by Warhammer
‘A good speech, lord,’ Frankos shouted to me.
I could almost sense Broudiccan’s eyes rolling.
‘Go and aid with the bridge,’ I told the Heraldor. ‘You’re as strong as any ogor, brother.’ One hand on the pommel of his broadsword, Frankos bowed low, his white crest bobbing in the frozen muck. I called after him as he departed. ‘Be sure that it’s good and flat. I would hate for Broudiccan to fall off.’
I chuckled to myself, Broudiccan still wearing that disdainful look of his.
Now ordinarily, these sullen spells were precisely the reason I chose the Paladin for my second. The long silences gave me more room to talk, but a man can only bear so much.
‘Spit it out, brother,’ I barked.
‘It is nothing.’
‘With you, it’s never nothing.’
The big Paladin grumbled. ‘You are like a boy on his first hunt, lord.’
I smiled wistfully. ‘You remember your first hunt?’
‘No.’
‘Nor I mine.’ I cocked a grin as though he had just made my point for me. ‘Every time is the first now. The realms are so vast, the enemy so numerous. It is always new.’
‘You are a Lord-Castellant, not an Azyros or a Venator to go seeking out new dangers.’
I blew out through my lips. ‘The best defence…’ Broudiccan’s eyes narrowed reproachfully, and I motioned towards the Freeguild further uphill, dragging the bridge towards us with renewed vigour. ‘They will work faster knowing I’m here on the far side. I don’t forget my calling, brother.’
Frankos had joined the labourers as I spoke, jostling in between the ogors and taking up some of the chain to help pull.
‘He is a bad influence upon you,’ said Broudiccan.
I laughed at that. ‘I suspect most would say it was the other way around.’
‘I have known Frankos longer than you. He is perfectly incorruptible. You, on the other hand, will do anything for an audience.’
I frowned across the water, but Broudiccan had nothing more to add. Frankly, I should have been astonished to have got as many words out of him as I had, but I was justifiably distracted by what happened next.
Lightning struck earth a few feet from where I was standing.
Not an actual lightning bolt, of course. Deliverance from the Celestial Stair remained as possible as it ever had been during the Realmgate Wars, but it had become rarer in those days as Sigmar’s wars spread his attention thinner. Azyrite energies crackled and burst as the Prosecutor furled his wings then stood. His armour was the black of freshly dug soil, richer in gold even than my own, and embellished with images and inscriptions as one would a tombstone. It put me in mind of the mortis armour worn by Xeros Stormcloud, my Lord-Relictor, who had earned his war name for the black mood that followed him wheresoever he chose to darken with his tread. Or so I chose to believe, and tell all who ask.
Despite having just risen, the Prosecutor dropped again to one knee. ‘Lord-Castellant, I bear an urgent missive from my lord, Akturus.’ His delivery smacked of some ritual phrasing, the effect only slightly ruined by the breathlessness that came with a long flight from the Seven Words. He presented a tightly furled scroll, sealed with a flickering Azyrite rune.
The scroll fizzled under my nose.
Now, it has never been any secret that I find the written word disturbing. Trapping a man’s words and thoughts, his soul even, on parchment or tablet still seems to me like witchcraft and I avoid it where I can.
An awkward second passed between us in which neither moved or spoke.
‘Urgent was Akturus’ word, lord,’ said the Prosecutor, the formality of his address slipping. ‘Not mine.’
I sighed.
If in doubt, bluff it out.
‘Read it to me as we go.’ I turned my back, picked a direction from the frostbitten scabgrass and sand-coloured rushes of the Nevermarsh in what I was sure was an authoritative manner and started walking.
‘Yes, lord.’
The sounds of hammering and sawing and the strains of an ogor working song faded quickly as I strode into the marsh, swallowed by the chirp of predatory birds and biting insects. I idly swatted at a few. Largely out of habit. Most things in Ghur would try to eat you one way or another, but there wasn’t much out there that would willingly make a meal out of the storm-fused flesh and blessed sigmarite of a Stormcast Eternal.
The realm’s erratic sun was just pushing over the horizon, kissing every leaf and frond with amber lips. It was beautiful. From behind me, there came a faint crack as the Prosecutor broke the lightning seal and unrolled the scroll.
