The Black Rift of Klaxus: In the Walls of Uryx

by Josh Reynolds

  IN THE WALLS OF URYX

  Josh Reynolds

  ‘Forward, Stormcasts!’ Galerius roared, lifting his standard higher as he crushed a cackling bloodreaver’s skull with his hammer. The Knight-Vexillor led his brethren up the slope of the Tephra Crater into the enemy forces arrayed across its rim. Whole tribes of bloodreavers massed in the shadow of the Mandrake Bastion, and more warriors surged to join them through the great stone gates that marked the entrance.

  Galerius laid about him with hammer and standard, driving the vanguard of the Adamantine into the very heart of the foe where the enemy chieftains and champions waited. They bellowed orders to their savage followers from within a forest of grisly banner poles topped with skulls and worse.

  The Knight-Vexillor felt his heart quicken with pride as he fought. The chamber’s finest warriors surrounded him, their warblades and hammers exacting a bloody toll from the tribesmen who sought to bar them from their goal. The honour of the final thrust to win the field had fallen to Galerius and those who followed him. Liberators, Decimators and Judicators fought alongside him, carving a path for their fellow Stormcasts to follow.

  ‘Onward, for the glory of Sigmar, and the honour of the Adamantine,’ Galerius cried. He crushed the shoulder of a tribesman, and dispatched a second warrior with a blow to the head. He extended his standard so that all who followed him might see the crackling energies which crawled across the ornate symbols mounted there – the hammer, the shield and the stylised arc of the storm. Divine power flowed through the standard and into Galerius, filling him with strength. It reminded him of that final day in the gladitorium, when he had fought his brothers to earn the right to bear the war-banner of the Adamantine.

  ‘Crush them, brothers! They are but dust beneath our feet,’ he shouted.

  Primitive war-horns brayed suddenly and crude chariots rumbled down the slope, pulled by things that had once been men, and crewed by howling warriors. Galerius tightened his grip on the standard and a blazing meteorite smashed into the foe. The chariots were blasted into splinters and their riders jerked and shuddered as they burned and fell smoking to the ground.

  For a moment, as the echoes of the impact faded, the press of battle slackened and Galerius could see the others. Lord-Celestant Orius and Lord-Relictor Moros led the left and right flanks respectively, fighting their way up the slope. Behind them came Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, leading the Thunderhead Brotherhoods. Before them rose the Mandrake Bastion, with its strange root-like towers. They were almost at the high, heavy stone doors which led into the bastion and beyond that, the crater-city of Uryx. But it would do them no good to win the outer slope if those gates were not opened.

  That honour had fallen to Kratus the Silent. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been dispatched to win control of the Mandrake Bastion, even as Galerius and the others broke the enemy on the slopes. As he struck down an axe-wielding tribesman, Galerius heard the rumble of thunder. He looked up and saw a bright, blazing light suddenly envelop the uppermost ramparts of the bastion. As the light spread, lightning speared down from the storm clouds above, striking the walls again and again.

  Galerius bellowed in satisfaction as the slope trembled beneath the celestial hammer-blows.

  ‘Sigmar is with us, brothers – see! See his wrath and know that he has judged us worthy,’ he said, as the enemy cowered. The tribesmen were caught between the advancing Stormcasts and the light washing down from the bastion and across the outer slope of the Tephra Crater, suffusing all it touched with a cleansing blue glow.

  The Knight-Vexillor knew that light, as well as he knew the one who had unleashed it from the celestial beacon he bore. Kratus the Silent had succeeded. The Mandrake Bastion belonged to the Adamantine.

  Tribesmen clad in crude armour and bearing the rune of Khorne on their skin wailed in agony as the light swept over them, searing their scarred flesh. Grotesque standards and monstrous icons were set aflame and reduced to burning chunks. Brutal chieftains, conquerors and champions fell, consumed by the blue light.

  Soon, the rugged slopes beneath the Mandrake Bastion were littered with a thousand crackling azure pyres, and there were no foes in sight. Galerius raised his standard and cried out in wordless triumph as the light enveloped him and filled him with a newfound strength. His warriors joined him, and the cry was carried from one retinue to the next as they gloried in the power of Sigmar.

