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A Dirge of Dust and Steel – Josh Reynolds
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
A Dirge of Dust and Steel
Josh Reynolds
Eerie shrieks pierced the gloom.
They reverberated through the broken field of toppled pillars and dust-shrouded statuary, riding the night wind. To Sathphren Swiftblade’s ears, there was both damnable pleasure and promise in those cries. The Lord-Aquilor repressed a shudder and bent forwards in his saddle. ‘Faster, Gwyllth,’ he murmured into his mount’s ear. ‘We’re almost there.’
The long-limbed, avian-headed gryph-charger squalled in reply, and increased her speed, despite the weight of the fully armoured Stormcast Eternal she carried on her broad back. Sathphren glanced back, checking on his warriors. Half a dozen armoured Vanguard-Palladors rode hard to either side of him. Like the Lord-Aquilor, they wore the silver-and-azure war-plate of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, and rode atop lean, leonine gryph-chargers. The beasts were galloping flat out, the magic that flowed through their muscular frames enabling them to easily outpace their pursuers.
As one, they bounded over the fallen statue of some long-forgotten warden king. The square, bearded face glared sightlessly at the silver-armoured riders and their steeds as they raced on across the broken ground. The duardin had once ruled this unforgiving ground. Before the coming of Chaos, the Oasis of Gazul had provided shelter for traders and pilgrims alike. Now, it was a daemon-haunted ruin, shrouded in shadows and dust.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sathphren caught a glimpse of a pack of lithe, inhuman shapes as they raced along parallel to the Hallowed Knights. The creatures, at once serpentine and avian, leapt and scrambled over fallen pillars and broken walls, moving with a speed that defied comprehension. They were urged on by their cackling riders – slim, hideously sensual daemonettes, the Handmaidens of Slaanesh.
The daemonettes resembled women, with thick manes of snaky locks and pitiless, androgynous faces. Chitinous claws snapped wildly at the air, as the creatures gesticulated obscenely. The Hounds of Pleasure were on the hunt, and Sathphren and his warriors were their quarry. ‘Looks like they’ve caught up with us at last, eh, Feysha?’ Sathphren called out.
‘Took them long enough,’ Feysha, his second in command, replied. The Pallador-Prime peered back over her shoulder. ‘Though I’ve not seen such a pack of beasts since the Bitterbark. Every daemon in this desert must be on our tail.’
‘Good. The more of them the better.’ Sathphren glanced back, following her gaze. Behind them, daemons raced across the dust dunes with quicksilver grace. Brutal beast-kin loped in their wake, braying to the Wraith Moon above. There were mortals among them as well – strange figures those, clad in everything from silks to furs, bearing weapons and musical instruments in their tattooed hands. Some rode atop daemonic steeds, while others capered through the dust. Golden standards, decorated with looted tapestries, mirrors and flayed hides, bobbed above the monstrous cavalcade.
It was not an army. A horde, at best. A moveable feast of frenzied indulgence. A celebration of blood and pain. And at its head, crouched atop a massive chariot, made from bone and gold and pulled by a darting, hissing herd of daemon-steeds, was the host – the creature known as Amin’Hrith, the Soulflayer.
The Keeper of Secrets was a monster among monsters. It towered over the tallest of its followers, even squatting as it did on its nightmarish conveyance. Its elongated torso bore a quartet of long, milk-pale arms. One of these ended in a vicious, snapping claw, while the hands of the others rested upon the bejewelled hilts of the various blades sheathed about its person, beneath the cloak of skins it wore. Its head was that of a bull, with great, curving horns capped with gold, and a ring of silver in its wide, flat nose. A mane of thick spines draped across the back of its neck, and its pale form was covered in the marks of ritual scarification, as well as various gemstones clinging to its chest like barnacles.
Sathphren’s gaze was drawn to the largest of these – a massive ruby, set between the daemon’s uppermost pectorals. Something flashed within the facets of the gem, and he turned away, frowning. ‘Into the oasis – go!’
Lone pillars and broken statues gave way to more substantial ruins – stone watercourses and shattered aqueducts cast elongated shadows in the moonlight. And beyond them, the high, narrow summit of Gazul-Baraz. The ruins spread out around the immense tower of limestone, spilling forth from the caverns beneath it, following the ancient watercourses. There were greater ruins by far within those caverns, stretching into the deep darkness. This was but the uppermost level of that vast fiefdom. One the Soulflayer had destroyed, and now claimed as its own.
