Mortarch of Night

by Various

  Tarsus fell, and only narrowly managed to avoid his opponent’s axe as it crashed down where his head had been. Before the Woebringer could launch another blow, however, a broken sword crashed against him. Tarsus looked up and saw the fleshless limbs of several skeletons gathered about him protectively. The undead warriors attacked the Woebringer, jabbing at him with splintered spears and hacking with blunt, chipped swords. More clung to him, grabbing his arms or the great horns that topped his bestial head. He roared wordlessly, lashing out to shatter a skeleton. The dead thing fell, but crawled back towards him.

  Khorgoraths screamed in agony as they were swarmed by skeletons and dragged down through sheer weight of numbers. The dead rose up amidst the press of the melee and fell upon the Woebringer’s warriors with silent savagery, cutting them down even as they fought the Stormcasts. Everywhere, the silent legions hurled themselves into the fray, compelled by the vampire’s will and sorcery.

  Tarsus got to his feet as the Woebringer whirled towards him, bleeding from a dozen wounds, but showing no signs of weakness.

  ‘I defeated the dead before, and I will do so again. But first, I will take your skull, silver-skin,’ the Chaos leader shrieked as he charged towards Tarsus, smashing aside the skeletons in his path. Tarsus raised his hammer, ready to meet his foe’s charge, when a black shadow spread over them both.

  The Woebringer looked up. Tarsus took advantage of his opponent’s distraction and caught the Woebringer with a blow that rocked him off his feet. As he fell, the dread abyssal dropped out of the air and onto the Chaos champion with a cry. The vampire sat astride the creature, and laughed as Ashigaroth’s claws tore the life from the fallen warrior. As the creature tore at the body, the vampire looked down at Tarsus.

  ‘I do apologise, my friend, but… debts of blood were owed to both Ashigaroth and myself,’ he said. He smiled thinly.

  Tarsus shook his head and looked around. The battle was over. And now, the living and the dead stared at each other warily across the bodies of their common foe. He looked up at the vampire.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Tarsus said, careful to keep his weapons lowered, reminding himself that the dead could not be trusted. The vampire chuckled, as if reading his thoughts.

  ‘Mannfred,’ the vampire said. ‘I am Mannfred.’

  ‘Mannfred, then,’ Tarsus said. He hesitated, then extended his hand. Mannfred stared at it for a moment, as if puzzled, then he clasped Tarsus’ forearm. ‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of these warriors.’

  ‘And I am Mannfred von Carstein, Count of the Hanging Wood,’ Mannfred said, bowing deeply. As he straightened, he said, ‘Do you still wish to find a way into the underworld, friend Tarsus?’

  ‘Then you did find a gate here,’ Tarsus said.

  ‘No,’ Mannfred said. His smile widened. ‘Not here.’ He slid from the back of his monstrous steed. ‘But I know of one, and can lead you there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Call it a debt of honour,’ Mannfred said. ‘I owe you, for freeing me, Tarsus of the Stormcasts.’ He paused, as if thinking, before adding, ‘Perhaps for more than just that.’ He extended his hand. ‘And as you’ve seen, I pay my debts.’

  Tarsus hesitated. He looked up, into Mannfred’s unblinking yellow eyes, judging. Somehow, he felt as if he had lived through this before, and wondered if it had turned out for the best then. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  But he had a mission to complete. And live or die, he would see it done.

  Tarsus clasped Mannfred’s hand.

  ‘Lead on then, Mannfred von Carstein. Where you go, the Stormcasts will follow.’

  Sands of Blood

  Josh Reynolds

  The dead are mine.

  I rule the dead, and the soon-to-be-dead. I am the final moment given form, the terminus of all existence. And yet… souls slip my grasp, one by one. They leave only the stink of iron and lightning to mark their passing.

  I see nothing. I hear nothing.

  My realm is silent.

  My spirit strides the night wind, hunting these stolen souls, accompanied only by wailing nighthaunts. I cross vast oceans in the blink of a mortal eye and stalk invisibly along the crooked rooftops of cavernous cities whose folk burrow down, ever down, seeking my favour. I see my legions clash again and again with those of the enemy, and where I pass, unseen, the servants of the Ruinous Powers shudder in unspoken horror. Even now, my enemies fear me. Even now, they know dread at my name.

