by Warhammer
It was the king of all megalofins, a vast monster that had hunted the skies of Ghur since the realm had first congealed. Some whispered that it had been trapped within the realm by some ancient force, seeking to be rid of it. Others that it was one of the fabled god-beasts. All Volker knew was that the mere mention of it could cause even orruks to flinch in primordial terror.
The passing of the megalofin caused the Zank to tumble awkwardly off course. Endrins moaning with effort, the vessel righted itself. Kharadron in heavy arkanaut armour hurried to the rails, manning the aethershot carbines and sky cannons. Belaying valves howled as the craft heaved to. The shadow of the megalofin draped over them like a second night. Brondt squinted up at it as it rose high above them.
‘Always forget how big the bastard is,’ he muttered. ‘Like one of those flying islands in Ghyran, only angrier.’ He turned and bellowed an order. Aethershot carbines swivelled on their firing stands, following the beast as it began to circle back. Given its size, Volker estimated that they had several minutes before it got close again.
‘Surely we’re not going to try to fight that thing.’ Volker’s palms itched. He wished that he hadn’t left his long rifle in the hold.
‘Don’t be daft. We’re making a run for it.’
‘To where?’
‘There.’ Brondt pointed. Volker followed his gesture and saw a bobbing light in the distance. ‘Zonbek,’ Brondt continued. ‘A glowbeacon lighthouse. We establish them along the better trade routes. Keeps the harkraken and megalofin at bay. Mostly.’ He flicked ash from his cheroot. ‘More beasts in these skies than stars above.’ He peered at Volker. ‘You’re not from here. Got the look of Azyr about you. Something about the eyes.’ He gestured with two fingers for emphasis.
‘I am.’
‘I hate Azyr. The air is too clean. Too cold.’ Brondt grinned. ‘You seem all right, though. Bit dull, but that’s what comes of clean air.’
Volker snorted. ‘And where do you come from, then?’
‘Barak-Mhornar.’ He reached into his coat and extracted a curious mechanism. It resembled a compass or a pocket watch, or both. He flipped it open and studied the spinning dial, keeping one eye on the massive shape of the Great King circling above. ‘Above the Straits of Helsilver, somewhere near the Brasslok Mountains, depending on the aether-currents.’ He closed the mechanism with a click and stuffed it back in his coat. ‘A profitable enough port.’
‘As profitable as a place called the City of Shadows can be,’ Zana said. Volker turned as she joined them at the rail. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, checking the buckles on her armour. ‘Are we under attack?’
‘Of sorts.’ Brondt craned his neck.
‘Where’s Roggen?’ Volker asked.
‘Still below, trying to keep his beast calm. If she gets loose, excited as she is, things will turn very unpleasant very quickly.’
‘One monster is more than enough,’ Brondt said. He pointed. ‘Crafty bugger. Those were skyhooks rattling from his carapace. He knows us well, the old devil. I heard Brokrin almost downed him, a year back, but that was likely just wishful thinking on his part.’
Zana stared at the distant form of the megalofin and cursed. She glared at Brondt. ‘Can’t this heap of yours go any faster? Outrun him?’
‘Maybe. If we get to the zonbek, he’ll peel off and go bother someone else. Sensitive eyes, the King. That’s why he only hunts at night usually. I’d heard he was sighted in other skies of late, or else I’d have been better prepared.’
Zana frowned. She looked around. ‘Where’s Lugash? Wasn’t he up here?’
Volker turned. ‘He was on the… prow…’ The prow was unadorned by the hunched form of a fyreslayer. He turned to Brondt. ‘Did you…?’
Brondt didn’t look at him. ‘Don’t ask me. I’ve been a bit preoccupied, what with the giant megalofin trying to eat us. If you’ve lost one of yours, I’m not liable. Artycle eight, addendum three of the code clearly states–’
‘Hang the code, and hang you, if he’s dead,’ Zana hissed.
‘He’s not dead,’ Volker said, leaning over the rail. He caught a flash of red on the side of the aether-endrin. ‘He’s up there.’
Brondt paled. ‘What in the name of the Maker is he doing up there?’ He rushed to the rail and craned his head. ‘Come down, you hot-blooded idiot,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll crash us for sure!’ A string of expletives followed as Brondt shook his fist at the fyreslayer.
