In this dying city, we sought a reason to live, he thought, without knowing why. He bent over the ramparts, the ancient stones crumbling beneath his palms. ‘But we found only death,’ he muttered, as the memories receded, taking the shadows of the past with them. Where are you, Anhur? Where are you, traitor?
‘My lord,’ Moros said, softly.
Orius straightened. He looked out over the city, wondering, and he found his gaze drawn to the distant shape of a citadel composed of yellow stone, rising from the pale, steaming waters of the sulphurous lake which nestled in the crook of the crater’s curve. The city spread out around the lake in all directions. The priest-kings had ruled Klaxus from that foul place, and that, he knew, was where his enemy would be.
‘There,’ he said, with iron certainty. ‘That’s where he is. That’s where whatever he’s planning will take place.’
Moros followed his gesture. ‘What is that? A temple?’
‘Of a sort. The Sulphur Citadel,’ Orius said, slowly, drawing the name from the ashes of his mortal memories. ‘The last redoubt of the priest-kings. And the first. It is – was – said that Uryx sprouted from the citadel, growing up around it. It is a palace, a fortress, a temple, surrounded on all sides by sulphurous waters that boil and churn.’
‘There is a bridge?’ Gorgus asked.
‘The Bridge of Smoke,’ Orius said. ‘A thing of sorcery, like so much of this city.’
Moros shook his head. ‘It won’t be easy. We’ve half a city between us and it, and by what we’ve seen so far, the bulk of our foe’s forces have occupied Klaxus. He’ll be calling in every chieftain and would-be champion out of the jungles, even as we advance.’
‘Then we must be quick.’ Orius looked at the others. ‘This isn’t the Hot Gates. There’s nowhere for him to run now. Even if he retreats back across the crater, towards Ytalan or Raxul, he will have to face us. If he does not smash us, we will smash him.’ He pointed. ‘We must make for the Gnawing Gate.’
The others followed his gesture. He heard Tarkus curse softly. He didn’t fault the Knight-Heraldor. The hideous gate loomed above the labyrinthine streets of the outer city, its grey bulk crouched amidst a web of inner ramparts and aqueducts.
The Gnawing Gate, like the Mandrake Bastion or the Street of Vines, was a legacy of the priest-kings of old. And who knows what other horrors they’ve concocted since, he thought.
‘The old men say it was once a beast, hungry and foul,’ he said. He shook himself. ‘Or they used to, long ago. But from there we can march straight to the Bridge of Smoke and on to the citadel. If Sigmar is with us, we can clear the bridge before it too succumbs.’
‘I can–’ Tarkus began, but Orius cut him off.
‘No. I will do it,’ the Lord-Celestant said. ‘I know the way. We will take the Water Road.’ He extended his hammer toward the distant length of the ancient aqueducts which ran from the Mandrake Bastion, down across the courtyard wall and into the city, over the tops of the jungle trees and buildings. ‘It’s the most direct route, and the path of least resistance. I’d be surprised if the Bloodbound even knew what the aqueducts are.’
‘Anhur might,’ Moros said. ‘He’s cagey, that one.’
Orius looked at him. The Lord-Relictor’s gaze was unreadable. Orius suspected that Moros knew of the memories which afflicted him, but the Lord-Relictor had never said anything. All Stormcasts knew the pain of half-remembered moments and unrecognisable faces. He nodded slowly.
‘He might well. But I do not think he will care.’
Moros cocked his head. ‘As you say, Lord-Celestant.’
Satisfied, Orius looked at the others. ‘Kratus will accompany me. Tarkus – you, Moros and Galerius will help Gorgus establish a strongpoint here and then press forward to meet me at the Gnawing Gate. Drive the enemy before you as we did on the outer slopes of the crater.’ He looked up, at the roiling clouds. ‘Soon, Sigmar will send the other chambers to reinforce us. We must see that their path is clear.’
He extended his sword, letting the rain sluice what blood remained from the blade. ‘We are the killing stroke, the final thrust, and we shall do as we have been forged to do. For Sigmar.’ He raised the now-clean blade over his head.
‘For Sigmar,’ the others said, in unison.
‘You have your orders. Sigmar willing, I shall see you all soon. Kratus, attend me.’ Orius sheathed his sword and strode along the wall, Kratus following soundlessly. As he went, he sent runners to muster those retinues who would accompany him. Soon, fifty Stormcasts had assembled on the wall near the closest of the aqueducts. They were a mix of Liberators and Judicators, with a large contingent of Retributors. Three retinues of Prosecutors circled them overhead. When the Stormcasts had gathered, Orius explained his plan to Kratus.