  Nagash has risen. And soon… soon, I will stride forth in all my terrible glory, to bathe this realm anew in the light of my black sun. I will burn it clean of impurities, of mistakes. But first, I must find the answer to the question which vexes me.

  Who has taken what is mine?

  I hunt these missing souls… I follow their trail from rime-encrusted Helspoint to the toppled towers of Morrsend; from the smog-choked jungles of the Skull Islands to the hourglass-lined streets of the City of Lost Moments; I seek and I hunt, but they rise up out of reach, swirling away like leaves caught in a cold wind.

  So many souls… gone. I endure, but my strength… wanes. The dead fall and do not rise again. My will is thwarted.

  This cannot be.

  Nagash is inevitable. I will remake all reality in the image of my soul. And when at last I turn to look upon the desolation of all that was, and all that I have wrought, I shall call it good, and know contentment. I am the ur-death, the nightmare force at the core of all things. When the living cry out in their dreams, it is Nagash they see. I shall crush all under the rock of my unyielding will, and all will be one – Nagash. When Nagash stirs, mountains tremble and suns flicker. When Nagash reaches out to crush his enemies, it is with a million hands. When Nagash seeks out his prey, it is with a million eyes.

  And yet, Nagash cannot find these thieves. And thus, he grows… weak.

  I am blind. Souls flee my realm and my body withers on its basalt throne. My spirit gutters like a flame deprived of fuel. The shadows gather. Jackals claim the bones of my servants and night birds screech in my empty citadels.

  I must find them.

  I must know.

  Nagash must not die. This cannot be.

  This shall not be.

  ‘Retributors to the vanguard,’ Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, roared over the howl of the wind that whipped across the Blood Wastes. It whined through the crumbled remains of walls and other, less recognizable, structures which rose from the red sands below like gravestones. At the bottom of the enormous dune on which he stood, Tarsus saw the Bloodbound loping through the rising storm towards a straggling line of carts and robed figures. Howling bloodreavers sprinted ahead of more heavily armoured blood warriors, crying out the name of their foul god.

  The mortals in the caravan below, blinded by the storm, had only just become aware of the doom about to fall upon them. They were dressed as pilgrims, in heavy robes, and some wore chains and funerary bells which clanged as they moved. Others wore armour over their robes, and he saw these draw weapons as the other pilgrims hurried to escape. The former were outnumbered, and the rest too slow.

  ‘Brave, if futile,’ Tarsus said. ‘But they will not fight alone.’

  He cast a look over his shoulder at his Warrior Chamber as they took up position across the crest of the crimson dune. As he spoke, the Liberator retinues moved aside in precise formation to make way for the Retributors.

  ‘Who will be triumphant?’ he cried, lifting his sword and hammer high.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the Retributors rumbled as one. Their heavy, ornate armour was prominently marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar, and the massive two-handed hammers they carried shimmered with electric energy. As they strode forward at Tarsus’ command, they slammed the great weapons together, adding to the clamour of war. They were not alone in this, for the Liberators too thumped their hammers agai
nst the inside of their shields in a brutal rhythm.

  ‘Separate the Bloodbound from their prey, Bull-Hearts. Liberators, shield the mortals!’ Tarsus started down the dune towards the enemy, many of whom had slowed, their attention drawn by the noise rising from the Stormcasts’ ranks. He grinned fiercely beneath his war-helm. ‘Soros, you and your Retributors are with me.’

  ‘Aye, Lord-Celestant – where you go, we follow,’ Retributor-Prime Soros bellowed, his hammer held at the ready across his chest. His brethren roared in agreement, and their hammers clashed and sparked as they followed Tarsus down the slope of the crimson dune. Overhead, a retinue of Prosecutors hurtled through the swirling wind-borne dust clouds on crackling wings. Their hammers whirled from their hands, thrown with incredible force to smash into the space between the servants of Chaos and their quarry. Sand exploded upwards, and the foremost bloodreavers stumbled back in surprise. The Prosecutors had broken the enemy’s momentum, as he had planned. Now all that was left was to gore them.