  Far above, the storm redoubled its fury, lashing the crater and everything around it as a heavy rain began to fall on Uryx.

  ‘Even the rains cannot clean this place,’ Orius Adamantine said. Greasy plumes of smoke rose over the sprawling tenements and claustrophobic avenues where the poor of crater-city had once lived. The buildings were constructed haphazardly, stone terraces piled one atop the next, held aloft on pillars or crudely carved wooden support beams. Thick nets of roots and branches supported sagging walls or acted as thatch for the rooftops.

  Fires raged among these structures, defying the storm. The Bloodbound had set them as they entered the city through the Ashen Jungle, blocking any means of escape for the beleaguered folk of Uryx. Screams still rose from the nine hundred districts, mingling into a desolate susurrus beneath the omnipresent growl of the storm. Some brief moth-flutter of memory told the Lord-Celestant that Uryx had been home to almost a million mortal souls. He wondered how many of them yet remained.

  ‘A good rain washes more than the stones,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor and Galerius stood behind Orius, their armour streaked with gore. The standard of the Knight-Vexillor gleamed with barely contained celestial energies, casting long shadows across the ground as Galerius leaned against it. Lord-Castellant Gorgus sat nearby, his halberd leaning against his shoulder and his gryph-hound, Shrike, at his feet. He held his warding lantern balanced on his knee, its light washing across them.

  ‘Then let us hope this storm lasts,’ Tarkus said. He stood beside Gorgus. Like the others, the Knight-Heraldor’s armour was covered in blood and dust, and he held his hand out so that the rain cleansed his gauntleted fingers and forearm. It had taken them hours to fight their way through the many-chambered gatehouse of the Mandrake Bastion to the internal portcullis. All of them were tired, but in the light of Gorgus’ warding lantern, their strength was fast returning.

  All around them, Stormcasts cleared the area of bodies, dragging them out of the way. He considered the enormous fortified courtyard before them carefully. A wide inner wall, smaller than the bastion, extended out, terminating in three more enormous portcullises which opened out onto city avenues. Each of the portcullises had been torn open, ripped from their frames and discarded at some point in the recent past, and the wide wall had been shattered by siege-weapons or fell sorceries.

  Gorgus’ retinues were already hard at work, dragging shattered plinths and broken stones into position, creating bulwarks and chokepoints to be used defensively in case of a tactical withdrawal. A Stormcast shield wall was almost impenetrable, but solidly anchored stones were nonetheless helpful. Thanks to the fires which still raged through the city, it was nearly as bright as day, though the smoke and the rain didn’t help.

  ‘They mustered armies here, once. If we don’t hold this point, we’ll be under siege within a few hours.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘How soon until your repairs are complete?’

  ‘Not long,’ Gorgus rumbled. He stroked his gryph-hound’s feathered neck. ‘Give me an hour and I can have us entrenched. A day, we will be unassailable. We shall not be moved, if it comes to that. And those who follow us shall find a well-fo
rtified route awaiting them.’

  Orius nodded in satisfaction. Soon, Sigmar would send reinforcements. Warrior Chambers from the Celestial Warbringers waited in the Celestial Realm for their time to descend and strengthen the Adamantine’s control of Klaxus.

  No other chamber had come so far. Prosecutor retinues from the Stormforged and the Beast-Bane had arrived not long after the Adamantine had taken the Mandrake Bastion, to bring word that the advances of both the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had stalled. Zephacleas was still fighting his way through the lava-tubes, and Artos Stormforged had laid siege to Ytalan. Makos Wrathsworn and his chamber of Celestial Vindicators had managed to breach the steam-ramparts of Balyx, but their assault on the arboreal cities of Vaxtl had slowed as every beastherd for leagues had poured out of the jungles, eager for battle. Only the Adamantine were in a position to strike off the serpent’s head.

  Without Anhur, their warlord, the enemy would crumble. Its chieftains and deathbringers would turn on one another, each seeking to take the Scarlet Lord’s place. Thus distracted, they would be easily dealt with by the Stormcasts. But first, they had to eliminate him. Even as the thought occurred to him, horns echoed up from beyond the courtyard walls.

