by C. L. Werner
Not so the pincers and fangs of the hideous fiends. Two Liberators at the furthest end of the line were pulled down by the strange daemons. The arm of one was snipped from his shoulder by a crab-like claw, sigmarite plate and reforged flesh sheared clean through by the daemonic grip. The other was knocked off his feet by the whipping tail of his attacker. Before he could recover, or one of his comrades could render aid, the fiend was atop him. From the thing’s fluted proboscis, a razor-tipped tongue shot out and pierced the Liberator’s throat. Glowing streams of light erupted from each of the fallen Stormcasts, their vibrancy and purity at odds with the spectral flares that haunted Nulahmia. Swiftly, the soul-energies streaked into the stormy sky, drawn back into the God-King’s keeping.
The daemonettes followed close upon the scurrying fiends. Some of the feminine abominations wielded barbed swords and cruel whips; others were content to use the monstrous claws that grew from their pallid arms. Moving with a supple grace and lethal agility, they darted between the hammers and swords of the Liberators, lashing out with diabolic viciousness to break through the formation.
The agility and ferocity of the daemons was unlike anything Makvar had seen before. A daemon was no easy foe to overcome, even for a Stormcast Eternal, but these seemed endowed with a malignancy beyond what was to be expected of their kind. Whether it was the innocent souls upon which the horrors had so recently glutted themselves or if it was the malign influence of Mendeziron himself, he didn’t know. All he could be certain of was that the situation was dire. Even with himself and the Paladins to reinforce them, Brannok’s line might not hold.
A blast of lightning from Gojin’s maw immolated a clutch of daemonettes, bursting their voluptuous bodies in a spray of purple ichor and sweet-smelling smoke. Makvar rode to the line’s left flank, where the enemy was making the greatest effort to force a way through. His sword decapitated a slavering fiend, pitching its twitching body into the monstrosities behind it. Pressing his attack, he brought his dracoth’s clawed forelegs slamming down on the reeling daemons, stomping them beneath the reptile’s immense weight and sigmarite barding.
Mendeziron’s roar boomed across the rubble. Perhaps tiring of watching his lesser kindred battle, perhaps despairing of their ability to breach the line now that Makvar had reinforced it, the Keeper of Secrets prowled towards the Stormcasts.
As the greater daemon advanced, Makvar saw something soar through the sky above. The rotten husk of a dragon flew towards the base of the hill. Upon its back, an armoured vampire howled his defiance of Chaos and called on the ghostly might of Shyish.
At once, Makvar could feel the change that surged through the air, a numbing chill like the cold finger of death itself. All around the base of the Throne Mount, rusted portcullises were raised, revealing black passageways into the necropolis beneath Nulahmia. From that underworld, decayed legions marched. Skeletal warriors in corroded mail, desiccated corpses with withered flesh stretched taut over ancient bones. Armed with bronze falchions and iron spears, bearing adzes and khopeshes, the undead legion crept out from their timeless crypts. Dead eyes and empty sockets gaped at the daemonic onslaught. Then, without uttering either cry or challenge, the deadwalkers and bone warriors fell upon the Slaaneshi abominations.
Daemonettes were dragged down by gangs of skeletons, hacked to ribbons by the merciless action of rusted swords and axes. Fiends were pierced through by spears, impaled by cadaverous enemies immune to the numbing musk oozing from their pores. A veritable flood of deadwalkers besieged Mendeziron, cutting into the daemon’s hide with tomb-blades, clawing at him with rotten talons, worrying at his skin with decayed fangs. Like angry ants, the undead engulfed Mendeziron, defiant of his efforts to annihilate them. By the dozens, the undead lay smashed at the daemon’s hooves, yet still they came, relentless as an ocean tide.
A pulse of purplish light rippled through Mendeziron, a discharge of eldritch energies that burst apart the deadwalkers scrabbling at his body. Rotten flesh and mouldering bone exploded into greasy tatters and splashed across the streets. The daemon’s claws lashed out, skewering dozens of the undead. Arcane fire leapt from his eyes to sear the decayed warriors climbing up from the catacombs.
