Mortarch of Night

by Various

  The air grew cold, such that even Tarsus felt it. Mannfred’s incantation beat upon the air, each syllable searing itself into the fabric of the world. And as the last one faded, the clamour of battle seemed to grow dim. A new sound invaded, insistent and omnipresent. The scratch of bones on biers, of fleshless fingers clawing at stones, the rattle of long-forgotten weapons, drawn for the first time in centuries.

  And with a vast sigh, the tombs gave up their dead. They emerged like wisps of smoke, coiling and thickening, becoming solid as they sped down the slope – skeletal steeds, clad in archaic barding, their riders wearing the armour of a bygone age.

  The dead swept forward in a silent charge. This is our city, they seemed to say, try and take it from us, and only death will follow. They slaughtered beasts and pox-warriors without hesitation, remorseless and unstoppable. The true lords of Helstone had come, and none amongst the Chaos horde could stand against them. Tarsus wondered whether even his own warriors could have done so, and was glad that he would not have to find out today.

  As he fought, Tarsus drew close to one of the undead riders. Its armour was of a make that seemed half familiar to him, as if he’d seen it somewhere before. An axe struck his shoulder plate, shivering to fragments as it did so. He spun and struck down a stupefied beastman. When he turned back, the dead man was close enough to touch.

  The wight gazed at him with empty eye sockets, an eerie light illuminating its brown bones from within. It wore a tarnished circlet and age-blackened armour. In its hand was a long blade, which gleamed with cold fire. Slowly, it raised the blade, and Tarsus tensed. But instead of striking at him, it brought the sword up in a salute.

  Tarsem… something whispered, in his head, and he felt a twinge of disquiet. Then, with a rattle of old bones, the wight turned its undead mount away and galloped back into the fight, its sword tearing the life from beastmen as it went. Tarsus looked around, searching for Sloughscale. He peered up at the ruins of one of the Hollow Towers rising above the battlefield and saw a flash of movement. He cursed. The sorcerer could not be allowed to escape. He would only rally more beastherds to attack them.

  ‘Ramus,’ he called. ‘The sorcerer – cut off his escape!’

  Ramus nodded and began to chant. Motes of sizzling energy blistered the air around him as he called upon Sigmar, and drew the lightning to his staff. As the air grew heavy with the growing pressure of Ramus’ prayer, Tarsus charged towards the tower, bulling aside any foe foolish enough to get in his way. As he ran, he signalled to Soros.

  ‘Gather your warriors and follow me,’ he shouted. The sorcerer would not escape again.

  As Tarsus sprang through the archway which led into the tower, the whole edifice shook suddenly. Dust and fragments of stone pattered across his armour. Smoke filled the stairwell as he climbed. There was no time to wait for Soros. He and his warriors would have to catch up. He heard a loud voice raised in a chant, and then a second sorcerous explosion rocked the tower. The stairwell above him was suddenly filled with falling stones and heat, and he was forced to hurl himself out onto a balcony, away from the worst of it. As he clambered to his feet, he looked up and saw the balcony above begin to tear away from the side of the tower with a thunderous, cracking roar.

  It plummeted down, nearly obliterating the space he occupied. As the bulk of it careened past, he saw something drop from it. The figure hit the balcony, rolled to its feet in a swirl of stinking robes and rushed towards him, dragging the blade of its scythe along the stones as it came. Tarsus realised, as the scythe arced towards him, that Sloughscale had ridden the falling masonry down, out of reach of Ramus’ lightning.

  Sloughscale struck at the Lord-Celestant in a spray of sparks, driving him back through sheer momentum. The sorcerer fought as fiercely as any beastman. As Tarsus parried his foe’s attacks, he could see scorch marks on Sloughscale’s breastplate and robes. The sorcerer had not emerged unscathed from Ramus’ storm.

  As Tarsus drove his opponent back, he saw bloated shapes fighting through the rubble which blocked the steps. A blightking lurched towards him, rotting fingers clawing. He beheaded the pox-warrior even as a second and a third erupted from the archway and hurled themselves into battle.

