Orius saw Kratus swoop towards him through the curtain of rain, starblade black with skaven blood. ‘No, help the others,’ he shouted, as the Knight-Azyros drew close. Kratus didn’t hesitate. He banked left and hurtled towards the second stormfiend with a snap of his blazing wings. Satisfied, the Lord-Celestant caught hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hands, and gave a convulsive heave. Warpstone armour bent beneath his fingers as he lifted the whirring grinderfist up, away from his aching shoulder. The stormfiend’s tiny eyes bulged within its helm, and it raised its wounded arm as if to batter him with it.
Orius shoved the grinderfist away and lunged for his hammer. He scooped it up, even as the stormfiend struck at him again, and twisted around. His hammer sang down, crushing the brute’s tiny skull in its envelope of warpstone. It dropped to the ground, where it lay twitching. Orius recovered his runeblade and made to step over the dying beast.
But as he did so, a stinking steam spurted from its pooling blood, rising up into the air. The steam coalesced into a leering grimace – a thing of brass teeth and rolling eyes, of obsidian horns and red scale. It lunged for him, only to shred into tatters and wisps. Orius turned, and saw more of the phantasms rise from the blood which stained the stones of the square, then writhe and fade as quickly as they had come. Daemons, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them – such creatures were drawn to slaughter as flies to filth, but had they simply been called by battle, or was it something else?
Orius forced the thought aside. The creatures were gone, and there were more solid enemies to hand. He started towards the second stormfiend. Kratus had jammed his sword into the brute’s back, occupying its attention. The Liberators retreated, dragging the wounded with them as the stormfiend staggered about, clawing uselessly for the winged warrior perched on its back. Kratus would kill it, in time, but Orius was in no mood to wait.
The Lord-Celestant stalked towards the brute. As the stormfiend reeled in his direction, arms spread, Orius charged forward. Blade and hammer snapped out, and the brute slumped to its knees with a shrill whine. Orius drove his runeblade up through its jaw into whatever passed for its brain, finishing it off. He tore his sword free and turned.
The skaven were in retreat, falling back in a disorganized rush amidst a babble of terrified squeals. They climbed over one another, bit and clawed at each other, nearly killing themselves in their haste to escape the warblades of the Liberator retinues who pursued them. Orius watched the ratkin flee and then turned, his hammer held high, signalling his Judicator retinues to cease firing. The Judicators had taken up position on the slumping ramparts of the Gnawing Gate, where they could watch the streets to either side.
The Liberators marched back into position. There were gaps in their ranks. He’d lost several warriors since they’d arrived. The skaven seemed determined to retake the Gnawing Gate, and had attacked again and again, coming in greater numbers each time. Regardless, they had been driven back with every attempt, leaving mounds of hairy corpses in their wake. But his warriors could not hold out forever. If Moros and the others didn’t reach them soon, the skaven would simply swamp them in numbers too great for even the Stormcasts to resist.
The thought faded into irrelevance as he heard the tell-tale sound of Tarkus’ battle-horn. Orius sheathed his sword and strode towards the shattered portcullis. He felt his heart lift as he caught sight of Galerius’ standard, swaying above the column of approaching Stormcasts. ‘You are late, Moros,’ he called, as he stepped to meet the Lord-Relictor.
‘My apologies, Lord-Celestant. The Bloodbound sought to bar our way in a most churlish fashion,’ Moros said, taking Orius’ proffered hand. ‘We set them to flight, though I know not where. I suspect they’ll soon regroup, however.’
‘Then Gorgus will handle them,’ Orius said. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant perform his function, as we shall perform ours.’ He turned and gestured with his hammer. ‘The Bridge of Smoke lies in that direction. It’ll be a slog, though.’
‘When is it not?’ Tarkus interjected. The Knight-Heraldor laughed. ‘Let them stand in our path. We shall grind them under, all at once or piecemeal, it makes no difference.’
‘It makes all the difference,’ Moros snapped. He looked at Orius. ‘The air is thick with daemon-stench, Orius. A storm is brewing somewhere in this city... not a storm as we know it, with cleansing rains and celestial fury, but something fouler. I can feel it. It weighs me down.’ The Lord-Relictor looked past Orius, towards the distant shape of the Sulphur Citadel.
‘A doom comes to Klaxus, and if we are not prepared it shall claim us as well.’
About the Author
Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written The End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.
The storm breaks as the Stormcast Eternals go into battle for the first time. Read the first book set in the Age of Sigmar.
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
Published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
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ISBN: 978-1-78251-948-5
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