‘You saved me a dead soldier,’ said the Lord-Celestant, giving Alzheer the briefest nod. ‘You have my gratitude.’
‘My lord,’ spluttered Evios, ‘she butchered her own man, she–’
‘Her man had a gut wound, and would have died slowly and painfully,’ said Thostos, and the Prosecutor-Prime seemed to wither under his glare. ‘He was done. The priestess made the hard choice. Thanks to her quick thinking, a warrior remains fit for duty.’
The unfortunate mortal’s body crumpled as the vine wrapped ever tighter around his frame, squeezing out every drop of blood like juice from a fruit. As they watched, the dead man’s skin turned more and more pale, and the vines of the carnivorous plant swelled and took on a crimson hue.
‘We should be gone from here,’ said Alzheer, staring expressionlessly at the gruesome sight. ‘The blood will draw other creatures.’
‘We are nearing the mouth of Splitskull Pass,’ said Mykos. ‘Prosecutor-Prime, take your men and survey the area. Stay out of sight, and report back to me the moment you come into the contact with the enemy.’
Goldfeather was still staring at Alzheer, who was wiping the blood from her hands with fistfuls of grass and muttering some sort of mantra under her breath.
‘Of course, Lord-Celestant,’ he said, and gave a curt nod.
‘We have no time to give your man proper ceremony,’ said Thostos. ‘Say your words quickly, and then we must continue on.’
‘There is no need,’ said Alzheer. ‘He came from the earth, and he will be claimed by the sky.’
She gestured at the circling flock, who had dropped lower now, anticipating their next meal. Mykos could see wicked toothed bills, curved talons and piercing, hungry eyes.
‘His search is over,’ said the priestess.
‘Well,’ said Goldfeather. ‘This certainly makes things interesting.’
An orruk camp of colossal size covered the mouth of Splitskull Pass, a sprawling, haphazard mess of crude huts and tents. It stretched at least a mile in every direction, and Evios could see that it contained thousands upon thousands of broad, heavily muscled figures, some milling aimlessly, others lazing in the heat of the sun. Clouds of dust highlighted several small-scale skirmishes dotted all over the camp – with no enemy in sight, it was only a matter of time before orruks began one of their self-destructive brawls. He caught the glint of yellow from their armour, and upon the seemingly endless stream of banners and totem poles was emblazoned an ugly image of a pair of gauntleted hands snapping a bone in two.
The Prosecutors stayed high, and well clear of the camp, using the clouds for cover. Their resplendent wings did not lend themselves to subterfuge, and if even one orruk happened to look up and see them it could spell disaster for the rest of the Stormcasts. It was hardly as if they needed to get any closer, thought Evios. Any fool could see that this force of orruks outnumbered the Celestial Vindicators’ own army several times over.
‘I’ve never seen the like,’ said Prosecutor Galeth, who was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How can we possibly triumph against such numbers?’
Normally Evios would have chastised the warrior for such a comment, but in the face of the apocalypse gathered below them, it hardly seemed appropriate.
‘We cannot break through that,’ said Omeris, and there was no fear in his voice, just simple and unavoidable logic. ‘Not if we wish to have anyone left to complete our mission.’
‘There must be some other way,’ said Galeth. ‘Some way to circumvent this.’
‘Just keep watch over the orruks,’ said Evios. ‘And keep out of sight. If they move even an inch, I want to know about it. If this force catches us in the open field, we are lost.’
He turned to let the roaring wind fill his wings and carry him back out across the plain towards the main force of the Celestial Vindicators. The Lord-Celestants would not welcome the news he bore.
‘So the pass is blocked,’ said Eldroc. ‘That complicates things.’
‘How many orruks are camped there?’ asked Thostos.
‘Many thousands,’ said Goldfeather. ‘Many, many thousands. We did not get close enough to provide an entirely accurate estimation, but their wretched hovels are thick across the ground. I can still smell the stench from here.’
