by Nick Horth
Despite himself, despite the necessity of his work, Vermyre felt a tinge of sadness. This city had been good to him these many years. He would miss the power he had wielded here, the challenge of weaving his web of intrigue under the noses of the Order of Azyr and the bloodhounds of the Knights Excelsior.
‘It is necessary,’ he said to himself.
‘Eh?’ snapped Kryn, pausing from his work on the occulum to raise a quizzical eyebrow at Vermyre.
‘Only great Tzeentch offers eternal change. Apotheosis,’ Vermyre said, louder this time. ‘These fools, they believe this dream can last. That it can stand in the face of true power. Eternal power. If only they recognised the truth of it.’
‘They are insects,’ spat Kryn. ‘Vermin. Devouring prophecy like cheap wine, imagining they have any right to such power. When this city is no more, and the crystal tower stands in the sky above, the secrets of the Spear will finally be mine. By Tzeentch’s will I shall know it all. My eyes will pierce the veil of fate, and I will know… the infinity of truth.’
Vermyre studied the old man, whose eyes had glazed over with rapturous desire. Arrogance and greed, that was all that kept this ancient skeleton together. He was a pathetic creature, really, for all his wizardly might. He could never appreciate the salvation that the God of Change offered, could not see beyond his petty lust for power. He would have to be removed, once he had served his purpose. Vermyre wondered whether his own master would agree. The former High Arbiter was a bold man, but he would not risk going against the will of Tzeentch.
Worries for another time. He turned back to look out over the city. The day was not yet won. The Cult of the Fated Path had revealed itself, playing its final hand. Now it must keep the loyalist forces on the back foot until it was too late.
‘Finish your work quickly, Kryn,’ he said, heading for the spiral stairway that would lead him down onto the main floor of the guildhall. ‘I have an army to destroy.’
In the guildhall below, his own army waited. His trusted men, the Fatesworn, stood waiting for him at the foot of the great stairwell. They had abandoned their civilian masks. There was no call for secrecy any more. Now they wore elaborate pauldrons and vambraces of witch-forged metal, shendyts of blue and many-eyed battle-masks of gold. Their bare chests were littered with tattooed oaths of devotion in the tongue of their dread masters, and alongside their gleaming silver weapons they bore scrolls and tomes of profane lore. The ten warriors of his personal guard fell in behind Vermyre silently as he walked, scores more waiting in their ranks and files.
Altogether more unpredictable allies filled the rest of the hall. Tall and muscular creatures. Humanoid, yet avian in aspect, with clawed feet, beaks as sharp as daggers, and horns that swept back from their arrow-like skulls. They gazed at the cultists through blazing red eyes that shone like glowing embers, without fear, but with a detached, alien interest. They bore armour and weapons even finer than their human allies, doubtless spell-forged within the sacred labyrinth-halls of the crystal fortresses. They smelled of brimstone and sorcerous ritual. Tzaangors. The elusive, secretive footsoldiers of mighty Tzeentch.
Their leader drifted forwards on a disc of living metal that pulsed with hungry energy. Despite himself, Vermyre could not help but be impressed by the imposing figure. This Tzaangor bore a staff of obsidian tipped with a swirling, sickly green vortex. The eye of Tzeentch was emblazoned upon the belt of jewels and gold around its waist, and above a ceremonial helm two horns curled backwards like those of a ram.
‘We came to slay,’ it hissed, in a voice that sounded like a knife scraping across stone, ‘not to wait. Not to hide. We go forth. We gather human-meat for the sky-engines. For the glory of the Lord of Eyes.’
Vermyre nodded. He had rarely dealt with these strange, tribal creatures, and he did not imagine for a moment that they would take orders from a human. As befitting for the God of Change, a leadership role within the ranks of the Kairic Cults was by necessity an amorphous thing.
‘They are coming here,’ he said, meeting the shaman’s cruel eyes and not blinking for a moment. ‘You will defend the square. Their attack will be scattered and weak. Rout them, but capture as many as you can. The crystal tower must be fed with new fuel.’