Makvar gripped Brannok’s shoulder, directing the Knight-Heraldor’s attention to the soaring temple across from the rampaging daemon. ‘Do you think you can bury that monster?’
Brannok nodded and raised his battle-horn to his mouth. The thunderous blare that issued forth from the instrument smashed into the old temple, blasting apart its tiled facade and spiral pillars. Mendeziron reeled, shaking his head as the sacred note assaulted his hyper-acute senses. His disorientation was already passing when he turned his glowering gaze upon Brannok. Mendeziron’s fang-filled grin promised that he would give the Stormcast no chance to sound another note.
The Knight-Heraldor had no need to. Weakened by the magical blast of the battle-horn, the temple spilled down into the street. Bat-winged gargoyles and skull-capped minarets hurtled down upon Mendeziron. The Keeper of Secrets raised his arms in an attempt to catch the descending avalanche of stone, but he had exerted too much of his energies against the deadwalkers and the openings of the catacombs. The cascade of rubble smashed into the daemon, entombing him beneath a mound of broken stone and a cloud of grey dust.
Whatever sense of relief Makvar felt at seeing the Keeper of Secrets buried was soon vanquished. A pack of bone warriors, after slaughtering a daemonic fiend, set upon a Retributor who had been fighting it. The Stormcast was savaged by the undead assault, pulled down to the ground to suffer the same fate as the vanquished daemon. A Liberator had his shield ripped away by the hooked axe of a deadwalker, before being impaled upon the spear of a skeletal champion. Pulled from the line of defenders, he was soon overwhelmed by the host of undead trudging up from the underworld.
‘Can they not see we are allies?’ Brannok cursed.
‘They make no distinction between Stormcast and Slaaneshi’, Kreimnar agreed, bringing his relic-hammer smashing down upon the head of a decayed adversary, crushing its rotten skull.
‘Form a shield wall!’ Makvar called out. ‘Close formation! Don’t let them bring their numbers to bear!’ Warrior for warrior, the Stormcasts were far superior to the undead soldiers. But for every knight under his command, Makvar could see ten, maybe twenty of the undead, with more crawling from their tombs every instant.
‘It would appear that Neferata isn’t interested in parleying with us,’ Kreimnar said.
Gojin whipped his powerful tail around, swatting a daemonette into the air and pulverising half a dozen zombies. Almost at once, a new rank of undead lurched forwards to take their place. ‘We don’t know that our offer has been rejected,’ Makvar said. His sword lifted a bone warrior from the ground and sent its wreckage crashing down on the heads of those behind it. ‘It may be she is unaware of who we are and why we’ve come here. There is no mind within these creatures. They do not differentiate between us and the invaders because no one has told them to.’
The rearguard began to fall back onto the Pathway, wary of being completely surrounded by the undead and the remaining daemons. The narrower constraints of the hillside would make it easier to guard against such strategy. Brannok kicked the severed torso of a deadwalker down the path, almost instantly finding another foe lurching towards him. ‘They had best decide we aren’t enemies soon,’ the Knight-Heraldor said. ‘This fighting will only benefit the Chaos vermin.’
Makvar looked up at the heights above. The delay here would impede the Anvils and prevent them from pressing the attack, perhaps giving the forces of Chaos the time they needed to gain the palace-temple and seize Neferata.
‘We need to make them aware of our mission,’ Kreimnar declared.
Brannok pointed at the zombie dragon and the vampire on its back. ‘He would be the one to talk to, only it doesn’t seem he’s interested.’
Makvar disagreed. E
very moment more of the undead were converging upon the shield wall. A dominating will was directing the mindless corpses, an intelligence malignant and powerful. The vampire was deliberately setting his legions against the Stormcasts, aware that the Anvils were enemies of the Slaaneshi hordes. The question was, did he act on his own, or was he following orders from his queen?
If it was the latter, Makvar’s mission had already failed.
