by Nick Horth
Toll circled, testing his torn leg. A bad cut, but not a deep one. Foolish. Had Vermyre been wielding a longsword, the heavier blade would have likely taken his leg off.
He redressed and came forward again, high, high and low, a textbook attack routine. Vermyre swatted one thrust away before dancing out of the way of the second and third. Then he came forward in a rush, feinting at the gut and slicing across at head height. Toll barely got out of the way in time, feeling the rush of air as the rapier whipped past, catching the brim of his hat and tearing it from his head.
‘Age betrays us all in the end,’ said Vermyre, grinning at the Witch Hunter as if they were in on the same joke. ‘If we allow it.’
Another flurry of strikes, exchanged so fast that Toll was reacting on pure instinct. Somehow he fended off the attack, giving ground and stumbling over the bodies that littered the floor. Vermyre came after him, now in a classic fencer’s stance, one hand behind his back and his body angled to the side ready to slip out of the way of the Witch Hunter’s ripostes.
The wizard’s metal automatons were smashed apart and reformed, spinning back into the fray with a whir of twisting components. Sentanus held his staff high, and Callis could hear the low rumble as he chanted prayers of protection and binding. One of the Stormcasts went down, skewered by a pair of the brass golems, and as he toppled from the walkway, spinning end over end, his body disappeared in a blinding flash of lightning that rippled up through the broken ceiling. Kryn cackled with delight, still weaving spell after spell and hurling rays of searing fire and spheres of reality-warping power at the Knights Excelsior.
The crossbow-wielding Stormcast poured a torrent of radiant bolts into the surface of the metal creations, blasting away chunks of molten brass. One of the golems staggered under the barrage, and the warrior wielding a longaxe slammed his weapon into its chest, bringing it to the floor. The crossbow-wielder switched targets and began to blast away at the floating wizard. Kryn snarled in outrage as the volley sparked off the arcane shield that enveloped him, and pointed one wizened finger at the metal walkway beneath the shooter. The unfortunate Knight Excelsior was sucked into the brass that now grasped at his legs like quicksand. He disappeared into the metal, which reformed as if freshly wrought.
‘You dare to threaten me?’ shrieked Kryn. ‘The arrogance of it. I will melt you inside those extravagant suits of armour.’
The air seemed to heat around the entire guildhall as he worked another spell. Thick chains of brass burst forth from the floor below, and with a gesture he sent them hurtling across the walkway. They struck the Stormcast with the duelling blades, lifting him from the floor and wrapping around him like the coils of a great snake. Callis could hear the awful sound of creaking metal. The chains looped around the unfortunate warrior’s neck, and wrenched it backwards with a sickening crack that left the Stormcast limp. Another flash of lightning crackled up into the night. Kryn laughed until he coughed and hacked bloody spittle.
The White Reaper bellowed in fury. He smashed at the brass golem that was sprawled on the floor, hacking away at its featureless face with his blade. The Stormcast with the longaxe took aim at its bladed arms, trying to cut the limbs free. Sentanus lowered his staff, unleashed another beam of radiant energy, and the golem’s head bubbled and dissolved. Its body followed suit, melting into the platform as if it had never existed. The remaining two warriors armed with greatswords faced the pair of brass golems that were still standing, avoiding the constructs’ wild swings with surprising grace. One skipped past the heavy step of a golem, preparing a mighty swing that would strike the back of its leg.
Kryn screamed the words of another spell; a cloud of black iron daggers flittered through the air to sink into the attacking warrior’s armour like a hail of arrows. He groaned and dropped to his knees, pulling at a blade that had sunk deep into his eye. His fellow Stormcast was now faced by two of the monstrosities. He blocked one swing and dodged another before a heavy brass foot slammed into his chest. He soared into the air, end over end, and crashed into the hanging machinery. His body slid to the floor, lightning already flickering around the ruin of his breastplate.
Sentanus and the warrior armed with the longaxe crashed into one of the remaining brass golems, hacking and slashing at its legs in an effort to bring it to the ground.
The other construct turned its eyeless gaze upon the only remaining threat.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Callis, and turned to run.
