Hammers of Sigmar

by Darius Hinks

  The golden knight has done this to me. Something about him has turned me into a little girl again. I look down at the floor to give myself a reminder of the truth. The Anvil is hundreds of miles long and every inch is carpeted with shattered human teeth. This, I remind myself, is the true story of the Kharvall Steppe.

  Hakh spends ten minutes or so inspecting his defences and berating Vhaal, but I can see his mind is elsewhere. His violence is cursory and half-hearted. Barely a dozen sentries have felt the sharp end of his sword tonight and, as soon as he reaches a watchtower, he heads back inside, taking me with him.

  He leads the way through a series of skull-choked passageways and corpse-strewn antechambers until we come to a large, barred door. Guards step from the torchlight to challenge us, then quickly salute as they see Hakh’s bulk.

  Vhaal steps forward and shoves one of them towards the lock, and we are shown into a long, rectangular chamber. The guards rush to light the torches, disturbing clouds of dust as they clatter back and forth. It’s clear nobody has been in here for a long time. As the flames sputter into life I see why – this is a repository of knowledge and learning, which are not Hakh’s favoured subjects. Maps and charts cover the walls and there are tables piled with obscure astrological devices and books.

  Hakh catches my surprised expression and looks even more furious than usual. It almost seems that he is embarrassed.

  ‘Where is he?’ he grunts, waving his sword at the maps.

  I realise that I’ve not been clear. Whoever this Tylos is, he is about to present himself at the foot of the Anvil. Hakh has no need to go trekking across the steppe to find him. I’m about to explain this when I realise how stupid that would be.

  ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ I lie. ‘But I know where he’s headed.’

  Hakh nods, tapping his sword impatiently against the floor.

  I stroll across the chamber to the window and beckon him to follow. There I point at the butchered landscape that lies beyond the Anvil.

  On this side of the wall, the steppe leads to a blinding expanse of lava. It stretches three miles to the east, where it spits angrily onto a distant, fume-shrouded shore – a black horseshoe of basalt that rises even higher than the Anvil. Even from here I can glimpse our destination – the prize that the lake protects. Even through the smoke I see a flash of bronze; a brazen warning beneath the gathering clouds.

  Hakh nods slowly. ‘Of course. The Crucible of Blood. The golden warlord seeks a route to Khorne. He seeks daemonhood.’

  Even after all I’ve witnessed, I’m momentarily stunned by how moronic he is.

  ‘He isn’t going to find Khorne,’ I explain. ‘He doesn’t worship your god. Think of how he looked in all that golden finery. He’s dressed in tribute to the other gods – beings who ruled before you came. He imagines himself as a hero from some older, nobler age. He hasn’t come to pass through the gate – he means to conquer it.’

  I see rage growing in Hakh’s eyes as I dare to lecture him, so I change tack quickly. ‘Just think of what it would mean if you could stop him. The Blood God would see without a doubt who should be lord of the Kharvall Steppe.’

  Vhaal nods with his usual ironic smile. ‘Amakhus and the other warlords would have no choice but to kneel to you.’

  Hakh grips the lintel so tightly that his gauntleted hands start to crumble the masonry. He glares at the captain. ‘They would never kneel. Nor would I give them chance. Once my lord has made me a prince, I’ll use their skin for banners.’

  I nod. ‘Heroes forgot this kingdom a long time ago. I don’t know what brought Tylos here now, but you could wait an age and not see his like again. If you seek a chance to prove your worth, this is it.’

  Hakh takes a ragged breath and backs away from the window. ‘When? How long will I have to gather my armies? They’re scattered along every mile of this wall. When will he reach the crucible?’

  I frown, genuinely unsure. I barely touched Tylos’ mind, but I sense that he understands the Crucible of Blood. I think he knows what will happen when the sun rises. ‘He means to reach it before dawn.’

  Hakh spits. ‘Dawn? That leaves me no time at all. Dawn is a few hours away.’

  ‘What time do you need?’ I ask, surprised by my growing confidence. ‘What do you need to stop one knight and a few of his men?’