‘Brother Castellant,’ he read aloud. ‘Praise Sigmar, for he has noted your abrupt absence and seen fit to reinforce the Seven Words until your prompt return. Lord-Veritant Vikaeus Creed did arrive this morn at the head of the Drakwards, Exemplar Chamber of the Knights Merciless, to–’
I grumbled under my breath, missing whatever it was that the Prosecutor said next.
Vikaeus and I had what you could call a history.
She thought me foolhardy and arrogant. Actually, she still does, and nor is she exactly wrong. Foolishness and arrogance are two of my finest qualities, virtues to which too few amongst the Stormhosts can lay claim. I, for my part, have always been underwhelmed by the Lord-Veritant’s much vaunted gift for prophecy. While it is true that she accurately prophesied the coming of the White Pox to the Valdenmoor, and foretold of Skulla Gashamna’s ascension to daemonhood months before Lord-Ordinator Vorrus Starstrike read it in the stars, her warnings of my imminent self-inflicted demise had thus far all come to naught.
‘Still waiting for that vermintide she foresaw swallowing the Seven Words, I imagine,’ I said.
‘The Lord-Castellant did not impart that detail, lord.’
‘I bet he didn’t. Did he impart anything else?’
‘Yes, lord. He asked me to tell you that he prays for your swift return, and to remind you that the slight raised against his honour still stands.’
I said nothing to that.
Akturus Ironheel commanded a warrior chamber known as the Imperishables, a force numbering some four hundred souls. As a Lord-Castellant, we were equivalent in rank, but utterly dissimilar in character. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer, the Stormhost to which the Imperishables belonged, were a force of black repute, assembled from the heroes of empires long-dead and hammered into being while the Mallus turned under a darksome phase.
Or so their lords-relictor claim, and good luck to them, for no one knows better the power of a fearsome legend than I.
‘It was meant in jest,’ I said. ‘He enjoys it.’
‘He has already prepared the ring for ritual combat, lord. All of the Seven Words are eager for your return.’ It could just have been me, but I was certain I heard a smirk in the winged warrior’s voice.
Akturus might have preferred sitting in a castle to taking one, and despised the untamed Ghurlands as much as I hated being bottled up in the Seven Words, but he was the most vicious and underhanded fighter I have ever had the misfortune to cross in all my centuries of war. I swear, he knew the weaknesses of aegis armour and the pressure points of a Stormcast Eternal’s body the way a Lord-Castellant should know bricks and mortar.
And he was touchy about the honour of his war name, as I had recently learned.
‘Not nearly as eager as I am,’ I said, though I would have rather challenged the entire Drakwards Exemplar Chamber than entertain Akturus in the ring. If there’s one thing people admire more than a victor, it’s a bold loser, and being batted around the Seven Words by a Dracoth or two would at least be a moral triumph of sorts.
The Prosecutor chuckled, which I took as more comradely than mocking. It was easy to forget sometimes that the Imperishables were as human beneath their armour as I.
I sighed. I supposed that my reputat
ion could afford to suffer a knock or two, taken in good spirits.
Suddenly, I stopped walking, holding up my hand as I stared into the endless marsh. It was called the Nevermarsh for a reason.
‘The thought occurs. I have no idea where I’m going.’
The Prosecutor gestured back the way we had come. ‘This way, lord. I am not the only bringer of news.’
Chapter two
Augus Ayr Augellon, King of the Aetar, turned his hooked bill to me and shrieked. The two eagles perched awkwardly on the solid earth behind their liege scraped their talons through the frozen mud and bobbed their heads in agreement. The Eagle King stamped his feet, throat ribbing up and down, and issued a volley of scathing cries.
Ears ringing, I glanced at Barbarus.
In another life, the Knight-Venator had been hetman of a mountain tribe. He had called himself King in the Sky, demonstrating in abundance the vainglory that I look for in my Bear-Eaters. He had made allegiance with the birds of the air for tales of the world below his fastness. It had been the star-eagle, Nubia, who had come to him in that bygone age to warn him of the dawning of the Age of Chaos. The Celestial eagles enjoyed something akin to genuine immortality, and she was beside him still, pecking deliberately at the side of his helmet as Augus scraped at the ground and cawed.
