Hammers of Sigmar

by Darius Hinks

  He shakes his head, and I get the sense he’s forgotten me. The emotion in his voice is now unmistakable – a potent mixture of rage and regret. ‘The daemon was called Khurnac. Its rage was so great that the ground bled in pain. The ground. The giants of the Nomad City had bound their city with powerful wards though, and their walls refused to fall.’

  He’s speaking quietly now and I have to step closer to hear. ‘After the third attack failed, Khorne arrived to take matters into his own hands.’

  ‘You saw a god?’

  Giraldus stares into the darkness. ‘After a fashion, yes. My rites were finished and I was already leaving, but I caught a glimpse. Gods spare me, I caught a glimpse.’

  I find myself caught up in his story. I can almost imagine I’m there with him, witnessing the fury of Khorne himself.

  ‘My body was free,’ he continues. ‘Only a shadow of my being was there when the Nomad City fell, otherwise I doubt my sanity could have endured. Even now I don’t know exactly what I saw – a crimson thunderhead, perhaps, filling the horizon. My memory has spared me the details. I didn’t look directly, of course, and I was miles away, but Khorne was in my mind, of that I’m sure. As I slipped away, I saw a figure. It drew a brass skull from the storm, a skull as large as a mountain, and hammered it down into the Nomad City, destroying it utterly.’

  He looks me in the eye, returning to the present. ‘The skull has since been named the Crucible of Blood and it stands there to this day, surrounded by the ruins of the Nomad City. The giants had poured so much magic into those walls that they’ll never crumble. They’re still there, hanging in the clouds – a reminder of Khorne’s wrath. For a long time I used to hunt down every record of those places I could find. The thought of that skull’s existence, even in the form of books or art, troubled me.’

  ‘You destroyed all that knowledge without studying any of it?’

  ‘I studied it – even when I would rather not. I can tell you what I know. I found out why the titans were so desperate to defend their home. The Nomad City was a doorway between worlds – a realmgate. The giants had been tasked with guarding it and they knew what would happen if Khorne seized control. Their worst fears came to pass – the brass skull claimed the realmgate for Khorne’s legions.’

  I nod as all the pieces fall into place. ‘And Sigmar’s knights mean to take the realmgate back.’

  He shrugs. ‘Perhaps. If they took control of the realmgate, they could travel from world to world. They could attack wherever they wish.’

  Finally, I grasp the nameless fear that has been looming at the edge of my thoughts. ‘And they could attack whomever they wish.’

  Giraldus frowns. I continue.

  ‘Don’t you see? Sigmar is the warrior-god. He won’t stop at defeating Khorne. He won’t stop until every realm is back under his golden boot. He has no love for necromancy.’ I laugh. ‘Imagine what kind of fate he will have in store for kings who abandoned their subjects and refused to aid those who tried to fight?’

  Giraldus gives me a look of cold disdain. ‘I fear no mortal foe.’

  ‘Sigmar is no mortal foe. But if fear is not a reason to act then think what it would mean if we could seize the realmgate for our own.’

  Giraldus looks past my Coven Throne to the army gathered behind me. His white lips roll back from long, curved incisors. It’s a chilling sight to see him smile.

  He grips his sword again. ‘I would give a lot to have the upper hand, Menuasaraz, for one last time. I grow tired of this slow, pitiful defeat.’

  ‘Think what we could do together,’ I say, waving at the army behind me and the figures watching from the walls of his fortress.

  He keeps smiling and rests a death-cold hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re more of a man than I realised, necromancer.’

  There’s something odd about his smile. I get the impression that he’s holding something back from me – that he has different plans to my own. I decide that I don’t care, as long as he adds his army to mine.

  I point at my army. ‘We have real power here, Giraldus. We could seize the realmgate for our own and use it to uncover the secrets of countless realms. And we would garner such power that we could keep all of those bickering gods from our doors. We could finally be rid of them – as long as we get there before Sigmar’s knights.’

  He nods slowly. ‘But Sigmar is a step ahead of us. You said he has already sent his armies to the skull.’