  Tarsus pounded towards the milling Chaos warriors. He heard the clanging of the bells on the carts, and the screams of men, women, and dray animals as he plunged into the enemy ranks, and despatched one of the warriors with a blow from his hammer. From behind him came the snarl of lightning as the hammers of the Retributors swept down on the foe. He and his vanguard had torn a gaping wound in the horde with their attack, and its effect was immediate. As they fought, more and more bloodreavers turned away from their original quarry and doubled back towards the Stormcasts. Soon, flashes of blue lightning were streaking upwards as Tarsus’ men fell to the axes of their foes – but not many, he was glad to see. He had few enough warriors, and could ill afford to lose them.

  As he cut down another bloodreaver, he saw that the Liberators had reached the struggling line of mortals and enveloped them in a protective shield wall. He spun as a roar assaulted his ears, and quickly interposed his sword, catching an axe before it reached him. His attacker was armoured in crimson and brass, and the air seemed to shimmer around him as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ stomach. Blood warrior, he thought. One of Khorne’s chosen.

  Tarsus slammed his hammer down onto the spike, parrying the blow. He rammed the weapon into the Chaos champion’s chest, denting the cuirass, but the warrior only took a single step back before lunging forward with a snarl. The champion swept his axe out in a wicked arc and Tarsus retreated, the sand shifting beneath him. His enemy followed, growling a low chant to his deity as he came. They traded blows back and forth, weapons clashing. The servants of the Blood God were renowned for their ferocity, but this one, at least, was a seasoned warrior as well, matching Tarsus blow for blow.

  At the last moment, the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he momentarily lost his footing. He teetered, off-balance, but it was enough for his opponent. The blood warrior gave a roar and swung his axe, tearing a spray of sparks from Tarsus’ chest plate and nearly knocking him off his feet. Tarsus staggered and lost his grip on his hammer. He whipped his sword up as the axe fell, parrying a blow that would have otherwise split his helm and skull. The blood warrior wrenched his axe up in a two-handed grip, readying it for another strike.

  Suddenly, Tarsus heard a keening shriek and glanced up as a black shadow fell over them. He swiftly stepped back as a monstrous shape pounced on the champion from above. The unsuspecting warrior disappeared in a spray of blood as the thing struck with the force of a meteor and smashed the Chaos champion into the shifting sands.

  The golden and black monstrosity rose up from its victim with a shriek. The creature was made not of flesh, but of dark metal and other, less identifiable, things. Its bat-like features were twisted in an expression of vile hunger, and it snapped its heavy jaws shut on the dead warrior’s skull. With a toss of its head, it tore something wispy and squalling from the pulped remains, and Tarsus knew it was his former opponent’s soul. With a rattling sigh, the dread abyssal sucked the whimpering spirit into its gullet. It turned its smouldering gaze on Tarsus, who shook his head.

  ‘He was mine, Mannfred,’ he said.

  ‘So he was,’ Mannfred von Carstein said as he leaned forward in his saddle on the back of the dread abyssal. The vampire’s black, ridged armour was pitted and scored with the marks of battle, and the red cloak he wore was tattered, but Mannfred himself did not look in the least tired. He never did, no matter how fierce the fighting.

  Tarsus raised his weapons warily as the creature growled and took a tentative step towards him. The vampire smiled thinly and patted his mount’s neck. ‘Ashigaroth eats only those souls I allow him to. And for the moment, that is not you.’

  ‘For the moment,’ Tarsus said, as he looked about. The battle was all but over. The enemy had been routed, bodies littered the sands and those who had survived the Stormcast attack were fleeing into the growing storm.

  Mannfred chuckled. ‘A joke, Tarsus. We are allies, you and I. You saved my life, Stormcast, and now I have saved yours.’

  ‘I did not require it,’ Tarsus said. It had been many days since they had freed the vampire, and Tarsus had no cause to regret it, yet.

  At least this time he did not have to summon the dead to aid us, Tarsus thought. There was something indefinably monstrous about the act of wrenching the slain from their slumber, and propelling them into battle once more. But despite his misgivings, the Lord-Celestant did not begrudge the vampire’s help – they were alone in hostile territory, and surrounded by hundreds of nomadic warbands in service to the Ruinous Powers.