Chapter Five
As Nagadron flew through the smoky skies above the Throne Mount, Neferata was struck by the vicious tenacity of her foe. The reserves Harkdron had summoned from the necropolis beneath the temple district had surrounded the hordes of Chaos. Skeletons encrusted with centuries of calcification, deadwalkers with their rotten flesh lost beneath layers of mould and muck; these climbed up from the depths, bursting from concealed flues and chutes to spring upon the enemy from every quarter. Daemonettes darted among the animated corpses, snipping off limbs and heads with each sweep of their terrible claws. Silent files of grave guard stabbed at gaudily adorned barbarians with spears of bronze. Barbarian chariots thundered down the path to crush the ungainly bone warriors, smashing them to splinters beneath iron wheels and the pulverising hooves of foul daemonic steeds. Lurching mobs of zombies hacked branded beastmen into gory litter. Sorcerers in pastel robes and crystalline cloaks shattered scores of the undead with their obscene spells. Wight kings butchered armoured Chaos knights with their ensorcelled tomb blades.
Neferata could see that her forces atop the hill were without a commander. The vampires and deathmages had been exterminated by the enemy, leaving the lesser undead to maintain a stubborn but uninspired defence. Like a clockwork machine winding down, the skeletons guarding her palace were losing their momentum.
Angrily, the vampire queen peered through the smoke, searching for Lord Harkdron. At first, she thought her consort had been destroyed, though what she found instead was even more infuriating. Her general had flown down to the base of the hill to summon the catacomb-legions, but instead of focusing them upon the hordes of Chaos, he had set them against the storm-knights as well! She could see her consort on his dragon in the wreckage of the temple district, exerting his magic to push his attack upon the ebon-armoured warriors.
Neferata’s first impulse was to speed her abyssal steed down to Harkdron, to issue the vampire new commands. Even he had to see the absurdity of attacking the storm-knights when they shared a mutual foe. A cold fury running through her, she glared down at the general. He would pay for his poor judgement.
Focussed upon Harkdron, Neferata let her concentration falter for just an instant. The warding spells that shielded her from the Slaaneshi sorcerers below suffered from the momentary loss of focus. Beams of corrosive energy shot up towards her, searing into the flanks of her abyssal steed and causing several of the skulls trapped within its skeletal frame to crumble into powder. Her morghast bodyguards flew forwards, flinging themselves between their queen and the magic being turned against her. A pair of the winged skeletons burst apart into shimmering fragments as the arcane rays slammed into them. Neferata commanded the others to loose arrows from their bows into the enemy warlocks, and then quickly urged her injured mount earthward.
Driven from the skies, the vampire queen landed amidst her fleshless legions. She fumed at the indignity, frustrated that she would be incapable of reaching Harkdron to call off his attack upon the storm-knights. Every spirit and minion bound to her service was already committed to the fighting, leaving none to carry a message to either Harkdron or the storm-knights. All she could do was command those undead within her reach to refrain from combat with them and fix their efforts strictly against the hordes of Chaos. She could only hope the storm-knights would notice her efforts and understand that not all within Nulahmia were hostile towards them.
Drawing upon her magic, Neferata sent a surge of necromantic force rushing from the Staff of Pain. The pulse of dark energy saturated the broken bones and mangled husks of those that had fallen in battle upon the upper reaches of the Pathway. Only the most grievously damaged among the invaders’ dead didn’t respond to her conjuration. Hundreds of the slain enemy lurched back onto their feet and hooves to assault those who had once been their comrades, while the carcasses of the vanquished undead drew themselves back into a ghastly animation, all but the most brutally damaged rallying to the call of their queen.
Neferata scowled at the results of her magic. It wasn’t enough. The forces she had at her command wouldn’t be able to hold the hill. Not on their own. She glanced up at the palace-temple behind her, picturing the maze of tunnels that would bring her to the realmgate. Yes, there was escape for her there, but nothing more.
Looking below, she could see the storm-knights relentlessly forcing their way through Harkdron’s legions and the Chaos host alike. Never had Neferata seen such warriors! They were engines of destruction, elemental wrath unleashed. Nothing stood against them, not wight nor daemon. To reach an accord with these warriors, to harness their power to her own ends – that was a purpose worth tempting the caprices of battle. But as she watched the enemies closing around the ebon knights, she wondered if even they could prevail against so many.