  Hakh stares at me, and I curse myself for overplaying my hand. Vhaal steps closer, lifting his axe.

  Hakh throws back his head and laughs. ‘You have more guts than any of these worms, Vourla.’ He waves at Vhaal. ‘If you were a man and less of a runt, I’d give you his axe.’

  I shrug, hoping he can’t see how close I was to running.

  ‘The golden warlord can dress up as any god he likes,’ continues Hakh. ‘It won’t fix his head any tighter to his neck.’

  He turns to Vhaal. ‘Gather the Blood Creed.’

  ‘All of them?’ Vhaal’s cheeks glisten as his smile widens.

  There’s a clicking sound as Hakh rolls his head back around his shoulders. I presume he’s about to take the captain’s head, but he just laughs. ‘No. I’ll take half of them. That will be enough. You wait here with the rest of them. Someone needs to guard this place against old women and peasants. And you can prepare my victory feast.’ He waves at the window. ‘There must be a few hovels left. Find me some new meat.’

  Vhaal’s grin freezes on his face. After a pause, he gives a stiff bow and departs. I hear him barking out the call to muster as he strides down the passageway and before long I hear the braying of tuneless horns echoing along the battlements.

  ‘Will you leave straight away?’ I ask.

  In reply, Hakh drags me out into the courtyard and within half an hour we’re mounted up and riding east across the steppe, with the spires of the Anvil disappearing into the haze behind us. We ride on huge, iron-clad monsters and I can feel evil simmering through the metal saddle beneath me. Death is rushing towards me now, but so is my chance; my one chance to strike a blow.

  Chapter Five

  Prosecutor-Prime Drusus Unbound

  The voice is still there, whispering urgently at the back of my thoughts, but its power is gone. I’m no longer Drus Unaki, the man who let Ghuldiz burn; I am Drusus Unbound. I have been given a second chance. Sigmar’s heralds follow my command and I am trusted. Tylos has given me duty and hope and, by all the fire that burns in my wings, I will give him victory.

  We’re flying so high that the Anvil looks like a nest of knotted serpents – a poisonous tanlge of guardians encircling the entire steppe with their crest of spine-like towers and countless crimson eyes. I lead my men into a dive and as the ground rushes towards us it’s hard to remain calm. These are the towers that encircled Ghuldiz and Tersoos. These are the fires that burned down those ageless, jasper halls. These are the serpents that took my life.

  The voices in my head grow louder, but I refuse to listen.

  As the final wisps of cloud part, I see the Anvil appear in lurid detail. It’s actually two walls – we are flying towards an outer curtain wall protecting a space like the outer ward of a castle. A hundred feet beyond that, a taller, inner wall rises up into the clouds. Two parallel lines of impenetrable rock. The whole structure is mind-numbingly huge and the towers that punctuate it are built around slender white spires, like huge, petrified talons. I remember my purpose and look back at the outer wall.

  This will be easier than Tylos imagined.

  The guardians of the Anvil are spilling out of their fortress. There are hundreds of the bare-chested berserkers we fought on the bridge – bloodreavers, Tylos called them – but they are striding out into the darkness as though preparing for a hunt. From my vantage point I can see my brother Stormcasts advancing through the Field of Blades towards them, but the bloodreavers are oblivious. I have to stifle my laughter.

  White metal flashes in my peripheral vis
ion as Prosecutor Sardicus approaches. His golden mask reveals nothing but I can hear his eagerness for battle.

  ‘Prosecutor-Prime,’ he calls out over the noise of the storm. ‘The Lord-Celestant said we would find the right moment to attack. Do we wait or do we strike?’

  I look down at the bloodreavers, still oblivious to the danger. ‘I say we warm things up a little in readiness for our commander.’ Divine light tears through my body and forms hammers in my palms. The sensation is terrifying and wonderful. I’m a conduit for pure, unshackled vengeance. ‘I say we bring them Sigmar’s fire!’

  I hurl the bolts down into the crowd at the gate and throw myself after them, summoning celestial fire from my fingers as I go. A chorus of war cries greets my words as my men dive too. A storm of light flies past me, slamming into the bloodreavers.

