Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley
Page 1
Backlist
CRUSADE & OTHER STORIES
A Getting Started collection by various authors
• DARK IMPERIUM •
Guy Haley
BOOK 1: Dark Imperium
BOOK 2: Plague War
WATCHERS OF THE THRONE: THE EMPEROR’S LEGION
Chris Wraight
• THE HORUSIAN WARS •
John French
BOOK 1: Resurrection
BOOK 2: Incarnation
VAULTS OF TERRA: THE CARRION THRONE
Chris Wraight
· RISE OF THE YNNARI ·
Gav Thorpe
BOOK 1: Ghost Warrior
BOOK 2: Wild Rider
· BLACK LEGION ·
Aaron Dembski-Bowden
BOOK 1: The Talon of Horus
BOOK 2: Black Legion
BLACKSTONE FORTRESS
Darius Hinks
SACROSANCT & OTHER STORIES
A Getting Started collection by various authors
NAGASH: THE UNDYING KING
Josh Reynolds
• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
BOOK 1: Plague Garden
BOOK 2: Black Pyramid
Josh Reynolds
EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds
OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner
SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds
CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth
THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner
SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds
BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark
THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1
An omnibus containing stories by various authors
THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2
An omnibus containing stories by various authors
THE DEVASTATION OF BAAL
A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley
ASHES OF PROSPERO
A Space Wolves novel by Gav Thorpe
WAR OF SECRETS
A Dark Angels novel by Phil Kelly
OF HONOUR AND IRON
An Ultramarines novel by Ian St. Martin
• THE LEGEND OF SIGMAR •
Graham McNeill
BOOK ONE: Heldenhammer
BOOK TWO: Empire
BOOK THREE: God King
• THE RISE OF NAGASH •
Mike Lee
BOOK ONE: Nagash the Sorcerer
BOOK TWO: Nagash the Unbroken
BOOK THREE: Nagash Immortal
• VAMPIRE WARS: THE VON CARSTEIN TRILOGY •
Steven Savile
BOOK ONE: Inheritance
BOOK TWO: Dominion
BOOK THREE: Retribution
• THE SUNDERING •
Gav Thorpe
BOOK ONE: Malekith
BOOK TWO: Shadow King
BOOK THREE: Caledor
• CHAMPIONS OF CHAOS •
Darius Hinks, S P Cawkwell & Ben Counter
BOOK ONE: Sigvald
BOOK TWO: Valkia the Bloody
BOOK THREE: Van Horstmann
• THE WAR OF VENGEANCE •
Nick Kyme, Chris Wraight & C L Werner
BOOK ONE: The Great Betrayal
BOOK TWO: Master of Dragons
BOOK THREE: The Curse of the Phoenix Crown
• MATHIAS THULMANN: WITCH HUNTER •
C L Werner
BOOK ONE: Witch Hunter
BOOK TWO: Witch Finder
BOOK THREE: Witch Killer
• ULRIKA THE VAMPIRE •
Nathan Long
BOOK ONE: Bloodborn
BOOK TWO: Bloodforged
BOOK THREE: Bloodsworn
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Introduction
AT THE SIGN OF THE BRAZEN CLAW: PART TWO
THE THIRTEENTH PSALM
SPIRITUS IN MACHINA
FROM THE DEEP
FAITH IN THUNDER
WHAT WAKES IN THE DARK
SOLACE
TIES OF BLOOD
TURN OF THE ADDER
NO HONOUR AMONG VERMIN
About the Authors
An Extract from ‘Warriors of the Chaos Wastes’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Introduction
Welcome to the second volume of Inferno!
Look how far you have come, brave reader. You have traversed the treacherous jungles of the 41st millennium, the blood-soaked fighting pits of Necromunda, and invoked the wrath of the God of Death by emerging triumphant from his twisted realm.
But do not relax.
For your journey is not yet over.
In this brand new anthology, a host of up-and-coming writers, many of them making their first foray into the worlds of Warhammer, join Black Library’s trusty Old Guard: Guy Haley, C L Werner, Steve Lyons and Peter Fehervari.