‘You will take wing, my brother,’ Orius said. ‘Hunt the skies with your warriors, see what there is to see and report back to me. Once we reach the Gnawing Gate, your speed will be to our advantage. We must hold it, whatever else happens.’
Kratus nodded. Orius clasped his shoulders. ‘Be wary and do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. Our only advantage is that they do not yet know our numbers. We must keep them guessing until our brethren arrive to bolster our ranks.’
Kratus stepped back and saluted, smashing his fist against his chest. Orius raised his hand in farewell as the Knight-Azyros leapt into the air, followed by his Prosecutors. He watched them spiral upwards into the dark sky, until only the faintest gleam of their wings was visible.
Orius looked up at the roiling clouds. He could still recall the sense-shattering moment that he had been plucked from the point of his death and taken to Sigmaron, amongst the stars. In a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, he had traded death for life, and mortal failure for a higher cause. Great and perilous trials had followed, as he was forged anew and made more than the man he had been. His mettle had been tested time and again within the Forge Eternal, until at last, Orius Adamantine had stepped from the ashes of Oros of Ytalan.
He led his warriors towards the entrance to the covered aqueducts. The tunnels had been built to carry water from the upper reaches of the crater-city to the lower, and circular cupped grates marked the entirety of their vast length. They were said to have been shaped by duardin artisans at the behest of the priest-kings of old, when the first foundations of Uryx, and Klaxus, were laid, and such was the obvious skill of their construction that Orius could readily believe it.
The aqueducts stretched from the Mandrake Bastion throughout the city, and from them one could reach almost any point. They were covered by roofs of brick and knotted roots, with wide holes at intervals which allowed in the rain. Great networks of vines stretched up from the ground and clung to their length, spreading between the hundreds of support pillars like vast spider webs. The great iron grates were the only way to enter them.
Orius slammed his hammer against the ancient grating and smashed it loose from its frame. It splashed down, the echoes of its fall galloping down into the depths of the aqueduct. The aqueducts were called the Water Road for good reason. They had never run dry in all the centuries of their existence. Even in the hottest seasons, lukewarm water had run down the pillars to rain upon the poor who had waited eagerly below.
He could feel the splash of that water, the relief it brought to be clean, if only for a few moments. Orius closed his eyes briefly. Voices he had not heard in a century called out to him, from the depths of his recollection. Faces, indistinct yet familiar, rose and fell before he could fully see them. A lifetime of memories, ever just out of his reach.
Come, Hound of Ytalan, a voice had said, between the ringing of axe-strokes. Anhur’s voice, rising above the roar of the geysers at the Hot Gates. The name meant something, stirred some ancient ember of mortal pride, but Orius could not say why. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. This was not the first time he had waged war
in the streets of Uryx, but it would be the last. Whatever had gone before, whatever had happened to Oros of Ytalan, none of that mattered. The past had been burnt from him by Sigmar’s lightning. He was Stormcast now, purged of weakness, forged in aetheric fire. Only the present mattered. Only the future.
The Lord-Celestant stepped into the tunnel. It stank of mildewed stone and rotting plant matter. Rain sluiced down through the holes. It was barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to travel three abreast. Orius lifted his weapons and carefully dragged the blade of his sword across the face of his hammer. His hammer trembled in his hand, and a soft, vigorous light rose from the runes and sigils carved into it. The light washed down the length of the aqueduct, illuminating every dangling vine and revealing the ancient tiles which decorated the underside of the roof. Strange shapes – vermin, perhaps – scampered away from the light, retreating deeper into the aqueduct.
The Lord-Celestant turned to his warriors. They waited, silent and gleaming, each of them a hero forged in tragedy and fire. Bound together by the will of Sigmar, and sent forth to free the Mortal Realms from the clutches of abomination. Kingdoms like Klaxus. He wondered if he had fought beside any of them before, in forgotten days. How many of you fell here with me, the first time? How many will fall now?
Orius pushed the thought aside. Death was not an end. Not for them. They would fight until the eight realms cracked asunder, until the stars were snuffed, until all hope was lost and beyond. They were Stormcast Eternals, and they were Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest.
‘Follow me. We march for the Gnawing Gate,’ he said.
And then, with a clatter of sigmarite, Orius Adamantine led his warriors into the dark.
About the Author
Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written The End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.
The storm breaks as the Stormcast Eternals go into battle for the first time. Read the first book set in the Age of Sigmar.
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
Published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS UK.
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ISBN: 978-1-78251-702-3
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