  ‘But they were delayed. Somebody sent them astray. They are only now nearing their goal. There’s still time.’

  Giraldus nods. ‘When dawn comes the daemon returns. Khorne bound it to the skull as a punishment. Khurnac’s rage is unimaginable, and it grows every year. From sunrise until nightfall it rages and thrashes at its chain, and as it tries to break free, other daemons pour from its bath of blood, born of its rage. They’re thrown everywhere: other kingdoms, other worlds, other wars, but many of them simply flood out onto the steppe. The region becomes a mirror of Khorne’s own realm. Nothing survives the slaughter that follows.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

  I keep Zarax on a tight rein as we approach the ruins. The Chaos knights wait patiently on their grunting steeds and I count them as we march. There are at least as many as we faced in the Anvil. There will be no skeleton monster to rise up and save us this time and the thought makes me smile. We will finish this alone. I can feel the determination of my men beating down on my back, Sigmar’s light, blazing through their mirrored amour. It will not dim until we have broken through every line of red and brass that comes before us.

  The Crucible of Blood is visible, jutting out of the crater beyond us. Our prize is so close now.

  As we pass beneath the first of the drifting ruins my head fills with the sound of a roaring, anguished voice. The words hammer against my mind like a choir of lunatics, all wailing in a different key. It’s an agonised, inhuman cry and it’s impossibly deep. It sounds as though the rocks themselves are crying out in pain.

  ‘What is it?’ I gasp, looking back.

  My men hear it too. Several are clutching at their golden helmets, trying to drown out the horrible din. Some of them have even dropped their shields and fallen to their knees.

  I look back at the Chaos knights and see that they’re now riding slowly towards us. They were waiting for this to happen. The world shakes beneath the weight of their snorting juggernauts.

  ‘Boreas!’ I cry, scouring the crowds of staggering Liberators for a sign of the Lord-Relictor.

  He emerges from the rabble, walking better and no longer clinging to a Liberator’s shield for support.

  ‘It’s the ghosts of the city!’ he shouts over the din. ‘They’re trapped here.’

  Boreas sounds like he’s in agony, but he’s more awake than I’ve seen him since we reached the lakeshore.

  ‘They’re reliving their defeat,’ he continues, staring up at the massive shards of rock. ‘Can you see them?’

  I follow his gaze and realise, to my amazement, that I can. What I took for flickering shadows are towering, humanoid figures charging into battle. They’re as faint and insubstantial as the moonlight glancing off my armour, but their pain is all too palpable. For a while, I can only stare in wonder at their massive forms, pounding into a fight that was lost before my ancestors were born. The longer I look, the less human they become. Their anatomy is similar to that of a man, if ten times the size, but their heads are strangely broad and sunk low in their shoulders and what little I can see of their ghostly faces shows brutal, exaggerated proportions – like crudely chiselled statues.

  ‘Lord-Celestant,’ gasps Boreas as he finally reaches my side. ‘The enemy.’

  I drag my thoughts back to the present. The Chaos knights are moments away from us. I can see the face of the lead rider now, the lord with the swooping horns. This
must be Hakh. His eyes are blazing with mirth as he watches my front ranks stumble. The Liberators are struggling to raise their shields as the war cries of the giants boom in their helmets. They look like a rabble.

  ‘Stand proud!’ I cry. ‘You are Stormcast Eternals.’

  The Liberators manage to raise their shields and form ranks, but the sound is growing louder all the time.

  ‘Don’t they hear it?’ I ask, staring at the crimson-clad riders.

  ‘They’re revelling in it,’ replies Boreas. The sound of the giants’ pain only adds to the knights’ bloodlust. Their juggernauts are unhinged – snapping their great, bestial heads from side to side as their riders hold them to a slow trot.

  The pain in my mind increases but I clench my jaw and bite down hard, determined not to cry out before my men.

  I grab my Honour Scrolls and recite my oath. Pain may be my flesh. Death may be my fate. But victory is my name.