For over twenty years, Black Library has nurtured and showcased some phenomenal talent, and it is something we are incredibly proud of. In fact, one of C L Werner’s very first professional writing ventures was in the original Inferno! magazine. With this in mind, it seemed only fitting to welcome him into the fray once more and have him bring up the rear with a swashbuckling adventure of betrayal and thievery… and the occasional exploding rat!
It has been exhilarating to watch our authors delve into undiscovered places and untold stories across the vast stretches of Sigmar’s Mortal Realms and the Emperor’s Dark Imperium. Each brings with them a rich imagination, a unique style of writing and a determination to make readers feel. Whether they choose to show us a heroic tale about the strength of faith, a dark mystery driven by the hunger for truth, or a perilous quest to cheat the Dark Gods, there are no shortage of instances that will leave you on the edge of your seat.
So mount your gryph-charger and ready your halberd – dark times are ahead. Only Sigmar can save us now.
Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells
Submissions Editor, July 2018
AT THE SIGN OF THE BRAZEN CLAW: PART TWO
Guy Haley
Continuing with his take on the classic frame narrative, Black Library stalwart Guy Haley picks up where he left off in Inferno! Volume 1.
At the Sign of the Brazen Claw, a storm still traps a group of weary travellers within the shrivelled, exanimated heart of Shyish. This time, it is the turn of the duardin merchant Stonbrak to recite a tale to while away the hours. Eager ears listen as he tells of broken oaths and a venomous deceit in the shadowy depths of Ulgu.
Prince Maesa and Shattercap have come to the hinterlands of Shyish in order to catch a Kharadron packet ship through the Argent Gate to Ghur. Delayed by stormy weather, they sit out the night at the inn of the Sign of the Brazen Claw. As they wait, the travellers swap their stories. The first to speak was the innkeeper, Horrin, who told of how he came into his career.
We rejoin the party as the duardin Idenkor Stonbrak begins his story.
The Merchant’s Story
The wind was full of mischief. It ran about the inn at the Sign of the Brazen Claw, banging shutters and shouting down chimneys. The rain, following shyly, pattered then drummed, then thought better of its racket and softly stroked the tiles. Draughts from the wind teased candle flames. They batted at the inn’s fires. Cold gusts puffed under doors and raced away, hooting at the fun. The rain was less showy, but as determined to get in. Throu
gh gaps in the flashing on the inn’s conical roof, it insinuated itself into the fabric of the building, dripping in fat drops to a spot on the floor, and darkening the giant digit the inn was built around. Once within, the water stayed. It was persistent where the wind was flighty.
A night of tempest in Shyish. Idenkor Stonbrak ignored the trembling of the building. The unpredictable forays of cold that snuck up under his collar could not discomfit him. He was duardin, enduring as rock. It would take millennia for any storm to wear away one so solid.
He lit his pipe, pulled deeply upon the ivory mouthpiece and appraised the group around the table with a merchant’s eye. Horrin the innkeeper, his wife Ninian, who was handing out another round of drinks, and their stable boy Barnabus, he judged worthy, and he did not linger on them long. When he looked to Quasque his eyes narrowed until they glinted like coal seams at the back of a mine gallery. Stonbrak took in Quasque’s spoiled finery and hunted face, and saw a disquieting story behind them. But his gaze remained the longest on the aelven wanderer Maesa and his spite, Shattercap, who knelt, grey-green and spiky as a bush, on the table boards before the prince. On the verge of saying something he might regret, Stonbrak clamped his lips shut, puffed smoke like an engine and shook his head, as if he could not quite credit what he was seeing.
‘My turn then,’ he said eventually. ‘This is my story. A sad tale of broken contracts.’ He cleared his throat, and took on a storyteller’s airs. ‘You might guess I am not of this realm, and you would be correct. I hail from Barak Gorn, a mighty port upon the shores of the Whispering Sea, in Ulgu up Melket way, if you’ve ever heard of that. Now, Barak Gorn was built in ages past by the ancestors of my ancestors, and though once it was a fine and marvellous place, it lay in ruin until the Age of Sigmar came, and drove back a little of Chaos’ darkness.