Sykarik threw his head back and screeched, a shrill, ululating sound. It was answered as one by the Tzaangor warriors that lined the guildhall.
Finally the Iron Bulls broke out of the smoke clouds, and the great open space of the plaza opened up before them, a field of finely worked greystone slabs dotted with trees and statuary. On all sides of the open forum, basilicas, halls and galleries rose, their columns engraved with further images of Sigmar’s glory, statues of mighty warriors and pious saints raised beneath the shadow of their soaring arches. On any normal day, this beating heart of commerce would have been thronged by merchants, bureaucrats and politicians, as well as those looking to bid on the latest and most promising auguries freshly mined from the Spear.
On this day, it was occupied by the host of the invading horde.
There were thousands of them arrayed in loose formation before the guildhall. Mutated forms, vaguely humanoid yet utterly alien, they were taller by a head than the average man and their bodies were lithe and predatory, their narrow heads avian in aspect and topped by curved horns capped with bronze and silver. They bore wondrous silver weapons and armour – curved blades, vicious war-picks and hooked longspears – and their war-masks, torcs and hooped piercings shone gold and turquoise. Banners flew above their numbers, depicting writhing serpents, two-headed crows and unblinking, glowing eyes. As the Iron Bulls rushed to form up at the other end of the plaza, the bestial figures began to shriek and caw in high-pitched, unnervingly musical tones. The sonorous boom of a war-horn echoed across the empty ground between the two forces.
It was answered by the battle-drums of the Iron Bulls.
‘Form ranks,’ shouted the sergeants, jostling and hauling their men into position. The great guns clattered and groaned as they were hauled forward, set up in the mouths of the southern buildings, with a slight elevation of range.
‘They wait for us,’ said Toll, eyeing the strange avian beastmen. ‘They’re guarding the guildhall.’
‘Not for long,’ growled Synor. He hauled his warhorse about, facing his warriors, and raised his broadsword into the air. The horse reared and snorted.
‘Men of the Eighth!’ he roared, and his voice carried even above the abominable clatter that the Old Lady made as it rolled into position at the head of the line. ‘We have been betrayed. Heretics, worshippers of the Dark Gods and heathen monsters plan to destroy this city. Our city! Before you stand their twisted servants, and beyond them lies the great hall of the Prophesier’s Guild. This is where the arch-traitors Ortam Vermyre and Velorius Kryn cower, believing that the day is already won.’
He fixed the soldiers of the Iron Bulls with a steel gaze, and trotted his horse down the line with his blade raised in salute.
‘Is that so, warriors of the Iron Bulls of Tarsus?’ he shouted. ‘Are you defeated yet?’
‘NO!’
The screams and war cries of the Eighth answered proudly. Even Callis found himself bellowing along with the rest.
Synor wheeled about, and aimed his sword straight at the heart of the enemy formation.
‘Forward, warriors of the Eighth!’
The fighting Eighth were an old and storied regiment, tested on the field of battle all across the Coast of Tusks. When the first colonists had arrived in Excelsis, the Iron Bulls had been there to spill their own blood in the name of peace and order, buying a future for their children with their lives. That noble tradition continued on the bloody steps of the Prophesier’s Guild. The front ranks of the Eighth met the enemy with shields raised and songs of praise to their warrior-god upon their lips. The enemy howled and counter-charged, bounding over the marble of the grand square with unnatura
l grace, their powerful, backwards-jointed limbs giving them the rangy stride of a predatory bird. They hurled themselves into the fray with shrieks of battle-joy, silver swords flickering in the gloom. Other beastmen rose above the battle on discs of warped metal and strange organic material, wielding greatbows as tall as a mortal man. From these impressive weapons they unleashed a storm of sparkling arrows that flickered blue-green as they fell upon the Iron Bulls formation. The creatures seemed to be shooting randomly, but Toll knew better.
‘Protect the gun crews,’ he urged General Synor. ‘These creatures, they will aim for vital targets – officers, gunners, standard bearers. They look to disrupt our attack.’