‘He says that the enemy is less than half an hour away,’ Barbarus translated for me, hesitantly. ‘I… think he means flying, however. I’d say we could be on their encampment by evening. Unless night falls early today.’
That wasn’t as improbable as it might sound. Ghur’s amber sun was a wild beast, always looking to slip its leash. The experienced Ghurite knew to give sunrise a couple of hours’ grace either way.
Augus delivered another blasting shriek, which I took for a ‘yes’.
Barbarus pointed towards the hostile, climbing sun. ‘Both the Blind Herd and the Legion of Bloat are to be found that way. In strength.’
‘How many?’ I asked, directing my question at Augus. The aetar king gave an aggrieved caw.
‘Strength,’ said Barbarus, apologetically.
The aetar have many fine qualities, but high number counting is not one of them.
‘What of their leaders?’
Manguish, the Bloatlord, was a recent arrival in my territory. Hearing of the destruction of the Gorwood’s incumbent war bands he had brought his forces across the Nevermarsh in an attempt to carve out his own territory. He was nothing. If he had been unable to assert his will amongst his rivals, then he was certainly not going to start asserting it over me. Brayseer Kurzog on the other hand was an entirely different animal. Touched by the Changer of the Ways, he was a wily old goat. Literally, as it goes. He had been giving me the runaround for almost a year. Not that I wouldn’t rather be chasing his beast herds through the Gorwood than finding new ways to dodge Akturus or irritate the Listening Order back in the Seven Words, but enough was enough. I had a reputation to look to, and had finally driven both of them across the river and into each other’s arms.
The combined strength of the Blind Host and the Legion was going to be formidable. Four to five thousand was my estimate. Nothing my two thousand couldn’t handle.
Particularly with King Augus and his aetar on my side.
What little I knew of his people was gleaned from watching their darting shapes in the sky above the Seven Words.
Despite the obvious superficial similarities to the aetherwings and star-eagles that served the Celestial armies as scouts and spies, the aetar were an entirely distinct breed.
For one thing, they are bigger.
King Augus alone had a wingspan nearly double that of a Flamespyre Phoenix, and looked as though he could have taken off with a Dracoth struggling in each talon. His neck was clad in ceremonial armour of blued steel and topaz, and a circlet sat atop the scarred plumage of his head. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder how an eagle managed to get such apparel on and off, but the impatient rap of Augus’ talons on the ground was a neat way of convincing me to pay attention.
The Eagle King gave a petulant caw.
‘The Blind Herd had spear throwers and daemon riders,’ said Barbarus, after a moment. ‘They attacked his scout and he says he will not risk the lives of his people while yours, ours, remain far away.’
I nodded, understanding Augus’ reluctance. I had died once before and I don’t recommend it.
The aetar to Augus’ left decided to contribute then, the unexpected shriek making me wince. The king shrieked back, if anything even louder and clacked his beak menacingly.
I looked at Barbarus.
‘Parents and children,’ the Knight-Venator shrugged.
The bristling younger aetar did bear something of a familiar resemblance to Augus now I bothered to look for it. If anything, the beak and talons were even larger and more viciously curved than his. Both traits that I would later learn to be characteristic of the female. Aeygar Ayr Augus, I assumed, princess of the Gorkomon. She was similarly armoured at the neck and breast, but bore no other overt symbol of royalty. Having been startled once already, I decided I should probably appraise the third aetar as well, but it showed no immediate inclination of chipping in with an opinion. It appeared to be female too, but older. Her feathers were tawny, her eyes dimmer. A carcanet of fine stones and gold hung from her neck rather than the warrior torcs worn by Princess Aeygar and her father. A thin circlet lay on her head. Ellias Ip Augus, the queen. She watched husband and daughter quarrelling with such a tragically universal weariness of spirit that I could almost remember possessing children of my own.
‘Is that the entire royal family?’ I hissed towards Barbarus.
‘I believe so.’
Nubia tapped her agreement on his helmet.
‘Quite the commitment,’ I said. ‘For them all to be here.’