Volker saw Lugash’s sturdy form scuttle onto the top of the spherical endrin. He could hear the duardin laughing, and wondered if he meant to hurl himself off the ship and onto the beast. He glanced at Zana. ‘One of us should go after him.’
She held out her fist. ‘Gold, silver, copper?’
‘What?’
A sound like a typhoon swept over them. The Great King was making its approach, tatters of cloud trailing from its teeth. Volker cursed. ‘Never mind.’ He gripped the rail, ready to haul himself over, wishing once again that he had his long rifle.
‘What are you doing, Azyrite?’ Brondt snapped, catching him by the arm. ‘Are you mad? There’s no way I’m letting you climb out there.’
‘What about Lugash?’
‘What about him? Let the maniac look after himself.’ Brondt turned as one of his crew shouted something. He spun back and shoved Volker towards Zana. ‘You two – stay out of the way. This is company business and I’ll not have you mucking it up.’ He stumped along the rail bellowing orders. ‘All ahead full, batten the hatches and ready the belaying valves. Njord, Bron – I want those carbines aimed down his bloody throat. He wants a piece, let him earn it.’
He turned back to the approaching megalofin. Its jaws widened, as if it would swallow the vessel whole. ‘Fire,’ Brondt roared. There was a harsh grumble as the ship’s weapons spat aetheric fire across the sky. The approaching monster shuddered, more in surprise than pain, Volker thought. He lifted his artisan pistol, though he knew it would do little good, and saw that Zana had half-drawn her own blade. She smiled ruefully at him, but before either of them could speak, a beam of impossibly bright light enveloped the Zank.
There was a thunderous rumble as the Great King twisted in mid-lunge, rolling away from the light and the hammering guns. The great beast cannoned past the aethercraft, shaking it to its rivets, and dived away into the clouds with a flick of its massive tail. A bow-wave of air buffeted the ship, but it remained on course. Brondt shouted triumphantly and pounded the rail with his fists. ‘Ha! Don’t like that, do you, your majesty?’ He turned to Volker. ‘Zonbek, just like I said.’
The glowbeacon lighthouse rose opposite them, piercing the clouds like a ray of sunlight caught in amber. It was a tower of sorts, balanced on an array of aether-endrins, which served to keep the edifice afloat. Jetties extended out from its base in a wide circle and high, fortified walls enclosed the central structure. As they passed it, Volker could see that both the walls and lighthouse behind them were bristling with weapons, and duardin.
Brondt waved cheerfully to the Kharadron on the walls. ‘They’ll keep us in the light until we reach port.’ He hooked his thumbs into his belt and let out a long, slow breath. ‘That was a close one – thought he almost had us there.’
‘So did I. Why did you chase the bugger off?’ Lugash growled, as he clambered over the rail. The fyreslayer’s runes were glowing red-hot, as were his eyes. He had his axe in his hand and a murderous expression on his face.
Brondt glared at the other duardin. ‘Because I didn’t fancy being eaten today, doomseeker. Unlike some.’
‘Coward,’ Lugash spat.
‘Practical,’ Brondt countered, eyes narrowed. ‘There’s no honour in a profitless death. Especially against a monster like that. It’s not an enemy to fight, it’s a storm to outrun.’
‘So you say,’ Lugash said. He took a threatening step forwards, bu
t halted as Volker stepped between them. ‘Out of the way, manling. This wazzock and I have business.’
‘The only business we have can be conducted in the length of time it takes me to throw you off my ship,’ Brondt snarled, reaching for the cutlass-like blade sheathed on his hip. Zana caught him and pulled him back. Volker raised his pistol. Lugash grinned.
‘Found your courage, then?’
‘I never lost it. I just don’t like wasting resources.’
Lugash snorted. ‘Is that a threat?’
Volker cocked the pistol. ‘Yes.’
Lugash hesitated. Then he stepped back, and spat at Volker’s feet. ‘I could smell ur-gold in that thing’s belly. It sang through my blood.’ He turned away, and Volker lowered his weapon. That was all the explanation they were going to get, he suspected. He holstered his pistol and let out a shaky breath.
Zana whistled. ‘I’ve seen fyreslayers march through balefire without flinching. Think that toy of yours would’ve done anything to him?’