Synor shouted orders, and several squads of swordsmen dropped back to provide cover for the artillery, enveloping the gun crews and raising their shields. Many of the flickering arrows sparked and spat as they deflected off the wall of steel, but the creatures were exceptional shots. Several gunners collapsed, twitching, pierced by the shimmering missiles. To Toll’s left, a lieutenant barking orders to his men abruptly sighed and slumped to the floor, an arrow protruding from the back of his neck.
In the midst of the flying archers another figure rose, wrapped in robes of vibrant turquoise, horns swept back like those of a ram, face concealed behind a jade mask with eyes that burned like hot coals. This creature carried a staff of obsidian, topped with a baleful eye of green. It swept its weapon low, and a gout of blue-white fire spat from the eye of the staff, setting a dozen mortals alight. Their screams echoed over the clangour of battle.
‘They will hold,’ muttered Synor, viewing the carnage from the rear of the Iron Bulls’ line.
Callis felt a fierce pride as he watched these brave men and women defend their home, not giving an inch despite the horrors that had been unleashed upon them. Grim-faced halberdiers held the line against the fury of the beastmen, spitting defiance at their foe even as eldritch arrows screamed into their ranks, turning flesh to smoke and crystal, burning soldiers away as if they had never existed. Against the power and sorcery of the beastmen, the formations of soldiers were almost laughably outmatched. No matter. They held their ground, shields raised, and for every loyal Sigmarite that fell to the wicked curved swords of the foe, another rushed forwards to take their place.
It could not last. More of the ray-like flying predators shrieked through the air, carving into the Iron Bulls’ battle line, snatching up screaming figures and releasing them to be dashed to pieces on the marble below. From the darkness of the basilicas on each side of the plaza came a tide of masked warriors, chests bare and scrawled with unholy symbols and forbidden text, faces concealed behind leering masks of gold and silver. Some loosed bolts of flesh-melting green energy from wands and sceptres, while others cleaved into the flanks of the Iron Bulls with daggers and axes. The human face of the invasion had revealed itself at last.
The general urged more of his men forward, sending his reserve into the thick of the melee to clear the cultists. Crossbowmen and handgunners bracketed the ambushers with raking volleys, sending scores tumbling to the floor with smoking holes bored in their exposed flesh, quarrels protruding from their necks. The smell of cordite was strong enough to make Callis gag.
‘We’re containing them,’ said Synor, observing the battle from the steps of an abandoned counting hall at the southern edge of the square. ‘But that won’t last. We have no support, and those damned flying creatures are slaughtering us.’
‘Sir!’ came a cry from their right. ‘The artillery is in position. But the battle lines are drawn so close we risk hitting our own men.’
‘Fire!’ snapped Synor. ‘Trust in your gun crews, captain. Without ordnance this battle is lost regardless, and we’re all dead.’
The general turned to Toll. ‘We’ll give them a barrage, and then I’ll give the order to push forward. It’ll be a bloody affair, Witch Hunter.’
‘If Kryn corrupts the occulum arrays and brings that abomination into our skies, the city entire will burn,’ said Toll. ‘You’re making the right choice, general. Our only hope lies in spending our deaths wisely.’
Callis heard the shouts from down the line, and covered his ears instinctively. The cannons were spaced out amongst the columns of the structure to their right, the abandoned remnants of what was normally the Hall of Justice. Now it bristled with all manner of Ironweld field pieces – great, wide-barrelled siege cannons, four-chambered organ guns, black and yellow marked rocket arrays. The gunmasters were there, peering through their sight-glasses, roaring last minute orders to the gun crews.
Then the world shook with fire. A billowing cloud of sour smoke erupted from the mouth of the Hall of Justice, and several score balls of solid metal were vomited forth at the ranks of the enemy.
