are Stormcast!’

  The skeletons topple like mannequins but the onslaught is endless. They are undaunted by my brutal blows. As Grius returns them to dust, hundreds more march into view, as relentless as the storm overhead. They hack at me with a bizarre collection of weapons. Some carry the most incredible swords – things of great workmanship, dragged from the tombs of kings – while others lurch towards me with clubs and broken scythes.

  Between the brass skull and me there is now a field of grinning, gibbering faces. We need another way to break through. Dawn is imminent and I could smash these mindless wretches for an age and not reach my goal. There must be thousands of dead souls rising to block our way.

  I look back and see that Castamon and his Liberators have almost managed to reach me – a wedge of glinting sigmarite trailing shattered bones as they slice through the host, followed by Celadon and his lumbering ranks of paladins and the last few retinues of Judicators, who have swapped their bows for short swords as they hack through the leering dead.

  I raise Grius in tribute then bring the warhammer down, channelling all my rage and frustration. To my shock, a blast of light clears the area ahead of me. The nearest skeletons crumble into dust and dozens more roll away from me. For a moment, I think Grius is responsible but then, as I stride forwards into the gap, I see the truth.

  ‘Drusus!’ I cry, looking up at the heavens, delighted to see that he has managed to carry out the order I gave when we crossed the lake. I told him to wait for us near the skull and strike when our need was greatest, but I had started to fear that the Prosecutors must all have perished. They dive from the clouds launching javelins and hammers that blaze as they fall, ripping great holes in the skeleton army. For a moment, my heart races, but I realise that there’s no sign of Drusus’ plumed helmet. Another winged herald is leading their attacks.

  The first ranks of Liberators start to reach my side, still singing as they envelop me with their wall of shields and hammers.

  ‘Where is the the Prosecutor-Prime?’ I demand, glancing at Castamon between blows.

  The Liberator-Prime shakes his head. ‘He fell, Lord-Celestant.’

  I glance at him.

  He hesitates, sounding pained. ‘Lord-Celestant, didn’t you see the comet? Drusus braved that inferno so that the Lord-Relictor might live.’

  ‘Boreas?’ I feel a flint of pain in my chest but the Liberators are watching me, waiting to hear my response.

  ‘Drusus died with honour.’ I look at the sky. ‘None of us can ask for more.’

  The crowds of skeletons smash into us again, but the Liberators hold their line and we force our way onwards.

  ‘Heralds of Sigmar!’ I cry, still staring at the sky. The stars have all vanished from view. The sky is the colour of lead. Morning is moments away. ‘Prosecutors!’

  What remains of Drusus’ retinues sweep back around and tumble from the storm clouds. Some are struggling to fly, held aloft by their brothers as their lightning bladed wings start to falter and dim, but all of them are singing as they snatch lightning from the heavens and form dazzling weapons in their fists.

  ‘We’re almost through!’ I roar. ‘Carve a path!’

  They raise their voices in song and dive at the skeletons. Storm-born javelins and hammers fly from their hands as they descend.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ I cry to the Liberators and they drop to their knees.

  The ground shudders as a blazing line of explosions tears through the skeletons. A smouldering, white road opens up before us.

  ‘Charge!’ I shout, and we race down the shimmering avenue, surrounded by charred, broken bones.

  Overhead, the Prosecutors launch another storm of twin-tailed bolts, blasting the path further into the crater. Skeletons are still lurching towards us, but there’s now a clear way and we’re racing towards our goal through a valley of smoke and glittering embers.

  Another series of blasts erupts up ahead and, finally, the brass skull looms before me. I see wide, metal steps leading up to an enormous doorway beneath two of the skull’s lower teeth. A metal portico leads to the door, and it’s hard to see clearly but I think there are figures at the threshold. Crimson shapes are flowing down to meet us. Khorne’s host has arrived.

  ‘Above you!’ roars an unfamiliar voice, from somewhere in the crowds of skeletons.

  I look up and see a bone colossus dropping through the fumes towards me, borne on vast, skeletal wings.

  I drop into a battle stance as it lands and rears over me. It’s a revolting construct of sorcery and bone that towers over the fighting. It pounds across the shattered rocks on clawed feet, clutching a pair of great, cleaver-like swords. It seems to be formed from the skeleton of a huge, winged warrior and its bones are clad in the remnants of ancient armour. Emerald light coils beneath its rib cage – luminous viscera wrapped around a collection of broken, human skulls.

  I leap forward, whirling Grius around my head.

  The bone monster raises one of its swords to parry my blow, but my fury resonates through its hollow limbs, sending it back down the blazing path, its sword spinning away into the melee.

  I charge after it, followed by a wave of Liberators but, with a pound of its fleshless wings, the monster launches itself into the air and hacks down at me with its remaining sword.

  I smash the blade back and leap again, grasping its legs and hauling myself up over its shimmering torso.

  It lurches under my weight but before I can land another blow it grabs me by the throat and swings its falchion.

  ‘No!’ cries a female voice and there’s a blaze of light as something slams into the monster.

  The impact sends the sword strike off target, saving my head, but the bone construct pounds its wings and soars up towards the clouds, with me and the other figure still hanging from its ribs. I realise, to my amazement, that it is the woman I saw with Hakh.

  As we fly higher, the creature tightens its grip on my throat and swings again.

  This time I’m ready. I smash the blow away with Grius, haul myself higher and pound the warhammer into the thing’s giant, bestial skull.

  Green light blazes as cracks open up in its snout, but it clearly feels no pain. It pounds its wings again, throwing us through the clouds, away from the Crucible of Blood.

  A Prosecutor whirls through the clouds and catches sight
of us. He cries out my name and dives towards us. The bone monster lashes out and the blade clangs off the Prosecutor’s chest armour. The Stormcast tumbles away, pounding his wings furiously but, as the monster flies higher, I see him soar after us, refusing to let me go. I see the marks on his honour scrolls and recognise him.

  ‘Stay back, Sardicus!’ I shout.

  Then I see the Crucible of Blood and mutter a curse.

  The brass is shimmering in the crimson light of a new sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil

  (Mopus)

  Shapes are forming in the blood. Dear merciful gods, what shapes. These are the malformed things I saw in the painting – hunchbacked daemons wrought of flame and crimson scales. Their heads are like long, snarling anvils and they clutch smouldering blades in their claws.

  I order my spearmen to attack and then send the Coven Throne hurtling back down the steps. As I descend, the creatures pour from the wall of blood, spiderlike and frenzied. My spearmen clatter up the steps to meet them and the dead join battle with the damned, levelling a bristling wall of jagged spearheads at the emerging monsters.

  ‘Attack! Attack!’ I cry as my Coven Throne reaches the bottom of the steps, and the landscape boils into life as thousands more skeletons race to obey, flooding past me, climbing the steps and swamping the daemons trying to enter the realm.

  ‘Do you see?’ cries Giraldus. He’s a few feet away from me and back on his dead horse, surrounded by his knights. As the ranks of skeletons charge past him, his knights hold their line and Giraldus points his sword at the line of golden figures on the horizon. ‘Do you see now what they are?’

  I try to laugh, but I can’t. The contrast between the noble, golden knights and my own bloodthirsty visions has left me bewildered. What good is all my learning if I can be so easily led to damnation?