WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering

by Chris Wraight

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Warhammer

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About The Author

  Legal

  eBook license

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  PROLOGUE

  High in the tortured night sky, the sickle moon burned coldly. The vast spires of rain clouds being driven towards Ulthuan from the east were edged with silver. Beneath the boiling tumult of the heavens, the ink-dark sea rolled and swelled uneasily. A storm was coming, and a mighty one at that. In the ragged gaps between the massed ranks of cloud, the few stars glimmered faintly. It was as if a mantle of darkness had been cast across the whole world.

  The soaring Tower of Hoeth stood against the maelstrom in defiant isolation. Around it, the winds raged and moaned, tearing past the ivory sheen of the enchanted parapets. At the very pinnacle, a dim light betrayed the presence of figures within. Even at so late an hour, the topmost chamber of the slender citadel was occupied. Far above the sleeping fields and forests of Ulthuan, a figure gazed out to sea, his hair rising and falling in the wind.

  At length, the Phoenix King Finubar, called the Seafarer by his people, stepped away from the window of the narrow chamber and turned towards the candlelight of the chamber. The storm continued to rage outside, and rainwater whipped on to the smooth stone. Finubar walked to a low wooden chair, and sat wearily. He wore deep blue robes, and a simple silver band sat lightly on his forehead. His long dark hair hung loosely to his shoulder.

  Embroidered in threads of pure silver, three runes had been woven into the fine silks of his mantle. Just under the collar was Asur, the symbol of Asuryan and the emblem of the people of Ulthuan. Below that was the ancient symbol of the mighty dragons of flame, Caladai. Over the king’s heart, however, was placed a smaller rune, Quyl-Isha, the sigil of enduring hope, mourning and the remembrance of the lost. Given Finubar’s air of melancholy and introspection, this rune seemed the most appropriate. As the chill wind swirled and ruffled his robes, the symbols moved as if they had a life of their own. Slowly, animated by an unseen force, the ornately carved windows shut silently, and the icy blasts from outside were stilled.

  The king was not alone. Opposite him sat a slight figure, a mage. He was wreathed in white, and many dozen sigils encrusted his elaborate garb. They seemed to shift strangely in the flickering light of the slender candles around him. Unlike the tall, proud figure of the Phoenix King, the mage sat hunched in his seat and clutched a simple white staff. His breathing was shallow and hesitant, and his face was lined and pale. His eyes were sunk deep beneath his brow. Though his robes were heavy and thick against the cold, it was evident from the way they hung on him that his limbs were slender even for one of his kind.

  The mage raised his finger a hair’s breadth, and the latch on the window snapped shut. He collected together some leaves of parchment disturbed by the wind, and placed them neatly on a small table beside his chair. Neither he nor the king spoke, and the silence about them hung heavily. Only the faint moan of the wind and the thin breathing of the mage punctuated the quiet.

  Finally, Finubar sighed, and his expression moved from contemplation to one of sharp resolve.

  ‘My Lord Teclis,’ he said, his rich voice filling the narrow chamber. ‘The night is waning. Despite all we’ve discussed, I don’t yet know your mind.’

  Teclis, greatest of all asur mages and Loremaster of the Tower, looked troubled. He clutched his staff ever more tightly before responding.

  ‘The world is changing,’ he said, his voice scratchy and sparse. ‘Prediction is hard. It is as if all light and heat are draining away, and only darkness and cold remain. Never has wisdom seemed so unclear to me, and never have I felt less worthy to be the adviser of kings.’

  Finubar pursed his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘If you can’t see clearly in such times, then no one can,’ he said. ‘More than anyone else you’ve earned the right to weariness, though I don’t quite believe you’ve succumbed to it yet. Tell me what you think.’

  Teclis exhaled softly, and rummaged once more through the pile of parchment beside him. Some leaves were written in the elegant hand of the asur. Others were inscribed on crumbling vellum sheets in the florid, extravagant script of the Empire of Men. These had been encrusted with wax seals and stamps of office. All were missives dealing with the same topic: the war in the east. Tidings had been carried to Hoeth and Lothern from all over the world, and all had the same message. The forces of disorder were gathering again, extending their hated mantras of war once more to trouble the realms of the free peoples.

  ‘The Emperor Karl Franz has written to you again,’ said Teclis, drawing a gilt-edged sheet from the collection. ‘How many times does he expect us to sail to his aid? They think of themselves as the rightful rulers of the world, but still they haven’t learned to stand on their own two feet.’

  Finubar nodded.

  ‘They’re weak, beset by foes which would freeze them in terror if only they knew their true power. And yet I know you too well to believe you entirely. You and I both know there is hope in men. There has to be, for of all of the kingdoms of men, it is the Empire that holds the hordes back.’

  Teclis looked pensive, and gave a rattling sigh.