Toll stumbled, his boot sliding on a slick patch of blood. Vermyre was darting forward in an instant, a viper-quick thrust for his opponent’s exposed neck. Toll got the rapier up just in time. Vermyre’s blade slid along his own with a squeal of polished metal, and the two weapons locked at the hilt. Toll stared into the traitor’s eyes, and saw nothing of the hate and madness that he expected. They were calm, dispassionate, as if the man was signing paperwork rather than duelling to the death with a friend he had known for decades.
‘You’re too slow, Hanniver,’ said Vermyre. ‘You can’t win this fight. The power of the Changer of the Ways runs in my veins. I am his agent, and I will bring the light of change upon the free peoples of the realms.’
‘You are a traitor and a murderer,’ spat Toll, ‘and when the time comes your soul will burn along with your foul master.’
He snapped his head forwards and felt Vermyre’s nose crunch and erupt in a fountain of blood under the force of the blow. The former High Arbiter staggered back with a grunt of pain, and Hanniver slashed at his exposed throat.
Vermyre tried to fall backwards out of the way of the strike but it lashed across his face, blood spurting out. He clutched his hand to a ruined eye and howled. Hanniver saw his chance, and came forward with his rapier leading.
A moment before the Witch Hunter struck, Vermyre dropped his own blade and brought up his free hand, clutching a jewel-encrusted rod of silver, its tip aimed towards his assailant. There was an explosion of blue fire, and Toll felt himself soar through the air, flames licking at his flesh. He crashed to earth, groaning in agony, and rolled over to put out the blaze. His sword arm was a blistered mess of scorched red flesh, and the skin around his neck and shoulder thrummed with agony.
‘When all else fails, fight dirty,’ hissed Vermyre, coming forwards with the sceptre raised. ‘I had forgotten who you truly were, Hanniver. A simple case of underestimation, and a plan long years in the making almost comes crashing down.’
Toll reached for a longsword that lay in the hands of a dead Iron Bull at his side, but Vermyre aimed the sceptre and another sheet of flame swept out to melt the weapon to slag.
‘The truth is I wanted you at my side. I wanted you to understand why Sigmar’s world must fall, and we must embrace a more challenging destiny. You could have done great things, Hanniver. I will mourn your loss. But I see now there is no opening your eyes. So be it.’
He raised the sceptre. It began to glow with a sickly blue light, and the former High Arbiter lowered it at Toll’s chest.
‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said.
Callis hurled himself into a roll, hearing the brass weapon-limb of the pursuing golem carve a ragged scar through the polished metal floor. He came up into a sprint, but staggered to a halt as he realised how close he was to the edge of the platform. A seemingly endless distance below him, the battle still raged. He caught a glimpse of islands of green-jacketed Iron Bulls, surrounded on all sides by a sea of enemies, but still fighting and dying hard. There was no time to survey the scene. He ducked instinctively and hurled himself to the side, resulting in the brass golem’s blade arm whipping overhead. Callis scrambled away on all fours, desperately grabbing at Kazrug’s pistol, knowing that it would be all but useless against this creature.
There was only one other thing to try. He ran once more towards the edge of the platform. The brass creature swivelled its head and came after him again. He backed up until he felt
the rail against his back, raised his pistol and fired. The bullet skipped off the creature’s metal hide.
‘Come on then!’ he roared. ‘I’m right here!’
It charged, picking up speed as it came, raising the blades on its forelimbs to skewer him. He let it come closer. Closer.
At the last moment Callis hurled himself forwards. He slid on the polished floor, screaming like a madman as he went, sure that any moment now one of those blades would sink into his flesh.
They did not. The golem’s wild swing overbalanced it, and as it tried to adjust, it staggered and crashed against the guardrail, which bent under the construct’s weight. The golem teetered, trying to regain its balance, but it was simply too heavy. It hung in the air for an instant before toppling over the edge of the platform.
They both heard the groan of metal overhead. Vermyre looked up, and his eyes widened in horror before he hurled himself to the side. Toll was already rolling backwards, sure that he could not possibly get out of the way in time.
The brass automaton struck the floor with astonishing force, splintering the marble flagstones and sending a cloud of dust into the air. The shockwave knocked scores of guardsmen and cultists to the ground, and the sound was as deafening as the great church bells of the Abbey of Remembered Souls.