‘When the time came to return, my people were among the first to leave Azyr and reclaim Barak Gorn from obscurity.’ Stonbrak smiled at the memory. ‘I was a beardling. It was a long time ago now, but I remember well the sorrows of what we found, and the joys of restoring former glories to the halls and the quays.’ His eyes lost their focus behind the smoke wreathing his face. He was quiet for so long, Shattercap spoke up.
‘Is that all?’ the spite asked Prince Maesa in confusion. ‘So short a tale. Not worth the listening.’ He folded his spindly limbs about himself in such an awkward way he resembled a dead spider, until he shrugged and twitched, so that he was suddenly sitting cross-legged, sharp elbows out, hands clasped around his thimbleful of wine.
Stonbrak snorted. ‘All? All! I’m only getting started, you impertinent imp!’ He took his pipe from his mouth and jabbed the stem at the spite. The fine leaves on Shattercap’s shoulders quivered. ‘A pause for thought was all that was. Now, where was I?’
‘Forgive the spite,’ said the prince softly. ‘He has no manners. You were speaking of your home, worthy friend.’
Stonbrak nodded gratefully. ‘I was.’
‘I have heard stories of Ulgu!’ said Horrin. He lifted his drink. His cheeks were flushed. He enjoyed his ale and his stories. ‘Though of course I cannot go there.’ He waved a hand at the fire by way of explanation. ‘It is a realm of mists, where nothing is as it seems.’
‘That it is, master innkeeper,’ said Stonbrak. ‘All thirteen lands of it, a confounding place of intrigue and shadows, where it is never either truly dark or truly light.’ He moved his pipe around his mouth. ‘A strange place to find the likes of we, you might say, but duardin are not so affected by Ulgu’s inconstancy, for we are as steadfast as stone. Mist does not bother rock. Rock is impervious to illusion. Even so, my sort are considered secretive among our race, and our numbers in the shadow lands are small.’ He sucked his pipe. The bowl grew bright, glinting from his eyes in such a way it was easy to imagine tiny foundries hidden in his skull. ‘However, there are many aelves in Ulgu, of strange kindreds. The princeling’s kind are prone to plays of light and shadow, and not always for the best, as you shall see.’
He took a drink from his beer mug, wiped the suds from his beard and recommenced both his smoking and his tale.
‘Barak Gorn has neighbours,’ he said. ‘A race of aelves whose halls also overlook the misty sea. These aelves dwell in the mountain, in a manner similar to some of my kind. Once the two cities were one, but when we were forced from our port, they hid themselves away in their deepest halls and remained there throughout the ages of Chaos – an act some of my people saw as a betrayal, but the more level-headed of us know to be pragmatism. In the dark years they withdrew into themselves, became stranger still through their isolation. We call them the skuru elgi, or the grey aelves, because of the colours they wear to blend into the mists, and the magic they weave about themselves to hide. They are tricky creatures – never get a straight answer out of them!’ The thought evidently irritated him, for his bushy eyebrows arched and his cheeks coloured, and he gesticulated with his pipe forcefully. ‘They are apt to disappear in the middle of conversation, and they never smile. They are, not to labour the pick in the stone too much, a miserable bunch.’ He calmed, and shrugged. ‘But business is business. My kind and theirs did much dealing before the dark times, and do so again now, for they marvel at our jewels, and their nobles ever have bright sea gold to pay for them, though the hurts of the old times are slow to heal. That brings us to the heart of this tale.
‘In my clan there was a worker of gems so fine his renown spread far and wide.’ A wistful sigh escaped the duardin, and he looked to the ceiling, where the rain hammered in a thousand watery nails. ‘He could capture the very essence of beauty. His works of gold carried the warmth of flesh. With cunning cutting, he trapped light inside gemstones. You can imagine how valued such stones are in shady Ulgu. His skill was unsurpassed.’
Stonbrak’s voice grew thick. He coughed to hide emotion, blustering through an inner pain he could not quite obscure, and abruptly changed the subject.