  ‘So I once thought, it is true. When I taught them the gift of magic, I believed that they would come to maturity. In my pride, I even thought that they would take up some of the burden of the endless war against the Dark Powers, perhaps to the extent that we could at last turn our attention to our own great enemy. But my hopes have been in vain. They have taken the gift and used it for foolish ends. As many traitors have been spawned as true wizards. Their lands are as besieged by war as ever. When there are no
invasions from the mountains around them they conspire to fight amongst themselves. As the world grows darker, we need resolute allies to stand beside us, not children. I despair of them ever growing up.’

  Finubar did not smile then.

  ‘I don’t like to hear such words from you,’ he said, his voice grave. ‘I expect it from the hotheads in Caledor. But we’ve both travelled amongst men. You and I know their strengths as well as their weaknesses. While we in Ulthuan dwindle with every passing year, they prosper and multiply. While we remain rooted in the ways of tradition and ritual, they experiment. If I could transplant some of that daring spirit to Ulthuan, I would. And yet we both know that our kinds are made of different material. We cannot change, and neither can they.’

  Teclis shifted uneasily in his seat. He looked more pained than usual.

  ‘So I suppose you’re minded to answer the Emperor’s call for aid?’ he said.

  The king nodded.

  ‘How can I refuse? If Karl Franz falls, then the Old World will be lost to us forever. It is only by his will that the hordes of Chaos are restrained at all. War has already begun. Praag has been taken, and must now once more be an abode of terror, even as it was in the time of Magnus. The eastern flank of the Empire is aflame. The mountains have risen up in strife. I have no doubt that the dwarfen realms are under siege, though their High King is too pig-headed to ask for help from us. We can’t stand idly by in Ulthuan while the lands of our allies are plundered and despoiled. Though we may like to think it, we’re not safe here: without the bulwark of the Empire, there would be nothing to stop the dark fleets setting sail to our shores. The Ruinous Powers would love nothing more than to topple this tower in which we debate, to destroy the wards our ancestors constructed to shield the world from ruin. We cannot isolate ourselves, nor hide from the storm. It will seek us out, no matter what we do.’

  Teclis did not reply immediately, but seemed to withdraw into himself. His eyes glazed slightly, and his staff appeared to shimmer with the faintest of lights. Finubar knew better than to interrupt, and settled back in his seat. After a few moments, the mage shook his head wearily, and let the staff fall gently to the ground.

  ‘I cannot see anything,’ he said, irritably. ‘Every attempt I make to judge the course of fate is thwarted. I need to spend more time on this, prepare the spells properly. I am full of doubt. Why are our enemies suddenly so united? The greenskins are moving as one, as if orchestrated by some malign hand. There is some dark purpose behind it. And what of our fallen kin? They’ll not be slow to take advantage of any weakness we show. In their folly and madness they think they can deliver the Old World to Chaos and still live. Should we ever falter in our defence of the Isle of the Dead, they will rue their blind hatred.’

  Teclis halted, and paused to cough weakly. It looked as if his strength was waning. Finubar waited patiently.

  ‘If you want my counsel, my lord,’ he continued at length, ‘I should say beware. There is more to these tidings than is known to us. I fear we’re being manipulated. My dreams are filled with unsettling visions of change. There is a force in the world whose name I will not mention, but for whom change is the ultimate end and only purpose. The master of sorcery and of deception, the corruptor of all that is durable and wholesome. Only one such as he would have the power to unite our feuding enemies. If we rush to aid Karl Franz, we must take care that our own borders are secure. Any weakness, any mistake, and our armies will return to burned fields and ruined cities. So, if you’re determined to act, then do so with caution. Don’t dispatch all our forces at once. Leave some in reserve. Should we rush into the maelstrom now, we’ll have an eternity to regret it.’

  Finubar held Teclis’s gaze steadily, and then let out a long, slow breath.

  ‘When I was young, I was full of hope,’ the king said. ‘I travelled the width of the whole world, and dared to believe in a new dawn. Now it seems as if the struggle for mastery will never cease, unless we are overcome ourselves. Your words fill me with foreboding. Nonetheless, I will give orders for the preparation of an advance force to send to Altdorf. Our duty demands no less. It will be strong, enough to deter all but the largest armies of Chaos, but not so large as to leave our borders undefended. I’ll write to Karl Franz myself. He’ll be disappointed we’ve not sent more, but must understand our peril. If your concerns prove ill-founded, then more will be sent.’

  Teclis smiled grimly.

  ‘When have my concerns ever proved unfounded?’ he said wryly.

  Finubar returned the wintry smile.

  ‘Not often,’ he said. ‘But you’ll not hold me back forever, my friend. This is just the beginning. I can see the day when I myself will travel east at the head of our armies. It’s been too long since I led them, and I would have the chance to feel the air of Elthin Arvan on my face once more. But not yet. I’ll wait and observe caution, just as you recommend.’