Stormcasts spent so much time with their faces masked beneath their war-helms that, for a leader like Mykos, reading his warriors’ voices was almost second nature. He could tell that Evios was worried. That concerned the Lord-Celestant as much as the grim news, because for all his bluster the Prosecutor-Prime was one of his most eager and unflappable fighters. It must be a mighty force indeed that they faced.
‘If we strike hard, before they are ready,’ said Thostos, ‘can we push through their line?’
‘They do not have any lines, Lord-Celestant,’ said Evios, shaking his head. ‘Just one huge mass of iron. A force a quarter of their size could hold that pass. We would be surrounded and picked apart.’
‘Then we examine our options,’ said Mykos. ‘The mortals. Alzheer says they know every inch of this region. Perhaps they know an alternative route through the mountain.’
‘Time runs short,’ said Eldroc. ‘The God-King stressed the importance of completing this mission as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the more likely it is that the forces of Chaos will discover our presence and reinforce the dreadhold.’
‘Then our choices are limited,’ said Thostos.
The Lord-Celestant signalled for the mortals to be brought forward, and in short order Liberator Phalryn had gathered them. They looked even more ragged than when they had first been rescued. The Stormcasts had given them what water and food they could spare, but exhaustion and dehydration had already taken their toll. Their lips were cracked and dry, their eyes bloodshot. Mykos felt a stab of guilt for pushing them so hard, but quickly pushed it aside. Better they were given the chance to survive than left to a certain death out on the plain.
Thostos came forward, approaching the priestess and ignoring her fellow warriors.
‘You aided us once,’ he said. ‘I require you to do so again. A large orruk camp blocks Splitskull Pass, preventing us from reaching our objective. We need an alternate route.’
‘You seek the dreadhold, and the gate of fire,’ said Alzheer, nodding as if that was the clear and obvious answer. ‘The Sky Seekers can help you, son of Zi’Mar. There are ways to reach the fortress.’
‘You can lead us there?’ asked Mykos.
‘The paths through the mountain are dangerous and twisted,’ said Alzheer. ‘To traverse them, we will require the help of my people. I can take you to our camp, and our scouts will be able to guide you.’
Thostos stared into the priestess’ eyes, and again she did not avert her gaze.
‘I believe that I can trust you,’ said the Bladestorm. ‘I warn you, however, that if I sense even the slightest hint of betrayal, you and your people will not live long enough to realise the depth of your error.’
Alzheer nodded.
‘The God-King granted me this quest, and I will let nothing interfere with its successful completion. We are clear?’
‘We are.’
Before the Stormcasts rose two great towers of wind-scoured, vine-wrapped rock, one shaped like a spear, the other a wide, rough semi-circle that enclosed the smaller formation. Together, they provided a small lee of natural cover from the blazing sun, and in this sheltered valley Eldroc could see the leather coverings of tents and yurts. As they marched closer, they saw no occupants.
‘We are here,’ said Alzheer.
‘Abandoned,’ said Mykos. ‘Perhaps your people came under attack?’
Alzheer simply smiled, put two fingers to her mouth and gave a series of sharp whistles.
Lean human warriors appeared suddenly from every angle, dropping from cleverly disguised apertures in the walls of the m
esa, or bursting forth from tents and thickets of grass.
‘Shields,’ roared Axilon, and the Stormcasts put a wall of sigmarite between themselves and the mortals. Evios and his warrior-heralds took flight, wings glittering in the midday sun as they readied their storm-called javelins.
‘Hold,’ yelled Alzheer, breaking free from the line of Stormcast Eternals and raising her hands. She approached the tribesmen, speaking fast and low in a language that Eldroc did not understand.
Two warriors came forward, one male and one female. Both wore chitinous chestplates and greaves, painted with the same lightning-bolt sigil that was tattooed upon Alzheer’s neck.
‘Priestess,’ said the woman, coming forward and lowering a forked spear. ‘You bring strangers to our home. Well-armed strangers.’
‘Saviours,’ said Alzheer. ‘Warriors of the Sky God, sister. They slaughtered a greenskin warband as if they were lame dogs.’