  I shout with all my might and, as the sound leaves my throat, I wrap it around the words of a hymn. The song springs from somewhere deep in my subconscious; I haven’t sung it since I was a child, but the words ring out of me with all the force of my forging. It’s a hymn to Sigmar and I roar it like a curse. Behind me, hundreds of other voices pick up the tune.

  Boreas raises his sepulchral tones in harmony and, together, we drown out the sound of fallen giants and thundering hooves. The louder I sing the more powerful I become. I start to picture the halls of Azyr soaring up around me – gleaming statues of star drakes and mythical heroes rising from the shadows as I sing louder, driving the noise from my mind.

  I lift Grius over my head and give the signal for a shield wall.

  The phalanx closes ranks seconds before the juggernauts smash into us.

  Hakh leads from the front, his blazing eyes locked on me, and his steed hits us like a boulder. Shields judder beneath the force of the massive beast and, as the front line of Liberators stumbles, Hakh lunges at me from his saddle, swinging his great, two-handed sword. Zarax rears to defend me and the blade sinks deep into her face.

  She falls backwards, crushing more rows of blue and gold shields as she lands. Lightning envelops her body as she dies. It spears through the battle, silhouetting us all in white heat.

  I tumble, blinded by the detonation, but Sigmar is with me. As my vision clears I see that that I’ve landed near Hakh and he’s reeling from the blast, swaying in his saddle.

  ‘Victory is my name!’ I cry, grasping Grius in both hands and slamming it into Hakh’s chest.

  Lightning flashes a second time, ignited by my blow. The crush of armour and weapons falls away and Hakh topples from view, surrounded by a red cloud of his own blood. Bodies slam into me and I’m driven to my knees. Grius is torn from my grip and I howl in frustration.

  I draw Evora and she is singing before she has even left the scabbard. Her eerie tones cut through the cacophony and fill me with strength. The red knights may revel in the pain of the ghosts overhead, but Evora’s voice is another matter. They falter in their saddles, confused, giving Castamon and his Liberators in the front line the chance to drive them back and smash some of them from their steeds.

  There’s a flash of golden sigmarite and I haul Grius from the carnage with relief. It’s only then that I see Boreas, trapped beneath a fallen juggernaut and thrashing in silent pain.

  I try to reach him but our lines are battered and reeling under the weight of the juggernauts’ attack. I see flashes of gold as Liberators throw themselves at the brazen horrors, pounding their sacred hammers into fume-shrouded snouts and plates of jagged metal. The shield wall has held. My god-born brothers have dug their feet into the rock, thrown their shoulders against their shields, and held back the weight of a landslide.

  ‘Zarax,’ I whisper, in belated recognition of her death. These blasphemous curs can have committed no greater crime than ending such a proud life.

  Hakh’s juggernaut tears through the crush. Hammers fall and flash but the monster is unstoppable. It may have lost its rider but it is clearly still set on my destruction as it charges straight for me. Its head is down and its speed shocking but I feint to one side, drop the other way, grab its horn and swing myself up onto its back.

  Infernal heat pours up through my armour and my mind recoils at being so close to a creature spat from the Blood God’s own realm. It bucks and leaps beneath me, but I hold fast and ride the monster as it careers through the phalanx and takes me out into the enemy ranks.

  Suddenly I’m surrounded by jagged, blood-coloured iron rather than gleaming gold sigmarite.

  The juggernaut is driven to a frenzy by my presence on its back and it tramples several of Hakh’s knights as it circles and stomps, trying to shake me off, but then the daemon steed collides with a force equal to its own, and reels backwards.

  When I manage to focus I see a glorious sight – a wall of implacable, towering paladins: the last of my Retributors.

  They barrel into the monster, pounding it with their shimmering, two-handed lightning hammers.

  Their weapons blaze and the monster staggers, then prepares to launch itself at them with renewed force.

  I take my chance and let go of the juggernaut’s iron saddle, grasp Evora in both hands and drive the runeblade between its metal shoulder plates.

  Evora’s voice soars as she sinks up to her hilt.

  Flames spout from the wound and the monster bucks even more violently, throwing me clear. I roll aside as the beast tries to pulverise me with its thundering hooves and, as I lurch to my feet, the paladins strike again, bringing their warhammers to bear.