  He rose in a single fluid move. With more difficulty, Teclis followed suit, picking up his staff and leaning heavily on it. Together, the pair walked over to the window. The rain was now hammering against the engraved glass. A flicker of lightning far to the north told of the fury to come.

  ‘If I may,’ said Teclis, his eyes fixed on the elements outside, ‘I wish to recommend a commander for this. Whatever forces frustrate my magical vision, they are powerful and subtle. The defenders of the Old World will have need of mages, ones of equal power and subtlety. There is an archmage of my school, Artheris of Ellyrion. She’s mighty in battlelore, but also in diplomacy. Unlike many of us, she has no disdain for the ways of men. I trust her. She’d be a worthy commander.’

  Finubar nodded.

  ‘I know of her. I’ll send messengers when the dawn comes. Now that my mind is set, the need for haste is great. I don’t trust this storm. Unless it abates soon, the passage to Altdorf will be long and dangerous. There is much to be done.’

  As the two watched, the clouds in the uttermost east parted slightly. The starlight remained faint, but a new glow had spread slowly across the waves. It was no natural moonlight, but a sickly yellow sheen, corrupt and cloying. The second moon of the world had risen to join the first, the fateful orb men called Morrslieb and the asur called the Sariour na Yenlui. Its coming was ever a sign of great evil, and at its rising all but the foulest minions of the Dark Gods felt a weakening of will.

  ‘So it begins,’ said Finubar, grimly.

  Teclis, standing beside the Phoenix King, dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said. ‘So it does.’

  Half a world away, the rising of Morrslieb had been detected by other eyes. They too were elven, but of a very different kind. On the frigid shores of Naggaroth, the dark walls of a twisted citadel rose high into the air. Below it, the tortured waves smashed endlessly against jagged cliffs as dark as pitch. From the base of the citadel, grotesque spires of spiked iron rose upwards. Huge chains descended from the parapets, swinging and clanking in the eddying wind. Some supported cages, though their grisly contents were hard to make out in the darkness. From within the hidden bowels of the imposing fortress, a cold green light shone weakly from narrow windows. Just audible over the crashing of the surf, a faint churning could be made out. Some infernal machinery was at work deep within the dark stone walls. The very air was chilled with dread. The scant vegetation around the cursed place looked blighted and scrawny. At the summit of the tallest tower of the citadel, as if in mockery of the soaring heights of the spires of Hoeth, a blood-red light burned. There, too, silhouetted figures could be made out, watching the storm crash against the pitiless cliffs.

  Within that topmost chamber, things could scarcely have been more different from the graceful, restrained interior of Teclis’s abode. The walls were hewn from a dark, glistening stone. Braziers of iron threw out vermillion light, bathing the entire place in an unearthly red glow. Jagged incisions had been made across the surface of the stone seemingly at random, which had the effect of throwing th
e crimson light in all directions. Steel sculptures extruded from the walls like bizarre mockeries of plants, and tortured face-like glyphs had been inscribed all across the multifaceted surfaces.

  Every stone or metal obtrusion was distorted, corrupted or perverted, but this was no crude construction of greenskins or some barbarian warlord. The confusion was a work of the highest artifice, designed to unsettle the senses and disorder the mind. The entire space had been cunningly wrought to augment the powerful sorcerous skills of its owner. From somewhere far below, the noise of the machinery was pronounced. It was punctuated by a series of unearthly sounds, some suspiciously like screams, but amidst the constant whine of the wind and crash of the waves it was hard to tell.

  In the centre of the terrible chamber, an irregular dais had been carved. A huge throne sat on top of it, seemingly cut from a single block of obsidian. In the half-light it reared upwards darkly, dominating the entire chamber. On it sat the slim figure of a woman, draped from head to toe in a shimmering gown of dark silk. Her skin was as pale as bone, her hair as dark as ink. She wore an elaborate decoration across her neck, which in the gloom might have been jewellery, or even some exquisite form of tattoo. She sat perfectly still, looking as if she were carved from the stuff of the cold throne itself. Only her eyes gave away her true nature. They were bright, sharp and cruel. Even in the play of shadows, they glistened with a savage steel. Her lips were permanently set in a semi-smile of amused contempt.

  If she had been a denizen of the Empire, men would have travelled a thousand miles simply to gaze on her beauty and pay tribute in the merest hope of a favourable glance. But she was of the druchii, the dark cousins of the asur, and any human suitor would have been flayed alive long before his protestations of adoration could have been delivered. Even amongst her own people, she had a fearsome reputation for the slow arts of fear and torment. Like all the high-born of her race, without such ruthlessness she could never have maintained her exalted position. There were plenty below her who would pounce at the first sign of weakness or mercy.