Toll could not hear a thing, but that did not matter. The world around him surged in slow motion, soldiers dragging themselves to their feet or silently screaming and clutching horrible wounds. Howling, bestial faces screeched through the clouds of dust. He ignored this all, trying to focus beyond the ringing in his ears and the pain in his skull.
He saw his target, stumbling blindly through the carnage. Toll bent and grasped the hilt of a broadsword that was buried in the chest of a dead cultist. He tore it free and began to run. Figures who stumbled into his path were shouldered out of the way. The ringing in Toll’s ears was fading now, and he could hear the screams and chaos of battle all around. The fallen remains of the strange brass golem lay before him, and he climbed upon the thing’s motionless back, sprinted up its spine and leapt from the twisted remnants of its head.
Ortam Vermyre turned and looked up, blood streaming from his ear and smeared across his face. The traitor’s eyes went wide with shock.
‘This is for Kazrug,’ Toll snarled, savouring the traitor’s fear.
His blade sliced through Vermyre’s forearm with a sickening tearing sound, and the traitor’s right hand, and the flaming sceptre it carried, clattered to the floor. Vermyre screamed and fell to his knees, clutching his bloody stump. The Witch Hunter moved to finish him off, raising his sword high. Before the blade could fall the stricken heretic tore something free of his neck, a gleaming sapphire stone bound on a golden cord. He crushed it in his hand and a concussive blast hurled Toll off his feet.
The shockwave created a visible circle of white-blue energy, and as Toll watched it rolled back in on itself before exploding in a vortex of shimmering azure as tall and wide as a man. The portal hung in the air, bleeding nauseating colours that flickered across the walls of the guildhall. Toll could hear a chorus of sibilant voices on the other side, whispering secrets and promises of eternal damnation. Vermyre stood, back to the portal, and let himself fall. As tendrils of spectral force wrapped themselves around his mutilated form, the former High Arbiter fixed his old friend with a hateful stare.
‘I’ll see you soon, Hanniver,’ he promised.
The shimmering vortex collapsed in on itself in a kaleidoscope of impossible colours and half-formed shapes, and disappeared. No sign of Ortam Vermyre remained.
Around the Witch Hunter, the battle had devolved into a brutal, fractured melee. The remaining Knights Excelsior were islands of gleaming white in a riotous sea of colour. They fought like the heroes the legends depicted them to be. Cackling daemons hurled themselves at the giants’ legs, trying to bear them down where they could be set upon by the swarm of avian beastmen. They would not fall. Every sweep of their swords sent enemies reeling and tumbling away, clutching at gaping wounds. They killed with their shields, smashing the foe to the floor and crushing skulls with powerful blows. And all the while they bellowed songs of praise to Sigmar, battle-hymns of devotion to their God-King.
For all their heroism, the enemy tide would not cease or relent. The fighting Iron Bulls of the Eighth were being picked apart, unable to maintain cohesion amidst the terrible fires and eldritch arrows of the beastmen.
Sentanus and his remaining warrior had the last golem down, and were taking it apart. The axe-wielding Stormcast raised his weapon high to strike the thing’s head from its shoulders, but a blast of silver-white light struck him in the back. He was hurled away, smoke rising from a gaping hole seared through his armour. Kryn’s laughter echoed above the clangour of the fighting below.
The White Reaper’s pitiless mask snapped towards the mage, who was hovering in the air above the platform upon a disc of polished brass, his long, thin fingers already working the motions for another display of magic. Sentanus ignored the twitching pile of wreckage beneath him and raised his staff.
Too late. Kryn’s hands thrust out at the Lord-Veritant, and once again the platform beneath them flowed and reformed. The half-destroyed golem melted into it, and the swirling metal wrapped around Sentanus’ armoured legs, dragging him slowly, inexorably down.
‘Even the mighty White Reaper, scourge of Excelsis, cannot stand before me,’ said Kryn, floating closer on his metal disc, clapping in delight. ‘Oh, your head will make a fine gift for my masters, Sentanus.’
He curled his fingers, and the flowing brass looped around the Reaper’s throat and trapped his sword arm.
‘It does not end with me, wizard,’ spat Sentanus. He spoke the final word like a curse. ‘Sigmar’s faithful will never stop hunting you. You will burn, Kryn, I promise you, and the agony of your death will come as sweet relief after what came before it.’