  ‘Takes more than a bit of lightning to kill Nurgle’s own, Stormcast,’ Sloughscale hissed as he backed away. Rust-riddled blades hacked at Tarsus from every side, and he was soon on the defensive. But not for long. With a roar, Soros and his remaining Retributors burst out onto the balcony, hammers raised. As the battle was joined, Tarsus was free to concentrate on the true threat. He fought his way free of the blightkings and launched himself at Sloughscale.

  The sorcerer flung out a hand and began to chant, baleful energies coruscating around his fingers. Tarsus charged at him, head lowered. Green fire washed over him, tarnishing his armour where it touched, and causing the stone beneath his feet to crumble. He lurched forward regardless, forcing himself through the unnatural heat.

  A wash of heat, blistering his flesh beneath his armour…

  The roar of the greater daemon, as its axe cleaved the air…

  The light… the pain… Tarsem…

  Tarsus staggered as Sloughscale’s scythe drew sparks from his chest plate and tore through his cloak. Smoke rose from his armour as he tried to focus on his enemy. The scythe sliced towards him again. The force of the blow drove him back a step and ripped the air from his lungs. Pain blazed in his side. Sloughscale whipped the scythe around, driving Tarsus back. He hit the rampart and the scythe hissed down, but he rolled aside at the last moment and the cruel blade became lodged in the broken stones. Tarsus twisted around and drove his hammer down, shattering the wood and causing Sloughscale to stagger back, eyes wide.

  The sorcerer tossed aside the broken weapon and began to chant, but Tarsus was on him a moment later. His sword chopped into Sloughscale’s skull, silencing him. As he wrenched the blade free in a welter of brackish blood, the sorcerer staggered past him, towards the edge of the balcony. Tarsus swept his hammer out, smashing the sorcerer from his feet and sending him hurtling over the edge.

  Sloughscale’s squirming body struck ramparts and towers, broken skyways and moss-encrusted gargoyles as it tumbled down into the dark. As Tarsus turned away, he heard the ululating howls of ghouls rising from the depths, as if in thanks for the gift they had received.

  He clutched his side. Breathing was painful. Something in him had been broken, but it would heal despite his exertions.

  ‘Oh, well done, my friend,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth alighted on the balcony. He looked down at Tarsus. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘I will recover.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you will,’ Mannfred said. He sat back in his saddle.

  ‘You found the Fang, then?’ Tarsus pointed to the artefact shoved through Mannfred’s sword-belt. It gleamed black with an oily radiance and was chased with gold. It was an old thing, Tarsus thought, and it felt somehow wrong.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mannfred said. He patted the artefact. ‘Right where the ghouls said it was. Your approach drew Sloughscale’s attention at just the right moment.’

  ‘I am glad we could be of service,’ Tarsus said harshly. He fought down his anger. ‘You used us, vampire.’

  Mannfred cocked his head. ‘It was – is – necessary, Tarsus,’ he said. ‘This rabble were between us and the artefact. There was no way to get it, so I… improvised.’

  ‘And nearly cost us our lives.’

  ‘As I said, it was necessary.’ Mannfred frowned. ‘The Fang is ours, and with it, the route to Stygxx. Is that not worth it, in the end? Have I not proved to you that I can be trusted?’

  Tarsus shook his head. ‘A part of me wishes that were so. But another part believes you are playing a deeper game. Every day sees a new layer to your tale, a new obstacle to be overcome.’ Mannfred looked at him, even as he had earlier, as if there was something he wished to
say, some story he wished to impart. Tarsus pushed the thought aside.

  ‘That is not the first time I have been accused of such,’ Mann­fred said. He met Tarsus’ gaze and frowned. ‘You have seemed out of sorts, since we arrived. As if you were not yourself, at times.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Tarsus said. ‘I feel as if I have seen this place before…’

  ‘Maybe you have.’ Mannfred laughed softly. ‘Many heroes made their stand here in those final hours besides unlucky Uzun – Count Vitalian of Morrsend, Prince Tarsem of Helstone, Megara of Doomcrag…’

  ‘Tarsem,’ Tarsus repeated. Tarsem. Tarsem. He saw a face in his mind’s eye, a dark face of noble bearing, spattered with blood and ash as he shouted a challenge to a nightmare made flesh. A shadow of fire and smoke, a beast of blood and carnage.

  ‘Aye,’ Mannfred said, eyeing him. ‘Tarsem the Ox, Tarsem of the Fourth Circle, who was slain by the bloodthirster, Khar’zak’ghul, one of Khorne’s huntsmen.’

  ‘You know much about it,’ Tarsus said, looking out over the city.

  ‘Indeed. I was there, in those last days, when the sky wept fire and the plazas of Helstone were drowned in blood,’ Mannfred said. He peered at Tarsus. ‘What about you?’ He frowned. ‘What are you, Stormcast? You are not dead, for I know the dead. You are something else entirely…’

  Tarsus hesitated, momentarily uncertain. Then, he touched the sigil of Sigmar on his chest and shook his head. ‘Whatever I am, whoever I might have been, I am Tarsus, of the fourth Stormhost, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights. And this city, whatever it once was, is now but a tomb.’ He looked up at Mannfred. ‘Let us go. Stygxx awaits.’

  Mannfred was silent for a moment. Then he inclined his head. ‘As you say, my friend. I shall meet you below.’ He swept his cloak about him and Ashigaroth leapt off the parapet to plunge into the darkness. Tarsus watched him for a moment before looking back out over the vast sweep of the city. For a moment, he saw it again as it once must have been.

  He heard the rustle of pennants in the wind, and the call of vendors in the market plazas. He heard the voices of the dead, calling out to him from the dim reaches of his past, calling to the man he had been. Calling out for Tarsem. He saw faces, men and women, fellow warriors, champions of the final days, fighting alongside him… and one other, whose face he recognized – Mannfred von Carstein. Unsettled, Tarsus turned away and made for the stairs.

  The past was done. Whatever had been was gone and forgotten.

  All that remained was duty and honour.

  The Bridge of Seven Sorrows

  Josh Reynolds

  The dead belong to Nagash.

  Even those who flee my grasp are yet my chattel. I can feel them still.

  I can feel them as they draw near.

  For all that I have been searching for them, they have come to me. The dead know their master, and they come at his call. They do not belong to Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor, who almost cost the Undying King his kingdom.

  None may challenge Nagash. Nagash is all. Nagash is the sun and the void. Nagash is the core of all things, and it is by his will alone that this realm is suspended. His shoulders bear the weight of the Realm of Death, and his will alone holds back the assaults of Chaos.

  Nagash endures.

  Nagash is inevitable.

  Out of his desolation will come perfect order. By his hands shall the Corpse Geometries be aligned once more, and reality set to rights. Where Nagash stirs, Chaos recedes. I shall wreak terrible agonies upon my enemies. I shall not stay my wrath, wherever it leads, even unto the golden pillars of Azyrheim. He who takes that which is mine shall be broken on the altar of his own hubris.

  I shall not be denied.

  Nagash cannot be denied. He has come among you and there is no escape. When Nagash commands your surrender, his voice is legion. Where he strides, stars gutter out. Where he stands, the earth groans. With a gesture, he can dry the seas or melt the ice.

  All other gods are but shadows of Nagash. Sigmar or Khorne, dark god or light, they will fall before Nagash. There will be no god but Nagash.

  The sun has set forever. Nagash stands in its place. His Mortarchs return to him from their sojourns in the dark, to serve and obey as is their purpose. They are Nagash’s will made manifest, his cunning given form, his fury unleashed. All are one in Nagash.

  See what I have wrought. Imagine what is yet to come. Where I pass, confusion and fear are snuffed like candle flames, for Nagash is the ur-fear. Nagash is the end of all things, and he will liberate you from your servitude.

  I cannot be destroyed. The dark lord tried. He broke my bones asunder and cast my spirit into the void, but I cannot be destroyed. I cannot be stopped. I shall have vengeance on those who stood against me. Against all the thieves and the betrayers.

  What has been taken shall be reclaimed. The souls of the stolen draw near, and what I cannot have, I will destroy.

  In the ruins of all that is, I shall make a new order.

  Such is my will.

  Such is the will of Nagash.

  ‘Drive them back, Stormcasts,’ Tarsus said, as he swept his hammer out and smashed a bloodreaver to the ground. He parried a blow from a saw-toothed axe and drove his elbow into its wielder’s crude crimson helm, crushing it. His weapons crackled with holy lightning as he struck out left and right, dropping the enemy with every blow.

  The bloodreavers were maniacs but mortal, and none of them could stand before the Lord-Celestant of the Bull-Hearts. They began to break away, falling back in confusion.

  ‘Who will be victorious?’ he roared, as the enemy began to retreat through the stinking fog that clung to the immense skull-cairns which dominated the plains. More than once, the clamour of battle caused one of these cairns to shed an avalanche of skulls or else collapse entirely, sending a flood of bone rattling across the ground.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply from the small host of Hallowed Knights who fought alongside him, arrayed in a battle line. Hammers rose and fell, and broken bodies were left in their wake, to lie forgotten amidst the tumult of white flowers which shrouded the ground as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Who shall walk at Sigmar’s right hand?’ Tarsus said, bringing his weapons together above his head. Lightning sparked between them. Many of the bloodreavers were running now, their fury fading in the face of an all-too relentless enemy.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the Bull-Hearts bellowed in reply, thumping their hammers against the inside of their shields in a tribal rhythm, one that rarely failed to set the enemy ill at ease.

  ‘Who will stand, though the world burns?’ Tarsus cried, cutting down another bloodreaver. ‘Who will face death, with shield and hammer? Who broke the back of the foe at the Cerulean Shore?’

  ‘Only the faithful! Only the faithful!’ the Stormcasts shouted as they struck down their enemies. Tarsus nodded in grim satisfaction. The Bull-Hearts had fought their way over mountains and across trackless wastes, through shattered ruins and the bowels of the earth, all to reach this point. They had clashed with the servants of the Ruinous Powers again and again, but had always been triumphant in the end. As they would be now.

  Not all of the bloodreavers had fled. Some flung themselves at the shield wall, as if to halt its momentum through sheer audacity. They were trampled underfoot, and the Stormcasts marched on after the others, pursuing them through the skull-cairns.

  As the Stormhost passed between two great piles of bones, built amid the ruins of a pair of shattered pyramids, the slopes erupted in armoured warriors – skullreapers clad in crimson and brass. Dozens of the maddened devotees of the Blood God hurled themselves amongst the Stormcasts, leaping from the cairns to crash down through the fog and land amidst the shield wall. Those who survived the fall immediately rose and launched themselves at the closest enemy they could see. Bolt
s of blue light shot upwards as Stormcasts perished beneath the berserk assault. As the Stormcasts focused on this new threat, the skullreapers were joined by others of their vile kind, pouring out from between the cairns and howling out abominable hymns.

  Tarsus swatted a leaping bloodreaver out of the air and chopped down a second. A moment later he staggered as a blow crashed against his back. He wheeled about to see a blood warrior lunging for him through the fog. The air seemed to shimmer around the berserker as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ face. The Lord-Celestant parried the blow at the last second, and a crackling burst of lightning swept his opponent up and sent him tumbling through the air, wreathed in smoke.

  ‘My thanks, Ramus,’ said Tarsus, glancing aside at the Lord-Relictor, who swung his staff out to knock a skullreaper flat.

  ‘Their rout was a trap,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

  ‘As he said it would be,’ Tarsus said. He caught a blow on his hammer and turned it aside. Before his attacker could recover, the Lord-Celestant removed the skullreaper’s head from his shoulders.

  ‘A child could have seen it,’ Ramus growled. ‘Where is he?’ His hammer thudded down, cracking the skull of a bloodreaver. Before Tarsus could reply, the cairns which rose above them began to tremble and clatter. The sound drowned out the clamour of battle, and was so pervasive that it even penetrated the mindless fury of the Bloodbound. Tarsus looked around and saw a faint purple haze rising from the piled skulls. With a rush of cold air, a pale mist began to spill down the slopes of the cairns to mingle with the fog below. It spread swiftly, threading between the legs of the combatants, obscuring everything.

  ‘There,’ Tarsus said, as a strange murmur, as if of a hundred voices all whispering at once, rose about the combatants. Ghostly hands rose from the fog to clutch at the Bloodbound. Weapons slashed uselessly at the grasping limbs, and cries of rage soon became screams of fear. One by one, the servants of Khorne were dragged down into the haze, which soon flushed red. Only a few avoided this fate, stumbling free of their ethereal attackers, but the Stormcasts did not let them get far.