‘No. But it would’ve bought me enough time to get out of the way.’ Volker bowed low to Brondt. ‘My apologies, captain. Our comrade is… volatile.’
Brondt sighed and waved Volker’s apology aside. ‘You mean he’s a doomseeker. He’s worse than that overgrown gryph-hound in the hold.’ He shook his head. ‘No matter, though. You’ll soon be off my ship, and good riddance.’
‘Admit it, you’ll miss me,’ Zana said.
‘You’ve got half a favour left,’ Brondt growled. ‘After that, we’re even.’
A shout from one of the crew brought a smile to the grizzled duardin’s face. ‘Finally,’ he grunted. ‘Best get your other friend up here, Mathos. He might want to see this. It’s not every day one sees the Crawling City in all its monstrous glory.’
Yuhdak of the Ninefold Path, last prince of the City of Tiers, slumped with a sigh, his head aching from the strain of his effort to control the great beast. Its mind was a reef of primeval desire and if the sorcerer were not careful he would batter himself to pieces against it. Greater souls than his had come up short in a duel of wills against the antediluvian monstrosity known as the Great King.
The megalofin was ancient, even by the standards of one who had lived for centuries. It was the oldest thing in these skies and bore the scars of a lifetime of constant battle. It had devoured harkraken and chimera packs, and defeated all who sought to invade its territory – even Gorkamorka himself had failed to put a permanent end to the Great King, it was whispered. The enormous megalofin still hunted the sea of stars, so there was some truth to the tale, Yuhdak supposed.
He looked up as its shadow passed over the outcrop he sat on and swam up through the clouds, back into the high darkness where it normally lurked. It was a beautiful thing, in its way. It defied complexity – a smooth mind, of simple hungers. ‘Well, a failure, but an honest one,’ he murmured. There would be other opportunities, and soon.
Yuhdak smoothed his multicoloured robes with a graceful gesture. His armour was crafted from iridescent glass, each facet a different hue. His war-mask was carved from cracked crystal and mimicked the shape of a daemon’s leering face. It was open at the back, allowing his mane of thick hair to spill across his shoulders. The blade resting at his hip was curved, and its sheath richly ornamented.
Though magic was his weapon of choice, he had been taught the arts of the blade early and well, as befitted a prince. He fancied there was no greater swordsman in all this brute realm than himself. And if there were, he scarce had wish to meet them.
Yuhdak sank to his haunches and commenced drawing ritual shapes for a new working in the dirt. The Eight had surfaced often, in the centuries since their disappearance. The weapons would seek out wielders and be used, before vanishing once more. Rumours about the reasons for this sprouted fast and thick amongst the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Among the rows of chained tomes and stalking shelves of the grand libraries of the Forbidden City, the servants of chance whispered stories of the being known as the Daemoniac Conundrum.
A trickster without equal, the Conundrum was preeminent even among such deceivers as the Queen of Foxes or the Changeling. Malevolent and treacherous, the entity had been banished from the Forbidden City – the only being to suffer such a fate – but that had not curtailed its love of japes and jests. Its favourite joke was to steal away some item of great value and hide it within a labyrinth of its own construction.
Such structures, or the remains thereof, dotted the realms – folded citadels and furling castles. In Ghur, it had supposedly raised the Howling Labyrinth – a maze of amber and bone – to house the Lamentation known as Marrowcutter, the sword of fire. Yuhdak had been party to the discovery of the blade almost a century before, and witness to its loss in the final moments of the labyrinth’s destruction.
Some said that the blade wasn’t the only one of the Eight that the Daemoniac Conundrum had hidden. Legend had it that he had snatched Starcracker, the black hammer of the heavens, from the hands of Sigmar himself, as the God-King sought to bend it to his will, in the wake of the theft of Ghal Maraz. The Conundrum was said to have secreted it somewhere deep within the shadowed reaches of Ulgu.
Thankfully Gung, the Spear of Shadows, had been hidden by mortals rather than a daemon. That made things somewhat easier. He heard a flutter of wings and stood, as something alighted nearby. ‘You’re back. Good.’ He dusted off his hands. ‘Tell me, my lady, what does your flock see?’ he murmured respectfully, as he turned to the dark-clad woman now standing behind him on the rocky outcrop.