  ‘Ha! Hear that? What say you, Moros?’ Gorgus said, as he unhooked an hourglass from his belt. The Lord-Castellant set it down beside him. He peered at the sand and tapped the glass. ‘I give it a few moments. No more than that.’

  The Lord-Relictor leaned against his staff, and made a show of considering the avenues beyond the outer walls. ‘An hour, at least. If not sun-up.’ He glanced at the Knight-Vexillor. ‘Galerius?’

  ‘Less than that. I can hear their drums,’ Galerius said.

  ‘See? Galerius agrees with me,’ Gorgus said. He sat back, his tone one of satisfaction.

  ‘I do not dispute your wisdom in these matters, brother,’ Moros said, genially. ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it.’ He gestured to bodies heaped and piled about the enormous courtyard. ‘We broke them, Gorgus. We drove them back, and broke them wherever they chose to stand. It will take their remaining chieftains hours yet to whip them into a renewed frenzy. Assuming that wiser minds do not intervene.’

  ‘Wisdom and the Bloodbound are not words often found together,’ Tarkus said. The Knight-Heraldor looked at Orius. ‘If they’re gathering nearby, it might be wise to keep them on the defensive. I can take a few retinues and strike before they know what hit them.’

  ‘Come to that, we all can,’ Galerius said, pointing at the shattered portcullises. ‘Three points of egress... three of us,’ he continued.

  ‘Ha! A race then, brother?’ Tarkus said. Galerius laughed. Tarkus looked around. ‘First to meet the enemy wins. Who’s with me?’

  ‘Wins what?’ Moros asked. Orius could tell by the Lord-Relictor’s tone that he was becoming annoyed. Tarkus had that effect on his fellows. He was a great warrior, gifted in battle, but nonetheless prone to excessive exuberance. They all felt some touch of it – battle was their craft, vengeance their purpose. They were the storm made flesh and they were driven by its fury. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged to wage war in Sigmar’s name, and it was their duty and honour to do so. But even among the Stormcasts there were those who fought with a zeal that bordered on the foolhardy.

  ‘Glory, Lord-Relictor. Victory itself. What else is there?’ Tarkus said, seemingly baffled.

  Gorgus chuckled. ‘He has a point.’

  ‘Please do not encourage him,’ Moros said, sternly.

  ‘Quiet, my brothers,’ Orius said, raising his hand for silence. ‘Quietly now. Gorgus is right. The enemy are indeed on the move, though in which direction, I cannot say...’

  He got his answer a moment later, as the last member of his auxiliary command arrived. Kratus the Silent dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch before his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been keeping an eye on the city from the air. Kratus signalled sharply as he rose to his feet.

  ‘The enemy come,’ Orius said, nodding.

  ‘Not tribesmen,’ Galerius said. The Knight-Vexillor cocked his head and tightened his grip on his standard. ‘Beastkin. I can smell their stink on the breeze.’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘It seems we will not need to go out to them, brother. They come to us.’

  Orius frowned. Even the Bloodbound did not willingly share their camps with the beastkin. They would have pushed them as far to the fringes of the city as possible, if not beyond, into the jungle. The sounds of the battle for the bastion would have drawn those nearby to investigate. He looked at Tarkus.

  ‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. Muster our brethren.’

  Tarkus lifted his battle-horn and blew a long, sharp note. The signal to muster. Across the courtyard, Stormcasts ceased their labours, recovered their weapons and shields, and fell back towards the portcullis. Swiftly, Liberators took up a staggered formation, shields raised, as Judicators took up position behind them. More Stormcasts joined their brethren in gilded ranks, even as the enemy arrived in force.

  Beastmen poured out of the avenues beyond the inner walls and into the huge courtyard. They were varied and monstrous: snorting gors and squealing ungors, bellowing bullgors and heavily armoured bestigors. Goatish jaws snapped and frothed as cloven hooves stamped. Barbaric standards, crafted from bone, wood and tattered flesh, rose over the horde as beastkin from different herds jostled each other for space.