  Their aim is true and the creature explodes, firing shards of metal through the air. When the blast clears, they pound across the rock towards me.

  ‘Lord-Celestant,’ one of them says as they form a protective circle around me. ‘Perhaps we should rejoin the others.’ His hammer is still sparking and crackling with power but his voice is a laid-back drawl.

  I look around and see that we’re on the enemy’s flank and a line of them is already hauling their enormous steeds around to face us.

  ‘Celadon,’ I say, recalling his name. ‘We must find Hakh.’ I glance at the pale line of silver spreading across the horizon. ‘We have to end this quickly.’

  As I stride on, the paladins throw their colossal bulk towards the oncoming charge, smashing and pounding into the bellowing juggernauts. Even their paladin armour can’t easily withstand such an onslaught and several of them are ridden to the ground before they can strike, crushed beneath iron-clad hooves. Retributor Celadon fights at my side, swinging his great warhammer in broad, easy swipes, cracking plates of iron like porcelain.

  After a few moments the others have all fallen behind, mired in the enemy ranks, but Celadon keeps pace with me. As we smash our way into the heart of the enemy lines, splitting skulls and cracking limbs, he joins me in song, bellowing out the hymn like a benediction. His voice is ragged with fury.

  Celadon is swinging his hammer with such force that when he reaches a wall of white rock he smashes through it without pause, surrounding us both in dust and rubble. Only then does he finally stumble, not from the impact but from an unexpected lack of resistance. Beyond the wall is an opening in the fighting and, with nothing to crash into, Celadon drops to his knees with a resounding clang.

  I almost fall too as I stagger past him. The Chaos knights have backed away to create a circle and none of them raise their axes as I stumble into view. The ground is oddly shaped and, as I look around, I see that we have smashed our way onto the palm of a huge, outstretched hand. It is sculpted from the same white stone as the ruins overhead and I realise that some of the city has fallen. It must have landed with incredible force as it is embedded deep in the basalt. I look back and see that we have been separated from the rest of Celadon’s paladins. They’re lit up by white fire as they try to smash their way
to us but, for the moment, we are alone.

  I turn on the spot, Grius and Evora before me, expecting attack, but I hear words instead.

  ‘So this is the one,’ comes a low growl from the far side of the stone hand.

  Standing a few feet away from me, at the base of a crumbling thumb, is Hakh. His pale, horned head is unmistakeable. His power­ful frame dwarfs even his heavily armoured knights and he’s carrying a jagged, two-handed sword that simmers and hisses as though heated from within. His serrated armour is still scorched and smoking from the death of Zarax, and his low, jutting horns make him seem more animal than man.

  ‘He’s the one,’ confirms a woman standing next to him.

  Her ordinary appearance is almost as shocking as Hakh’s mutation. The sight of a mere human, standing at the centre of such a dreadful scene, is quite surreal. She’s dressed in a filthy, matted fur but she has the penetrating eyes of a scholar or seer.

  I straighten my back and stride towards them, wiping the gore from my armour. Now, as I stand before this dog, I realise that my Reforging is complete. I may not have been born a noble, but I have been lifted far from my humble birth. I draw back my shoulders, plant my feet firmly on the black rocks and level my hammer at Hakh’s head.

  Some of the knights jeer and mock me, but Hakh and the woman remain silent. Hakh raises a hand to silence his men. Retributor Celadon steps to my side and casually plants the head of his hammer on the ground beneath his feet, resting his gauntleted hands on the handle.

  Hakh locks his gaze on me. ‘Dawn is almost here,’ he grunts, nodding at the fading stars overhead. ‘Let’s end this.’

  I nod and order Celadon to back away.

  Hakh’s eyes burn brighter as he lifts his sword and steps into the circle.

  The giants’ roar resounds through my helmet so I start singing again as I raise Grius and drop into a fighting stance.

  The circle of knights burst into laughter again when they hear my simple melody, but the woman’s eyes open in surprise. Something about my song drains the colour from her face.