Mykos came forward. In his turquoise plate, emblazoned with lightning bolts and the flaming comet of Sigmar, his blue eyes blazing through his unforgiving war-mask, he looked every inch the herald of a vengeful god. Several of the mortal warriors dropped to their knees and traced a lightning bolt down their chests with the first two fingers of their free hands. Most stayed standing, weapons levelled and ready. These people have been battered, but their spirit is not broken yet, the Lord-Celestant thought with some admiration.
The female warrior whistled, and looked to her companion.
‘He’s a big one, alright,’ she said.
The other warrior was a wiry, flint-eyed greybeard, still corded with muscle despite his advanced years and obvious signs of malnutrition. He stepped forward, an arrow nocked on his bow but lowered to the floor, and peered at Thostos’ armour.
‘This metalwork,’ he said, and his voice was full of awe. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’
‘Elder Diash is our smith and weapon-crafter,’ said Alzheer, smiling warmly at the man.
‘By which she means I spend my days tying flint to arrows,’ said Diash. ‘There’s no good, solid metal here, sky warrior, unless you fancy asking the orruks for some of theirs. Mind you, don’t seem like you need any.’
‘This warplate comes from the forge-castles of blessed Azyrheim,’ said Mykos. ‘It was crafted from the remnants of a dying world, shaped by the matchless skill of the Six Smiths. It has saved my life a hundred times.’
Diash’s eyes went wide. He thought for a moment, and then slapped a palm against the rough chitin of his own chestplate.
‘Got this from a sand-crab,’ he said. ‘Biggest one I ever caught. Devilish, irritable little creatures they are, but smoke ’em right and they make a nice meal.’
There was a pause, and then Knight-Heraldor Axilon laughed hard enough to shake the walls of the mesa. Mykos chuckled too, behind his war mask.
‘It seems we have much to teach each other, my friend,’ he said.
Thostos came forward, and the mortals shied away from his cold glare.
‘Enough. We are here to speak with your leaders,’ he said.
Diash and his fellow warrior, the tall, scarred woman called Emni, led Mykos, Thostos and their entourage through the camp. Axilon had stayed with the main force, and he and Lord-Relictor Tharros were now organising them into a defensive screen around the encampment. As the tribespeople filtered out of their tents to stare at these elaborately armoured strangers, Mykos began to appreciate just how difficult life must be out on the plains. Barely a single mortal was unmarked by some sign of combat, and not a single one went unarmed. Grey-haired, weather-beaten elders scowled at them suspiciously as they passed, clutching crude daggers and stone hatchets. The younger warriors were better armed, though not by much. They favoured axes and short, curved sabres. Cavalry pieces, designed for slashing and hacking. He noted only a very few children, scrawny little things that stared defiantly at the Celestial Vindicators as they passed.
A circular clearing in the centre of the camp was home to a few-score tired-looking horses, lazily munching on bundles of tall grass. Behind the enclosure was the largest structure in the camp, a vaguely oval tent with a tapered entrance to the fore, guarded by four warriors. It was tall enough for even the Stormcasts to enter without ducking. Several huge, yellowed tusks anchored the structure at each corner, dug deep into the ground and secured with leather straps. Across the floor were scattered hides of all descriptions – great, thick ursine furs, mottled reptilian skins and strange diaphanous veils. In the middle of the tent a great pit had been dug out of the earth and filled with stones, and in the centre of this pit a fire spat embers out across the gathering hall.
Several figures crouched at the far end of the tent, which lay flush to the side of the mesa. They were wrapped in yet more furs, and the light of the fire flickered across them, giving them an eerie look.
There were seven in total, and as Mykos drew nearer he could see that they were of varying age, though all were weathered and bronzed from a life spent under the harsh sun. Two carried great hornpipes, and a slightly nauseous scent of burning spices filled the tent. Smoke spiralled into the air, lending the place a misty, ethereal quality.
‘Who do you bring to us, daughter of Zi’Mar?’ said the figure on the far left, pulling back the furs he wore to reveal a wizened, lined face with two milky-white eyes. ‘They smell of metal, and of the night sky.’
‘The Sky God has sent warriors to protect our lands, Elder Patiga,’ said Alzheer. She moved to the ancient figure, and gently lifted him up. Holding his hands in her own, she approached Mykos, and he let her run the elder’s liver-spotted hands across his gilded armour, tracing the wondrous lion’s-head breastplate and the lightning-and-hammer symbol that he wore upon his pauldron.
‘Warriors wreathed in metal,’ said Patiga, and he shook his head. ‘But not orruks! No, no, no. The wind will cease before those brutes learn to craft such wonders.’
‘You come to help us wipe out the greenskins,’ said another figure, standing and casting off his furs. This one was tall, for a mortal, well muscled and covered in a latticework of scars and burn marks. Trophies hung from his thick leather clothing, fingerbones, ears and teeth taken from slaughtered orruks. Knives were tucked into his armour, and he carried a short, curved blade at his hip. He had shaved his hair, aside from a ponytail that draped down his back, and his beard was thick and wiry.
‘No, we do not,’ said Thostos, and the speaker’s eyes narrowed.
He was a fierce one, this mortal. Mykos sensed the same ruthless competence from him as he had sensed from Alzheer, but while the priestess was measured and calm, this one did not even bother to conceal his anger.
‘So why are you here?’ the man snapped.
‘They seek a way through the mountains, Rusik,’ said Alzheer. ‘And you will guide them. You know those paths better than any other warrior.’
The man called Rusik narrowed his eyes at the priestess.
‘We are tasked with taking the Manticore Dreadhold, a fortress of Chaos,’ said Thostos. ‘You must have encountered the men that dwell there.’
‘They stay in their holes,’ said Rusik. ‘They barely venture out on the open plain. Because of the orruks. Those creatures have slaughtered thousands of our people. We were once a proud and numerous tribe. We were lords of this plain. Now we are a pitiful remnant of our former selves, a fading shadow.’
‘We are not gone yet,’ said Alzheer.
‘The orruks despoil the land,’ said Rusik, his voice rising in anger. ‘They slaughter the herdbeasts, they trample the kishwa plants under their iron boots. Hunger and thirst will kill us while we sit here and do nothing.’
‘Our cause is more important than the fate of your people,’ said Thostos.
‘Your cause?’ spat the mortal warrior. ‘What does your cause matter to us if we are to die here?’
‘If we fail, millio
ns of souls will be lost to the Dark Powers,’ the Lord-Celestant continued. ‘Whether by the next season or the next decade, your people will fall too. I have seen what happens when Chaos conquers, mortal. Trust me when I say that you would not wish to witness it for yourself.’
‘You think you can scare me with dire proclamations?’ said Rusik, with a bitter laugh. ‘The orruks have already burned everything I held dear to the ground.’
He pointed east. ‘You wish to die against the walls of the dreadhold? A half day’s ride or so and you’ll find the entrance to the Dragonmaw Canyons. Find your own damned way through.’
Rusik made to leave. Before he had gone ten paces Thostos had grabbed hold of the man’s leather jerkin and hauled him into the air. The Lord-Celestant’s eyes held no fury, simply an implacable resolution.
‘You will guide us,’ he said, and his voice was as cold and steady as the mountains.
Swords were drawn. The guards raised their spears more in alarm than aggression, but several figures emerged from the shadows with more of those wicked cavalry sabres. These men wore black cloaks of raven feathers, and their armour was of better quality than those borne by most of the tribe. Rusik’s men, Mykos guessed.
‘Thostos,’ he hissed. ‘Release him. This is not the way.’
The Bladestorm ignored him.
‘You think those little blades will scratch sigmarite armour?’ growled Thostos, his war-helm less than an inch from Rusik’s face. ‘You are welcome to test them. Or you could simply guide my warriors to where they need to go, and I will release you. Either way, I am running short on both time and patience. Choose.’
Rusik held out a hand as his men inched forward to surround the Lord-Celestant.
‘Hold!’ he shouted. ‘Sheathe your blades.’
Bladestorm Page 6