  As Orius watched, a massive shape thrust itself forward through the press, smashing aside or stomping on those beastmen too slow to get out of its way. He recognized it for what it was instantly – a deathbringer, one of the mortal champions of Khorne. The deathbringer bore scraps of scavenged armour strapped to his malformed frame, and a banner pole made from a gibbet cage. The cage still held a rotting body, its features contorted in hunger and fear. His head was that of a snarling, red-maned lion, though no lion had ever had horns of brass or fangs like iron nails. He reared back and swung a crude flail composed of brass chains and hooks and decorated with cracked skulls.

  ‘I am Vasa the Lion. I am a champion of Khorne. Hear my roar, whelps of Sigmar, and know thy doom is come!’ the deathbringer shouted out in challenge, and the beastmen followed his example.

  ‘Judicators to the vanguard,’ the Lord-Celestant said, ignoring the deathbringer’s ranting. He raised his hammer in command. ‘Greet them properly, my brethren. Kratus – you and your warriors will be the hammer. Strike as you see fit.’ He signalled to Moros. ‘Lord-Relictor, you shall heat the metal. Tarkus, Galerius – you two shall extract it from the fire.’

  ‘Pincer movement,’ Tarkus said, approvingly. ‘You honour us, Lord-Celestant.’

  ‘I shall take the centre of the line, with Gorgus.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘That’ll make you and I the anvil, old friend, if you’re willing.’

  Gorgus snorted. ‘Someone has to do it.’ He turned and raised his halberd. ‘Liberators – form up. I want a wall of sigmarite across this courtyard. Lock shields!’

  Galerius and Tarkus followed his example, bellowing orders to their own retinues. Decimators, Retributors and Protectors moved forward to join the two. They would advance from the flanks, carving through the horde flooding into the courtyard, bloodying it and forcing it to contract. Then they would retreat, drawing the beastmen after them. From behind the shield wall, the Judicators would thin out the herds even further.

  In Orius’ experience, the beastkin were ferocity itself on the attack, but blunt their fangs and their courage wavered. They had no stomach for prolonged combat. They would retreat deeper into Uryx and seek to ambush any who pursued them. But the more of them they killed here, the fewer they would have to worry about later. The deathbringer might be another matter. Khorne’s champions were as deadly as a hundred lesser warriors.

  ‘Just like the Adamantine Mountains,’ he said, out loud. ‘Do you remember that d
ay, brothers? The war in the Havokwild, the day our chamber earned its war-name?’

  ‘Aye,’ Galerius said. He set his standard. ‘We all remember that day, Lord-Celestant. The day you split the skull of the Pale King, and we cast down the ruinous standards of the beastherds.’

  ‘We drew them in,’ Tarkus said, picking up the story. ‘Drew them in and shattered them on our shields.’ He spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the ranks of the assembled Stormcasts. The recitation was not quite a song. Even so, the words hummed on the air. Warriors began to thump their weapons against their shields, the way a blacksmith might hammer a blade. Retributors heaved their hammers up and brought them down on the stones in a brutal rhythm.

  ‘We stood then, and they broke against us,’ Moros said, as he joined the Judicators at the front. ‘They shall break against us now.’ The Lord-Relictor held up his reliquary staff and the clouds boiled above, lightning shimmering within their depths.

  ‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Tarkus said.

  ‘We shall not break,’ Galerius called out, his standard held aloft.

  ‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus said, thumping the ferule of his halberd on the ground.

  ‘We shall not break,’ Moros cried, staff raised.

  As the front ranks of the beastmen drew close, the Lord-Relictor whirled his staff about in a tight circle and slammed the end down. Orius could feel the strength of the storm flood through him as Moros spoke, drawing its fury down with his prayers. A crackling radiance danced across the war-helms and shields of the assembled Stormcasts and shrouded their weapons. A bolt of lightning speared down and struck the reliquary atop Moros’ staff. As he thrust it forward, the lightning roared forth, springing from the empty sockets of the skull mounted in the reliquary.

  The lightning streaked across the plaza and tore a bloody furrow in the heaving ranks of the beastmen. Hairy bodies were flung into the air, while others crumpled, smoking. But the herds thundered on, cloven hooves rattling across the stones. Bestial horns whined, and the whole barking, squealing, bellowing mob surged over the bodies of the fallen. Behind them, the walls of the courtyard ruptured and split, as the Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers.