Mortarch of Night

by Various

  He caught sight of Ashigaroth flying overhead. The dread abyssal swooped low and ploughed through the dead, scattering broken bones and bits of armour as it cleared a path for him. Mannfred had seemingly given up on trying to control the wights and had settled for destroying them with sword and magic.

  Slowly but surely they reached the back of the canyon, where the archway rose.

  ‘Shields to the rear,’ Tarsus called out. Liberator retinues fell back, forming up into a semicircle about the space before the archway. Hammers slammed down from above with meteoric force as the Prosecutors swooped overhead, holding the dead back while their brothers fell into formation.

  Ramus stood just behind the Liberators, his hammer across his shoulder.

  ‘Hold fast, sons of Sigmar,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘The dead are strong, but sigmarite is stronger.’ His voice echoed from the canyon walls.

  Tarsus drove his head into a wight’s grinning skull, dropping it to its knees. He finished the job as it tried to stand.

  ‘Gyrus, Soros, lead your warriors through the archway. Mannfred – go with them,’ he said, over his shoulder. As the vampire led the Paladin brotherhoods into the underworld, Tarsus signalled to the Judicator retinues.

  ‘Fall back through the archway. Cover our retreat, brothers,’ he shouted. The Judicators reacted instantly, following the others, loosing their crackling bolts as they went. The Prosecutors were next, hurtling through the archway. The shield wall steadily contracted as Liberators fell to the enemy, or were pulled from the line by Ramus and sent towards safety. Soon, only half a dozen Stormcasts were left before the twisted shape of the massive bone-coloured archway, including Tarsus and the Lord-Relictor.

  ‘Back, Ramus,’ Tarsus said, as they drew close to the canyon wall. ‘I will hold the line until you and the others are through.’ He brought his weapons together, crushing the skull of another wight. He hurled the twitching cadaver aside and parried an axe blow that might have split his helm. He steadily backed towards the archway as he fought, leaving a trail of broken bones and crawling corpses in his wake. Only when the last Stormcast was past the arch did he turn and hurl himself through.

  Tarsus crashed to the stone and staggered up, into the steady­ing hands of his warriors. He turned, ready to continue the fight. The Desolated Legion did not seem inclined to follow. The wights stared through the archway at the Stormcasts, eyes flickering with witch-light. Then, as one, they turned and began to trudge away.

  ‘The archway is the limit of their malice,’ Mannfred said. ‘They could not pass it in life, and they are barred in death. Such are the caprices of Nagash.’

  Tarsus looked around. Barely half of his force had made it to safety. Thanks to the glow from Ramus’ staff, he could see that they stood in a pillared vestibule of stone. Strange carvings adorned the walls and the flagstones beneath his feet were worn smooth as if by the tread of many feet.

  ‘How many more traps await us?’ he asked, looking at Mannfred. His voice echoed strangely in the vaulted space. He thought it changed subtly as it bounced from stone to stone, leaving him with the eerie feeling that he was somehow being mocked.

  Mannfred shook his head. ‘Who can say? Nagash is mad, and fearful in his madness. He stations guards to watch other guards, and then forgets them for centuries at a time. There may be an army in these catacombs, or nothing at all, save the bats.’ He stroked his chin in thought. ‘The true danger is in the catacombs themselves. There are many routes to the heart of Stygxx, all with their own perils.’

  ‘We take the most direct route,’ Tarsus said. ‘We are few enough in number as it is and I would lose no more warriors stumbling about in the dark.’

  ‘The direct route is the most dangerous. There more than anywhere else there will be eyes upon us,’ Mannfred said.

  ‘Good. The sooner we are confronted by the Undying King or one of his servants, the more likely we are to accomplish our mission.’ Tarsus pointed forwards. ‘Lead on.’

  ‘As you will,’ Mannfred said, after a moment of hesitation. He turned Ashigaroth about and the dread abyssal loped away, the Stormcasts following behind.

  The path by which Mannfred led them was one of twists and turns. More than once he stopped and they were forced to crouch in silence, waiting for the vampire to prod Ashigaroth into motion again.

  Tarsus heard faint whispers of sound, like leaves caught in a wind, as they trudged through the dark. What might have been a bat’s wings brushed against his helm. At one point, they were forced to stop as a herd of skeletal horses, their bones gleaming with cold fire, galloped silently through the tunnel ahead, vanishing into the stone. Another time, Mannfred rode ahead to parley with a silent, hooded figure, who dissolved into mist and shadows as the Stormcasts approached.

  Other, larger things moved in the dark around them, slithering through side tunnels and causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet. Nagash might have laid claim to the underworld, but there were more things crawling in its depths than the dead. Every­where Tarsus looked he saw strange sigils carved on the walls and floor and wondered what horrors they had been placed there to ward against.

  At last they emerged from the cramped tunnels and out into a huge cavern, which was bisected by a wide gorge. Ancient columns lined the walls of the cavern. Most of these were broken, as were the statues which stood atop them. A wide stone bridge stretched across the gorge. Mannfred gestured towards it.

  ‘Behold… the Bridge of Seven Sorrows,’ he said. ‘Once, the legions of the underworld marched across it, to do battle with their enemies, in the days before the coming of Nagash. Now, the great manses of the Amethyst Princes lie in ruins, and their armies belong to Nagash, body and soul.’

  The vast span of stone was crudely carved, as if by unskilled hands. But it looked sturdy nonetheless, and it was wide enough for the Stormhost to march across ten abreast. Great railings marked at intervals by high plinths lined its edges. Large stone bowls topped most of them, containing purple crystals which flickered softly with a hazy radiance, casting a pale light over the bridge and the gorge beneath.

  Seven of the plinths, however, were occupied by tall statues – women, clad in robes and ceremonial armour with weapons in hand, their bodies contorted in agonised poses as if each had been captured in the moment before death. They were at once regal and nightmarish, their tormented expressions seeming to shift and change in the flickering light of the crystals.

  ‘Those statues…’ Tarsus began.

  Mannfred interrupted him with a shake of his head. ‘Not statues. No, my friend, those are nothing less than the remains of seven queens of the Skull Isles, who were betrothed to Nagash in times long past. They traded their freedom for the lives of their people.’ Mannfred chuckled. ‘A bad bargain, in the end. They were left here in the dark and the Skull Isles burned regardless, at Nagash’s command.’

  ‘More and more, I come to doubt the wisdom of our task,’ Ramus said. ‘What sort of being is this, to whom we intend to offer alliance?’

  ‘I warned you,’ Mannfred said. Ramus looked at him, but said nothing.

  ‘It is not for us to say what is wise and what is not, my friend,’ Tarsus said, looking at the bridge. ‘It is Sigmar’s will that we are here, and Sigmar’s will that we seek audience with Nagash. Much is demanded of those to whom much is given, and we shall not be found wanting.’ He extended his hammer. ‘Lead on, Mannfred.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Mannfred said. Ashigaroth leapt into the air with a great cry and the vanguard of the Stormhost followed in the dread abyssal’s wake.

  Tarsus and Ramus marched at the front, and the cavern echoed with the crash of boots on stone.

  ‘What lies below us?’ the Lord-Celestant asked.

  ‘The deep caverns, through which runs the black blood of the underworld,’ Mannfred said, glancing down at him. He trailed off and shook himself. ‘Or so it is
said,’ he added. ‘In any event, our destination lies not down, but across.’ He pointed to the other side of the gorge, where an enormous stone archway rose. The archway was covered in carved sigils, and heaps of dust and bone lay before it. ‘That is where we must go to see through our cause… past the Lichegate, and along the dirge-road, into the heart of Stygxx.’

  Tarsus glanced at Ramus, who nodded slightly. The Lord-Relictor was ready, whatever came next.

  ‘Your cause, you mean,’ he said, pointing towards Mannfred. ‘Expedience made me hold my tongue before, but now, before we go any further, I would have the truth… Why help us? Not merely for gratitude’s sake, I think.’

  ‘Mannfred von Carstein does not know the meaning of that word, I fear,’ a harsh, sepulchral voice said. ‘Or if he does, he has never shown it.’

  Mannfred whirled, his lips peeling back from his fangs in a feral snarl.

  ‘Arkhan,’ he hissed. He drew his sword. ‘Where are you, liche?’

  ‘Where I have always been. By Nagash’s side. As you should have been.’ The sound of iron striking stone carried across the gorge as a thin, robed shape stepped into the amethyst light of the crystals. ‘Have you come to throw yourself on his mercy, vampire?’

  ‘Nagash has no mercy,’ Mannfred spat.

  ‘No. He does not,’ Arkhan the Black said. The liche was tall and his bones were encased in ridged armour of archaic design and ragged robes, which rustled softly. He wore an ornate headdress and carried a long staff, around the tip of which strange black flames pulsed. Behind him stalked a dread abyssal, its horned skull lit by an internal fire. It screeched out a challenge and Ashigaroth replied in kind. Arkhan set his staff and rested one palm on the hilt of the tomb-blade sheathed at his side.

  He gazed at the ranks of Stormcasts and inclined his head. ‘You have brought allies, I see. How… unexpected.’

  ‘Save your mockery,’ Mannfred said. ‘Stand aside. I would see Nagash.’

  ‘No. No, I do not think I will do that. Nagash himself sent me here to turn back those who dare invade his realm. That includes you, schemer.’

  Tarsus stepped forward. ‘We do not come seeking battle. We wish merely to request an audience with the Undying King. We bring word from–’

  ‘Sigmar,’ Arkhan said.

  Tarsus hesitated, surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nagash has no wish to hear the lies of Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor…’ Arkhan said, without apparent rancour.

  ‘Be silent and step aside, you withered husk,’ Mannfred spat. ‘This is not Nagash’s will – it is nothing but spite! You have always feared me, feared that the Undying King might favour my counsel over yours…’

  ‘No,’ Arkhan said. ‘I do not fear, for it has long since been burned out of me. I know only duty. The Undying King raised me up, and I shall serve him all my days. But you…’ He pointed at Mannfred. ‘Fear has always been your weakness, Mannfred. It has killed all that you might have been, and all that you were destined to be. You were one of his Mortarchs, highest of the high. Now you are nothing more than a cur, snarling for scraps.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Away with you, cur. Go, and never return.’

  ‘It seems we have chosen a poor guide if he cannot even get us past the door,’ Ramus said. Mannfred whirled, a snarl on his face and his fist raised. Ramus raised his staff warily, and the vampire growled and turned back.

  ‘No, Arkhan!’ Mannfred shouted. ‘No, you will give way or I shall peel whatever passes for your soul from your fleshless frame and feed it to Ashigaroth.’

  Arkhan looked at Mannfred for a moment, and then at Tarsus. ‘Go back, sons of Sigmar. Go back, and I will not be forced to kill you.’

  ‘We cannot,’ Tarsus said. ‘We have our duty and we will fulfil it or die in the attempt.’

  Arkhan was silent for long moments, his eerie gaze fixed on Tarsus. Then he nodded. ‘So be it. Hold fast to your duty, as I shall to mine.’ He raised his staff. ‘Awaken, O sorrowful ones – awaken, you brides of death. Awaken.’

  A sound like cracking ice filled the cavern. Tarsus looked up and saw that one of the seven queens was looking down at him, chunks of stone falling from her face and form. Her ravaged features suddenly twisted into an expression of utter loathing and her mouth opened. A wild, keening wail emerged. The sound struck Tarsus like a hammer blow and he staggered back.

  ‘Banshees,’ he cried, but too late, as the seven ghostly women leapt from their perches, weapons in hand. They streaked through the air over the Stormcasts, shrieking and wailing.

  Tarsus’ sword chopped through one of the banshees as it flew past, meeting no resistance. The dead woman bent forward with serpentine grace, her screams tearing at his mind and soul. Everywhere he looked, Stormcasts fell to their knees, clutching at their heads or clawing at the ground as the banshees tore the life from them with unceasing wails. A sword, rust-edged and age-pitted, chopped down at his head. He jerked aside and the banshee hurtled away, still screaming.

  A second sped towards him, her ancient spear drawing sparks from his shoulder plate even as the force of the blow spun him around. A third stalked along the centre of the bridge, head thrown back, mouth wide in a cry that sent another six Stormcasts into death.

  ‘Mannfred,’ Tarsus snarled. ‘Do something!’

  ‘I am,’ Mannfred growled in response. ‘I intend to kill Arkhan. He’s more dangerous than any wailing ghost.’ Ashigaroth galloped forward, surging through one of the banshees as it attempted to interpose itself.

  ‘I welcome your attempt, vampire,’ Arkhan said. He climbed atop his own steed, drawing his sword as he did so. ‘Another chance to feel alive.’ He extended his blade. ‘Step forward, and you will find that your greatest folly is thinking that you could ever beat me.’

  The two dead men and their monstrous steeds came together with a crash. Mannfred fought savagely, with less grace than ferocity. Arkhan, in contrast, fought with a precision that was almost impossible to credit. He parried every blow, and his own slid past Mannfred’s defences with ease, eliciting increasingly frustrated snarls from the vampire. The dread abyssals tore at one another, rolling through the air over the bridge even as their riders traded blows.

  Tarsus cursed and slashed at a banshee as it flew past, wailing. His warriors were dying and there was little he could do.

  ‘Ramus – call down the lightning,’ he roared. The Lord-Relictor thrust his staff forward, driving one of the creatures back, and glanced at him.

  ‘As you command,’ Ramus said. He caught his staff in both hands and drove the haft down. As it connected with the stones, the reliquary mounted on it burst into blazing blue light. Energy snarled about it and seared the nearest of the howling banshees as if she were a being of flesh, rather than spirit. But the lightning did not stop there. Instead, it leapt from warhammer and axe-blade, dancing across the weapons and armour of the remaining Stormcasts, including Tarsus’ own. He clashed hammer and sword together, and as he pulled them apart, a crackling web of lightning stretched between them.

  ‘Strike now, Stormcasts, and strike true. Strike!’ Ramus thundered.

  Tarsus did so. His hammer crunched down on a banshee’s arm and her shriek changed, becoming a cry of pain. Head throbbing with the reverberations of that cry, he swept his sword through her neck, silencing her screams. Across the bridge, his surviving warriors followed suit, lashing out with lightning-infused weapons to bring down their ethereal attackers. As the last of the banshees came apart in tatters of fog and rotting silk, Tarsus hurried towards the centre of the bridge where Mannfred still clashed with Arkhan.

  The dread abyssals still fought in the air, but their riders had fallen from their saddles. Now liche and vampire continued their duel on foot. Mannfred’s flesh was aflame with sorcerous fire, as were Arkhan’s robes. They had locked blades and now strained against one another, neither willi
ng to retreat. Arkhan spoke an incantation and the air shuddered. Mannfred was knocked back, his armour crumpling from an unseen impact.

  Tarsus sprang to the bridge’s railing as Mannfred staggered back, and leapt down, his sword streaking towards Arkhan’s skull. The liche whirled about, parrying the blow. He thrust a skeletal claw forward, but Tarsus was quicker. His hammer slammed down on Arkhan’s hand, and as the liche reeled, Tarsus bulled into him, carrying him backwards into a pillar. Arkhan drove him back with a wild slash, but before he could recover, Mannfred’s blade chopped down, severing Arkhan’s sword hand at the wrist. Even as his hand fell, however, Arkhan gestured, and his sword leapt into his remaining claw.

  The liche lurched around, ready to continue the fight, and Mannfred hacked through his shoulder and into his sternum. He hefted his rival and slung him away. Arkhan crashed down on the other side of the bridge, where he lay unmoving.

  ‘Stay down, liche,’ Mannfred spat, as he swatted at the flames which still clung to his flesh and armour. ‘Once more, I have proven myself your superior. Why Nagash chose you as his right hand is a mystery.’

  ‘Mayhap he prizes loyalty over power,’ Arkhan said. He lifted his sword and set it point first into the ground. His dread abyssal crouched nearby, as if awaiting orders. ‘Maybe you have grown stronger in your exile. Or maybe this was never about winning…’

  Mannfred’s eyes widened.

  ‘What are you…?’ he trailed off, and cocked his head.

  ‘What is it?’ Tarsus asked.

  ‘I– something. What is that? Some new ploy, Arkhan?’

  Arkhan the Black gave a raspy chuckle. ‘No ploy, Mannfred. He merely wished to see if you had learned any new tricks in the wild.’

  Mannfred looked at Tarsus. ‘We must retreat… Fall back to some more defensible position.’ He clutched at his head suddenly and gave a hiss of pain. Tarsus made to help him, but Mannfred slapped his hand aside. ‘We must go!’