  Mannfred smiled. ‘Yet I gave it freely. Letting you die in such an ignominious manner would hardly serve my cause, now would it?’

  Tarsus frowned. ‘Is that why you led us into this wasteland?’ he asked, gesturing to the rolling dunes which surrounded them and the high crags which marked the horizon. ‘It seems empty of anything save sand.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Mannfred threw back his head and laughed. ‘These are not sands, at least not entirely – they are blood. Reduced to powder, drained of all vitality, but blood all the same.’ He swept his arms out. ‘For a thousand years, the lands which once made up the Blood Wastes were fought over by the Duchies of Gheist, whose nobles rode great bats to war, rather than horses. But then came Nagash, and, well…’ Mannfred leaned back. ‘Here, Stormcast, is the will of Nagash made manifest. A desert of broken stones, covered in red sands and haunted by the ghosts of the slain and the great beasts they once rode to battle.’

  ‘We have seen no ghosts,’ Tarsus said.

  ‘We will,’ Mannfred said. He gestured lazily to a point over Tarsus’ shoulder. The Lord-Celestant turned and his eyes widened. He had thought the wind had been bad before, but what was now coming over the distant dunes towards them was of a far greater magnitude: a roiling wall of sand – no, blood, he reminded himself – sweeping across the landscape, blotting out the sky and stars overhead.

  ‘We must get the mortals to shelter,’ Tarsus said. He glanced at them, taking in their ragged robes and the carts with their clattering funerary bells. It seemed that even in the Realm of Death, faith of some sort flourished. Their dray oxen bellowed and pawed the sands nervously as the wind whipped up. He looked towards the distant crags which marked the desert’s edge. It would take days to reach them. The storm would catch up with them before then.

  He looked at Mannfred. ‘There must be something nearby.’

  Before Mannfred could reply, a voice spoke.

  ‘You saved us.’

  Tarsus turned and found a number of pilgrims looking up at him in awe. The one who had spoken was an older man, leaning heavily on a staff topped by a smoking censer in the shape of an hourglass, and wearing the same dark, heavy robes as the others.

  ‘I am Gerot of Morrsend,’ the old man said. ‘We are grateful for your assistance, warrior. Without you, the skull-takers might have claimed us.’

  ‘Do not thank me yet,’ Tarsus
rumbled. ‘We must still get your folk to shelter, before that storm catches up with us.’

  ‘There is a place ‒ the Temple of Final Rest, in the ruins of Sepulchre,’ one of the other pilgrims, a woman, said. Tarsus looked at Mannfred, who nodded and sat upright in his saddle.

  ‘I know of it. One of the few remaining structures left in the region. If we move quickly, we can reach it before the storm,’ the vampire said.

  ‘Lead us there,’ Tarsus replied. ‘And be quick about it.’

  Mannfred laughed and kicked his beast into motion. Ashigaroth took a running leap and hurtled into the air. Tarsus shouted orders to his Warrior Chamber, readying them to march. The Stormcasts snapped to attention and fell in along either side of the column of pilgrims.

  Tarsus turned his attention back to the pilgrims. The one who had spoken of the temple wore a heavy, much-dented breastplate over her dark robes, with a gorget in the shape of a jawbone. Her long, black hair was tightly braided and woven about her head, and her dark skin was marked by pale scars where it was not bound in rags or hidden beneath rusty chainmail. She carried a heavy hammer in one hand, its wide head decorated with intricately carved skulls, and he had no doubt that she knew how to wield it.

  ‘You were heading to this… Sepulchre, then, lady…?’

  ‘I am Aisha,’ she said, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I stand watch over our flock, on our pilgrimage to the great temple.’ She trembled as she spoke, though whether in awe of him, or something else, he could not say. He recognized her as one of the pilgrims who had sought to put up a defence against their attackers earlier. He inclined his head, one warrior to another.

  ‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights,’ he said, looking down at her. She was afraid, but her fear did not control her. ‘You have nothing to fear from us,’ he rumbled. ‘We will let no harm come to you.’