She wore a narrow helmet shaped like the skull of a raven, from beneath which her hair spilled down across her shoulders and the black feathers of her cloak. Obsidian mail peeked through her dark robes, black on black. She had no name that he was aware of. The Ninety-Nine Feathers no longer thought as men, and names were considered nothing more than an affectation. She was simply the Daughter of the King of All Ravens, and the mistress of the cabal. That was enough.
She turned, her dark eyes gleaming with ancient knowledge. ‘Many things,’ she said. Her voice was harsh, like the croak of a raven. ‘We see the wars that are waged in the hollows of the moons, and the great rivers that shape the roots of the mountains. We see the ratkin swarming towards the high walls of a city on the Coast of Tusks. And we see the servants of the forgemasters, racing to and fro.’
Yuhdak nodded encouragingly. ‘And where are they racing to, my lady?’
She cocked her head, birdlike. ‘Here and there.’
Yuhdak laughed softly. He nodded again. ‘So I gathered. Could you be more specific? What of him whose trail we followed from Shyish?’
She stared at him unblinking. Then, ‘The closest seeks the Spear of Shadows.’
‘Which is somewhere in this savage realm, according to the auguries,’ he said, gesturing expansively. ‘But we know not where. And merely to follow him is to risk losing it, for he will not give it up easily. He is a Kel of the Ekran, and they are not known to be especially reasonable. Instead, we must anticipate him.’ He turned, considering. He had many auguries at his disposal – the cards that hung from his belt, encased in silver, the sands in their sigil-sewn pouch, or even the rune-marked bones, which rattled softly in their square case.
But sometimes, a soul needed no augury to choose the right path. Instead, he merely needed to listen to the voices within, and heed them. He pointed towards what appeared to be a distant mountain range, moving slowly across the steppes. ‘There. Creeping across the Amber Steppes. Shu’gohl, the Crawling City. There is a great repository of knowledge there – the Libraria Vurmis. What we seek is there, if anywhere.’
She looked at him in silence. He read the question in her body language. ‘The duardin,’ he said simply. ‘Grungni’s servant. That is where he went, before you lost track of him. The answer will be there.’ Several of the Ninety-Nine Feathers had followed the duardin for
weeks, dogging his trail through ruins and over mountains, even as more members of the flock kept watch on others throughout the mortal realms.
She nodded. In an eye blink, she was gone. A raven swooped away across the grasslands, in the direction he’d indicated. He sighed thoughtfully. She was a princess, and he a prince, yet their dalliance was but for a moment. An intertwining of two fates, soon to part. He would miss her, but such was the way of it.
The services of the Ninety-Nine Feathers could only be bartered for or won. He had done the former, selling a handful of ill-tempered memories from his youth, for the loyalty of the raven-cabal. As war-mages they were without peer, and the bidding wars for their oaths were fierce indeed.
For the moment they were his to command, and he would make full use of them. They were his eyes and ears in the realms of men, spying out those who would deny him his triumph. They had followed the airship, and its passengers, from the Azyrite city, and through their eyes he had seen the moment to strike.
He had hoped to stymie the Crippled God’s servants by crashing the vessel they travelled on. And it was still possible that he might do so. They had bloodied the Great King, and the beast’s rage would smoulder for days. It had a long memory for such a simple brute. If necessary, he would point the monstrosity at the aethercraft and let nature take its course. But only if his servants found the information they needed. Otherwise, it would be necessary to follow these mortals, and hope that they led him to what he sought in a timely fashion.
Despite these worries, the hunt was proving more entertaining than he’d expected. The Eight Lamentations were scattered throughout the mortal realms, hidden in some cases or else wielded by the ignorant. Eight weapons of great power, capable of turning the tide in the wars to come. Or so Archaon, the Grand Marshal of Chaos, thought. Why else would the Three-Eyed King send his chosen servants to seek them out?
That it might simply be a game – a way for a bored potentate to pass the time – had crossed Yuhdak’s mind on more than one occasion. Even if such were the case, it did not diminish the pride he felt in being among those granted the honour of undertaking the quest. Whatever the true purpose of his search, he would complete it, and perhaps prove himself worthy of joining the Varanguard.