If they fell, Neferata would hurry back to her palace. But if they could succeed… what power might then be at her service!
‘Close ranks!’ Lord-Celestant Makvar called out to his warriors. The Anvils had suffered only a few casualties in the fighting against both the daemons and the undead. Makvar wanted to ensure that they could keep it that way. The Liberators brought their shields in close, forming an unbroken wall of sigmarite at every side of the wedge-like formation they had adopted. In the middle of the wedge, Judicators raised their bows and sent lightning snaking down into the masses of enemies all around them. The Paladins held their thunderaxes and lightning hammers at the ready, waiting for any foe persistent enough to breach the defences.
‘We can hold, but for how long?’ Knight-Heraldor Brannok wondered.
Makvar shook his head. ‘We gain nothing holding this ground,’ he declared. He pointed his sword up at the Pathway of Punishment. The road was swarming with skeletons and deadwalkers, a sea of decayed corpses reanimated by dark sorceries. ‘That is where we’re going. We march to rejoin Lord-Castellant Vogun. And then we force our way to Neferata’s palace.’
Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon, drawing down an electrical blast that annihilated a dozen bone warriors. The Lord-Relictor grumbled in frustration when he saw several of those felled by his arcane assault begin to stir once more. ‘As many of these things as we destroy, the vampire’s magic simply brings them back to life.’
Kicking his heels into Gojin’s sides, Makvar caused the huge dracoth to rear up onto his hind legs. A bolt of lightning shot out from his gaping maw to splinter the restored skeletons once more. ‘We are the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, chosen by Sigmar!’ Makvar shouted, his words carrying to every Stormcast in the formation. ‘If these lifeless husks rise a thousand times to stand against us, we will smash them down. They will not keep us from standing beside our comrades. They will not cause us to falter in our sacred mission. Woe betide any who try!’
Slowly, the wedge began to climb up the Pathway. The crackling swords and hammers of Liberators battered down the files of skeletons that rushed at them, solid shields of sigmarite thrust back the decayed troops that tried to block the way. Flights of crackling arrows rose from the Judicators, cooking rotten deadwalkers and blackening ancient bone warriors. Foot by foot, then yard by yard, the Anvils pressed their advance.
Resistance intensified. Malignant spirits rose up from the very flagstones to drag at marching feet and claw at armoured legs. The wails of banshees and wraiths shuddered through the mind of each knight, a litany of pitiless malice and cruel sorrow to freeze the soul.
The Anvils pressed on, forcing their way through the deathly gauntlet. Shrieking banshees were knocked down by lightning-spittin
g bows, while other spectral horrors were seared by the blazing discharge of colossal maces wielded by Retributors and Decimators. Kreimnar drew the destructive powers of the storm down upon the undead formations waiting ahead of them, breaking their ranks and leaving their mangled remains strewn across the pathway. As their advance gained momentum, the Stormcasts smashed the undead underfoot even as the vampire sought to reanimate them yet again.
Through it all, Makvar’s voice rang out, reciting the holy catechisms and orisons sacred to their warhost. ‘Sigmar is my light in the shadow. With him there is no darkness. From the tomb are we redeemed and no death can lift from us the burden of duty. Fear has been burned from our blood, doubt has been scorched from our minds, and damnation has no claim upon our souls.’ With each recitation, Makvar could feel the cries of the ghosts weaken, the reach of their phantom claws lessen. Soon, their hold was as inconsequential as morning fog, and their howls little more than whispers.
Makvar could see the welcoming blaze of Vogun’s warding lantern ahead. He could feel the celestial light reaching out to him, pulling at him like a beckoning finger. The rest of the Stormcasts felt it to, their pace quickening, the ferocity of their attack upon the undead and Slaaneshi forces redoubling. Remorselessly, they smashed their way through their foes, eager to rejoin their comrades.
Vogun redeployed his warriors, spreading them out into a solid line. Judicators armed with boltstorm crossbows sent a withering barrage into the faces of the Chaos marauders who packed the road between the two contingents. A retinue of Protectors issued forth from Vogun’s ranks, plying their stormstrike glaives with murderous ferocity as they carved a path through the Slaaneshi invaders.