Beastmen and cultists simply disappeared, their flesh blasted apart so fast that they seemed to simply transform into clouds of crimson mist. The cannonballs continued on, arcing and bouncing through the massed ranks, leaving immeasurable carnage in their wake. The accuracy of the fire was impressive, a hallmark of the Iron Bulls’ skilful gun crews, yet not every shot struck true. Callis’ heart sank to see his fellow soldiers torn asunder by inevitable misplaced shots.
‘Their deaths are no less noble,’ growled Synor, noticing the guardsman’s unease. ‘The mathematics of war is rarely palatable.’
He drew his broadsword, three and a half feet of gleaming steel, with a bucket hilt forged in the shape of a rearing bull.
‘Let’s get this underway, then,’ he said. ‘Witch Hunter, shall I assume you’ll join me in the charge?’
Toll was already checking the lock of his four-barrelled pistol. Callis did the same with Kazrug’s duardin-forged piece, and adjusted his uncle’s sword at his side.
‘After you, general,’ said the Witch Hunter.
The Old Lady led the way. The steam tank spat streams of smoke as it rumbled towards the right flank of the enemy, shaking the earth beneath its great iron-shod wheels. With a thunderous roar, the tank’s main gun fired. The cannonball was almost too fast to see, but the mist of gore and the flying chunks of meat it left in its wake were impossible to miss. The Old Lady barely slowed at all. The gunner atop the iron monstrosity blasted away with the axle-mounted rifle, stopping occasionally to bellow orders down into the cabin below.
Toll, Synor and Callis followed in its wake, accompanied by the general’s elite bodyguard in their gleaming, golden armour. Cultists, dazed and confused by the brutality of the assault, stumbled out of the great smoke trail the tank left behind it. The greatswords of the general’s guard hacked them apart, easily cleaving through the scant armour that the masked mortals wore. Callis saw a tall, thin cultist on the steps of a building to their right, one arm outstretched as he chanted foul phrases in some alien tongue, aiming a glowing crystal sceptre towards the Old Lady. He raised Kazrug’s gun and put a bullet through the man’s gut, blasting him off his feet and sending him rolling down the stairs, howling in pain. The man came to a rest in a crumpled heap, his mask slipping free to reveal a round, boyish face and white-blonde hair. Callis’ gut tightened. He recognised the man, a guardsman named Erigard. He had lost to him at cards only a few weeks past.
Arrows and spells were hissing and fizzling as they struck the steam tank’s hull. The iron was thick, and it would not yield, but the Old Lady was beginning to rock and squeal with protest under the barrage. Cultists leapt upon the frame of the vehicle, dragging themselves towards the top hatch. The gunner dropped the axle-mounted rifle and drew a wide-bore pistol. The first masked face to haul itself over the lip of the side armour exploded in a welter of brain matter. Another figure was clubbed to the floor, and yet more fell to missiles hurled by their own side.
‘Clear the way!’ shouted Synor, gesturing at the ranks of cultists that were pouring fire into the Old Lady from between a row of marble columns to their right. ‘Bring those spellcasters down, now!’
But they could not reach them. The steam tank continued to fire its main cannon, reaping a horrible toll on the enemy ranks before it, but even the thick iron armour that protected its flanks was beginning to come apart.
There was a shrill hissing sound, and cutting through the air came the flying disc of the beastman sorcerer who had unleashed its fire upon the sword infantry. The creature ignored the crossbow bolts that clattered off the daemonic device that bore it aloft, and raised its sickly-green staff again. A fist of magical flame rushed out to slam the Old Lady in the flank. The gunner toppled out of his hatch, striking the cobbled ground hard. The tank groaned in protest, and began to rear on its side, the power of the magical flame melting thick bands of metal and superheating the vehicle. Callis could hear the screams of the driver team as they began to roast alive. He brought his pistol to bear and it bucked in his hand, but though his and Toll’s shots were true, they had no effect upon the avian sorcerer.
The heat cooked off the Old Lady’s powder reserve. The resulting fireball lifted the twelve-ton tank into the air, where it spun once before crashing to the marble floor and rolling. It crushed the poor gunner beneath its awful weight, as well as dozens of cultists too slow to hurl themselves out of the way.