‘For us, the Nevermarsh is a week of toil through hungry forest.’ Barbarus indicated the three giant, bristling aetar. ‘For them, it’s a glide. They consider a Chaos presence here to be very much their problem.’
Whatever the disagreement had been about, Princess Aeygar reluctantly backed down, feathers ruffled, refusing to meet her father’s eye. Augus glared a moment longer, beak clacking open and shut.
‘Any idea what that was all about?’ I asked Barbarus.
Barbarus shook his head. ‘When they talk amongst themselves it’s too quick for me to follow. Something about her being young and rash.’
‘Rashness doesn’t spare the old.’ My laughter ran decidedly dry as King Augus swung his belligerent bead-eyes from his recalcitrant offspring and back to me. The musty scent of warm feathers and ingrained ordure enveloped me. I coughed and rediscovered my smile, wondering only after I did so what a creature accustomed to dealing with a hard beak would make of the expression. ‘Tell him that Sigmar is grateful for his people’s aid. Perhaps this day marks the beginnings of a better friendship.’
‘He understands the lang–’
Augus’ shrill rejoinder detonated in my face.
Barbarus coughed. ‘He says he seeks no friendship with Sigmar.’
‘Thank you, Barbarus. I got that one.’
The Eagle King stamped, scratched, swung his head, ruffled his feathers, the Knight-Venator and his amethyst-feathered familiar struggling to keep up. ‘He says he is old enough to remember the time before Sigmar. He watched the armies of Chaos and Destruction fight over the Seven Words. Five hundred years and no sign of Sigmar. He doesn’t celebrate the…’ he paused as though the words he had been bidden to speak were distasteful, ‘…the Man-God’s return to Ghur now. He’ll not perish with the beasts of the mud when he retreats once again.’
I smiled thoughtfully up at the old bird. I was starting to like King Augus.
‘I have enough friends anyway, and so does Sigmar. We are both hunters, Augus. Let’s hunt the Chaos beast together.’<
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The Eagle King made a grating caw that sounded like a bolas being swung over a warrior’s head and lowered his beak to me.
I had seen the aetar warrior display before, generally performed at outrageous altitude and speed, high above the balcony window of my chambers in the Seven Words’ keep. I understood that it was how the male aetar demonstrated their virility and prowess to potential mates and prospective rivals. Only hatchlings performed it on their feet, and I understood the very public concession that King Augus was offering to me now.
I butted my forehead against his beak, improvising a little with a comradely roundhouse across the wing. ‘That’s how the Bear-Eaters do it,’ I explained, in answer to his startled squawk.
Aeygar and Ellias, at least, both looked well amused.
Throwing his head back to issue a harsh hunting call, King Augus beat his colossal wings. It felt as though the Lord of the Aetar had just conjured a great hand from the air to bend me to my knees. I resisted, watching as first Augus, then his queen and his princess hauled themselves into the air. The latter threw me a parting look, which I interpreted as apologetic.
Children, indeed.
‘He says he’ll wait on your signal,’ Barbarus shouted over the shrieking of eagles and the hammering of their wings.
‘Is there a message you would have me bear back to Akturus?’ said the black-armoured Prosecutor behind me. He was looking up, shielding his mask’s eye slits against the low sun as he watched the army of the aetar take wing.
If I’m honest, I had quite forgotten he was there.
‘Tell him I’ll be back to beat him as black as his armour before he even knows it.’
Chapter three
The gentlest whisper of snow drifted between me and what I would later come to remember as Kurzog’s Hill. It was so unexpectedly pleasing that I had to stop for a moment to admire it before my army went and spoiled it. The hill was surrounded on all sides by a delta of small bogs. They were frozen over, lucent pools of amber beneath the intermittently setting sun. Sword grasses and spiny weedfronds grew to the height of men along the maze of paths that branched between them, rattling their sabres at the wind. For a second, I thought I saw a woman with a spear, watching my army from the grass. The Gorwood was a vast and uncharted wilderness, and I knew that there were a number of native peoples, like the aetar, who had never welcomed nor accepted Sigmar’s rule. Before I could dwell on it further, the figure was gone and I decided that it had been a trick of the breeze.