  As I near the ground, it erupts with dozens of detonations. The bloodreavers are so close I can see the shock on their brutal, scarred faces, followed by outright fear.

  I hurl another pair of hammers, filling the gateway with a plume of crimson dust, then seconds before crashing into the ground I swoop back up towards the clouds, screaming Sigmar’s wrath as the wind howls through my helmet.

  The others do the same. When we reach a safe distance, we pause to look down at our work. The ground before the gate is a mess of charred craters, filled with wounded and dead. Twenty or so of the bloodreavers fail to rise, and many of those that do are carrying terrible injuries.

  They slam the gates behind them but remain outside to roar and howl at us. Our attack has distracted them from the golden phalanx that is emerging from the Field of Blades. Before the bloodreavers have the chance to ready a defence, Tylos and the others crash into them, driving them back across the craters and bodies.

  I lead my men over the outer wall to see how many ­bloodreavers are inside the gate. As we near the battlements I see movement and pause. At first I think it must be more bloodreavers, but the battlements themselves are moving, coming to life; shapes I mistook for gargoyles and grotesques rear their heads and twisted creatures of Chaos rise from the stone, bellowing and snarling as they fix their gaze on Tylos and the others. As they draw back their heads, like snakes preparing to strike, I sense a new kind of energy pooling around me.

  I realise what’s going to happen, but too late. As I lead my men in another dive, aiming for the monsters on the wall, they unleash a torrent of blood from their crumbling jaws. Some of the crimson liquid hits us but most pours down on Tylos and the others.

  They raise their shields seconds before they vanish inside a mushroom of red flame.

  ‘For Sigmar!’ I cry, launching a furious volley of thunder strikes at the wall. My retinues follow suit and several of the stone creatures explode. There are still dozens left intact though and, ignoring us, they vomit another tide of crimson at Tylos. The dome of red fire burns so brightly that I have to look away. One of my Prosecutors tumbles through the clouds, his armour trailing smoke and sparks as he tries to right himself.

  I order Sardicus to his aid and lead the rest in another dive, blasting the stone monsters with so many hammer blows that the air starts to warp under the strain. Another of the daemonic shapes topples and I look back to the figures below.

  The red cloud dissipates and there, scorched but unbowed, stands Tylos. At first I think no one has been harmed but, as Tylos leads his warriors forward to clash again into the bloodreavers, I see that several of the Stormcasts are left sprawled on the ground, their armour warped into odd, liquid shapes. I hear terrible cries of pain as the metal eats into their ruptured bodies, then lightning spears past me, enveloping them in white heat. When the light dims, the bodies have vanished.

  We dive to join the battle but Tylos needs little help. The columns of light have ignited something in him. He crashes through the bloodreavers on Zarax, his armour blazing like a fallen star. For a moment I falter, awed by the sight of him. This is no longer a man. This is the God-King made manifest.

  This is Sigmar bringing bloody redemption through Tylos’ willing flesh.

  Chapter Six

  Vhaal the Skinless,

  Captain of the Blood Creed,

  Executioner of Kyphanto

  I taste your blood on my lips and your strength in my arms. I know that nothing else is real, Lord of Skulls. I see what gift you have offered and I will not refuse it. My spirit is ready. The hour of Vhaal approaches. Soon these pale shadows will fall away and I will join you in the Great Slaughter.

  I hear the sound of battle through the gates and my blood surges in answer. Death is out there in the fields, screaming my name, but I hold my fury in check as the ranks of the Blood Creed line up behind me in the courtyard. Hakh has only left me with half an army but as they jostle into position, readying their axes and fixing their helmets into place, I know that all along the Anvil the other towers are emptying. Soon there will be thousands of puppets dancing to my tune. Nothing here is real, of course; not the Blood Creed nor those outside the gates. These talking sacks of blood are baubles, nothing more – tempting distractions that you have draped before me as a test. Even as a child, I knew that you and I alone were real. Before I could walk, I saw through the facade that surrounds me. Soon I will ascend and stand by your side.