‘Let me tell you a little of our city. Barak Gorn is contained within a great cave, open to the front to the water, that combines the best of underground hall and harbour in one. Naturally, so great was the craftsman’s wealth that his shop had a fine spot overlooking the sea. On the few days there is no mist, you can see all the way to the horizon from its window, and when the fog draws in and chill water runs down the glass, which is practically every day, there was the comfort of Barak Gorn’s lid of stone pressing down above, and reaching its arms around the wharfs and jetties. It is a tonic to a duardin soul, the permanence of the stone, the indomitability of earth. Shadow mists are nothing compared to those things.’
He coughed, tapped out his pipe and refilled it unnecessarily, using the action to keep from looking at his audience. Maesa saw his sorrow clearly enough, caught the reddening of the duardin’s eyes, and noted well Stonbrak’s reluctance to name the jeweller.
‘My cousin Bertgilda worked with the craftsman in his shop,’ Stonbrak said, striking a match upon his boot. He put the flame to the bowl and sucked until its tiny coals glowed, and the foundries in his eyes flared. ‘It is from her I have the detail of this tale.
‘One day, one of the grey aelves came into the shop. The doorbell did not ring, nor did the craftsman hear the door close. My cousin noticed him only by the dampening of the air. Thinking that a heavy fog had come into the harbour, Bertgilda looked up from her work and found that the mist was thin, and the sun as bright as it can be in our realm, but that the shop was cold. Grey vapours withdrew under the door, and in front of the counter stood an aelf of high birth, not unlike your guest here, master innkeeper.’ Stonbrak gestured at Maesa. ‘His grey cloak was beaded with moisture. I tell you, I meet these aelves and wonder, have they never heard of fire, that they be perpetually damp?’ He shook his head again. ‘A sharp elbow from Bertgilda alerted the craftsman to this silent customer, and he raised his eyes from the gem mount he was cutting. He was methodical, not prone to rushing.
He pushed back his loops from his face, folded the paper he worked upon, and from it poured tiny curls of gold into an envelope. Frugal, he was. Very frugal,’ said Stonbrak approvingly. ‘Only then did he speak with the aelf.
‘“How may I help you, sir aelf?” the craftsman asked. He was a stout-hearted soul, not given to shock, and had had many dealings with our aelven neighbours. They often did that kind of thing. Shifty beggars. The aelf looked upon him with grey eyes as cold and treacherous as the winter sea.
‘“I am to be married to a princess of a foreign nation,” he said. His voice was peculiar, Bertgilda told me, like gravel churning in a mountain stream. Musical, as the voices of aelves tend to be, but with a rasping edge they rarely have.’
The inhabitants of the inn glanced at Prince Maesa. The prince gave them no comment on the peculiarities of aelven voices, but sipped his wine, his attention given fully to the duardin. Stonbrak continued.
‘“It is a great union of peoples,” the aelf said, “a bringing together of kindreds that will bless all this country and bring new trade and wealth to your city as well as mine.”
‘“I see,” said the craftsman. He was careful, and waited for the aelf to outline his needs. Some duardin might rush in to negotiation, scenting a lot of gold at the end of a bargain involving princesses, but the duardin of Barak Gorn are of Ulgu, and alive to the dangers of hasty contracts.
‘“These aelves covet watergems above other jewels,” continued the aelf.
‘“Do they?” said our jeweller. This did pique his interest. Watergem is a rare diamond. It is named for the movement in its heart.’ Stonbrak held up his thumb and forefinger as if he had such a gem, and peered into the space. ‘Look into a middling example, and you will see the dance of sunbeams piercing the waves on turquoise seas. They say if you look into a perfect stone – only the very most perfect, you understand – the deeps of faraway oceans might be glimpsed.
‘“I require a necklace to be made of such diamonds, to these measurements.” The aelf placed a roll of paper on the countertop. He had no interest in the marvels displayed under the glass, understandably, considering what he was carrying, as our craftsman shortly discovered. The aelf pulled a velvet pouch from his side, and upended it, scattering the contents on the countertop. They spun across the polished glass, and when they ceased their movement and clinked against the frame, the pounding of waves on distant shores filled the shop.