Kryn’s face twisted into a hateful scowl. The White Reaper’s armour squealed as the brass bindings dug into it.
‘Enough,’ the wizened mage snarled. He raised his hands again, curled into talons.
Callis’ pistol barked, and the shot struck Kryn in the chest. The wizard shrieked in surprise, his fury-filled eyes snapping towards the former corporal. Callis’ heart sunk. Whatever magical wards the mage had summoned to protect himself had held.
‘You dare?’ Kryn hissed. ‘I will tear the skin from your–’
The White Reaper’s gauntleted fist snapped out, tearing apart the brass loops which bound his limbs and closing around Kryn’s throat. The wizard’s eyes almost popped out of his skull as he gasped and spluttered for breath, arms scrabbling weakly at the vice-like grip that held him.
‘You are judged a heretic and a traitor to the one true god that is Sigmar,’ Sentanus growled. He leaned forward, his pitiless mask an inch from the wizard’s terrified, gasping face. ‘Burn.’
The Lord-Veritant brought up his staff. The lantern flared. The blazing light enveloped Kryn’s skull. His scream was one of purest agony. The mage’s skin seared away in the face of that holy flame, his teeth blackening. The light grew brighter and brighter, until Callis had to look away.
The radiance faded. When he looked back, the White Reaper had hauled himself to his feet. The Lord-Veritant stared down at the smoking ashes that had once been Kryn. Wisps of smoke curled around the head of his lantern-staff.
The armoured giant’s head turned towards Callis. He said nothing for a long time. Below, they could still hear the clash and cries of battle.
‘Leave,’ Sentanus said.
Without another word, the Lord-Veritant turned to stare up at the occulum fulgurest, which still rippled and arced with lightning that poured into the skies above the city. Sentanus raised his blade, and sliced one the great chains that held the occulum aloft. With a deafening clatter of metal, the platform began to tilt and sway. Call
is did not wait for a second word. Exhausted, he staggered towards the grand staircase.
With agonising slowness, the intricate working of the aetheric generator began to come apart, and the great sphere at the centre of the structure slipped from its chains and fell to the floor. The beastmen and daemons unfortunate enough to be directly below screeched and howled as they tried to claw their way out of its path, but it was too late. It crunched into the mass of bodies with an awful squelching sound, and a torrent of gore spurted out from beneath its colossal weight. The marble slabs of the floor shattered under that pressure, sending jagged shards whipping through the crowd. More of the machinery began to fall, mercifully missing the surviving soldiers.
‘Forward, Iron Bulls,’ came the voice of General Synor, who clearly recognised that the inexorable advance of the enemy had been halted by the death of their leader and the carnage of the falling occulum. ‘Now is the time. Earn your glory, soldiers of Sigmar!’
Toll limped over. His face was bruised and bloodied, but otherwise he was unharmed. His rapier was drawn, and caked in congealing blood.
‘Are you alright?’ Synor asked. The general was holding a piece of torn cloth to a cut that ran from his jaw to just below his windpipe, narrowly avoiding carving his throat open. His voice was hoarse with pain, and blood ran freely down one of his shins. ‘Fancy entering the fray again?’
In truth, he felt like lying there on the cool ground forever more, but the Witch Hunter nodded. His sword arm was useless, burned so badly that he could barely lift it without it sending a million red-hot needles dancing across his flesh, but by Sigmar he could still hold a gun.
‘Ready to see this through,’ he growled.
‘Good show,’ said the general, drawing his blade. ‘Let’s finish this.’
With the destruction of the corrupted machinery, the groundswell of foul sorcery that had begun to summon the crystal fortress into the skies above Excelsis was dispelled. There was a thunderous eruption that shattered every window in the city, and the colossal vortex that connected this realm with whatever tortured void had birthed the crystalline abomination vanished. The single spiral tower that had manifested entirely was sheared free from the structure that had secured it. It toppled from the sky in three separate pieces, striking the western quarter of the city. The spearhead that was the tip of the tower carved through the noble district, demolishing several of the palaces of the city’s most powerful families. One of these buildings was the Palace of the High Arbiter, which was utterly obliterated in the cataclysmic power of the fall.