  Lord of Skulls, I know I am your son. Why else would you let Hakh be tricked away by that devious woman? Why else would you leave me this choice offering?

  The outer wall is lit up with flames and embers and as I look up into the fumes I catch glimpses of gold and white, blazing wings.

  ‘Tell me again,’ I say, turning to the nearest warrior.

  ‘A golden knight,’ he replies, breathless after his run from the tower. He’s still fastening his helmet into place and I see the bloodlust in his eyes, but I know it’s only a pale mirror of my own true hunger. I watch him closely, hoping to catch the trickery in his words.

  ‘Maybe a king,’ he continues. ‘They’re all dressed in pretty gold suits, even the winged lightning wielders, but their leader looks like…’ He pauses, almost looking surprised or confused. ‘Like the paintings in the temple of Kaslov.’

  That temple was a ruin long before we got to it, but his words only fuel my sense of destiny. This is the great lord that the witch was discussing with Hakh.

  My scarlet lord, you have given me a chance to prove my worth. I understand everything. The great game nears its end. I thank you for this blessing and I give you my solemn oath: in this very hour that golden king shall give you his blood and I shall give you my soul.

  The sound of battle moves closer to the gates and my men look expectantly to me for the order to advance. I won’t be fooled by such tricks. I know they would lead me astray if I let them. We must wait patiently and let you do your work. I can see you from here, pouring your fury down through the spirits on the walls. In their powerful shapes I see your form.

  I look at the design that decorates the centre of the courtyard – hundreds of skulls hammered into the ground to create a stylised image of one enormous skull. Once I’ve torn apart this golden champion I will plant his fake heart in tribute. I will show you that I am ready to return to your citadel.

  ‘Wait,’ I snap, ordering my men to take up positions on either side of the gate. When the golden knights break through, the final act shall begin.

  Chapter Seven

  Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

  Blood-acid slams against my borrowed shield, hissing across the charmed metal. The blast hits me so hard that I’m almost forced from Zarax’s back, holding the shield over my head as the liquid forms a crimson dome around us. Most of my men do the same, but some are too slow. Just a few feet away, I see Liberator Arion tumble backwards, his shield torn away as the blast en­velops him. His head warps like metal in a furnace and blood sprays from his gorget. The pain must be horrific but he does not cry out; he thrashes and rolls across the ground, unable t
o breathe, and clutches at the molten metal. The men nearest to him look on in horror, powerless to act as they crouch beneath their shields.

  A figure races towards him through the madness – Boreas. He is holding his bone standard aloft as he runs, and power is radiating from it, blasting the acid away.

  My brother plants the staff of his grim reliquary in the ground, lifts up one of his artefacts, a bone-handled knife, and starts writing invisible symbols in the air over Arion’s head as the Liberator paws at the congealed mess that used to be his face. A moment later, he ceases his thrashing and slumps back onto the broken ground, seeming to be at peace. He grips Boreas’ arm in gratitude.

  The clouds part and light engulfs the pair of them as a column of lightning slams down into the ground. The Liberators standing nearby are thrown clear by the blast and the world is plunged into shadow by the brightness of Arion’s pyre. After a few seconds the light fades and when Boreas heads my way, there’s no sign of the fallen warrior.

  ‘What becomes of us when we fall?’ I ask Boreas as he comes to stand beside Zarax. ‘What have you done to him?’

  He is too exhausted to speak for a moment and the storm is still crackling across his armour. Whatever happened between him and Arion has left him trembling and dazed. He watches the sparks dancing across his gauntlets.

  ‘I have…’ He pauses and closes his fist, extinguishing the light. ‘I only ended his pain, brother. Sigmar did the rest.’

  He says nothing more on the subject and looks back at the Anvil.

  ‘We’re almost through,’ I say, jabbing Grius at the ­bloodreavers. ‘They’re trapped at the foot of the gates. Drusus and the rest of his Harbinger retinues are swinging back through the clouds, preparing for another attack on the gargoyles. When they strike, we’ll charge. We’ll slaughter the remaining bloodreavers and enter the Anvil. After that I will mount the walls and bring Sigmar’s judgement down on those stone horrors.’