‘Swiftblade – beware!’
Feysha’s shout was all the warning he needed. He ducked low, folding himself over Gwyllth’s neck. A crustacean-like claw snapped closed where his head had been, as a daemon-steed drove itself into Gwyllth’s side. The gryph-charger stumbled and spun, shrieking in rage. Sathphren hauled back on the reins, and snatched his boltstorm pistol from its holster. He levelled the weapon at the daemonette rider and loosed a bolt. The bolt struck it in the eye and sent it tumbling from the saddle. Its serpentine steed staggered, off balance, and Gwyllth smashed it from its feet, tearing open its elongated neck.
More daemons closed in, moving quickly. Sathphren holstered his pistol and unsheathed his starbound blade. The blade gleamed like a distant star as he parried a darting claw, and removed a daemonette’s head. It spun away, trailing gory locks.
The rest swirled about him, cackling and shrieking, and he dealt with them swiftly. Even in death, they laughed, as if pain and pleasure were both but a singular sensation. The stink of strange incense rose from their glistening flesh. Black eyes, empty of all save malice, bored into him and their smiles were at once alluring and repulsive. Their claws gouged his silver war-plate, but failed to penetrate. ‘Who will ride more swiftly than the storm-winds?’ he roared, laying about him.
‘Only the faithful,’ came the response, as the boltstorm pistols of the others cracked and starstrike javelins hissed, further distracting his pursuers. A moment later, Feysha’s lunar blade joined his own, as her gryph-charger bore a squealing daemon-steed to the ground. The surviving daemonettes retreated in disorder, a frustrated tenor to their shrieks. Sathphren hauled Gwyllth around and thumped her ribs. The gryph-charger leapt back into motion, speeding to join the others, followed closely by Feysha. ‘Keep moving,’ Sathphren bellowed. ‘Our allies are waiting.’
They led their pursuers down a slope into a narrow defile, between twinned limestone crags that acted as a gateway into the cavern-city beyond. The crags had felt the touch of hammer and chisel at some point in antiquity, and alcoves had been carved into their inner slopes. Immense statues occupied these alcoves – ancient duardin kings and heroes, Sathphren thought. Their countenances were uniformly, grimly stoic, as if humour were somehow taboo among their folk.
Having met them, Sathphren could well believe it. The Gazul-Zagaz were a sombre folk, as befitted those who worshipped death. Their ancestors had taken the name of their fallen god for their own, in the dim, ancient epoch when Nagash, the Undying King, had warred with the old gods of death and emerged supreme.
Theirs was a society built on a legendary defeat, and the bones of those it had claimed. Where they had once ruled, they now merely persisted… huddled in the ruins of former glory, waiting out the days. Hunted by creat
ures like those even now pursuing him and his warriors. The servants of the Soulflayer had made these ruins their playground. But not for long. Not if Sathphren’s gambit was successful.
It was a simple enough plan. Bait the foe in and chew them apart, piecemeal. With the aid of Sathphren and his warriors, the Gazul-Zagaz might rule the Sea of Dust once more. And in return, they would help the Swiftblades complete their mission. ‘So far, so good,’ he muttered, as they passed through the shattered gateways and into the cavern-city beyond.
It had been hacked from the stalactites and stalagmites of the vast caverns, built into the very bedrock. Despite the situation, he could not help but marvel at the extent of that ancient undertaking. Crumbled structures and ruptured aqueducts rose over sloped avenues. Moonlight shone through great wells carved in the uppermost reaches of the cavern. The silvery radiance was reflected in the sluggish waters that still slithered through the broken aqueducts, and poured down into the ruins in haphazard waterfalls.
‘Look,’ Feysha called out. She pointed. Sathphren laughed.
‘It appears our newfound allies are as good as their word.’
A line of duardin waited for them, their stocky, armoured forms set in a rough battle-line. They were clad in coats and cowls of burnished gromril. Each wore a steel war-mask wrought in the shape of a stylised skull, and carried a heavy, baroque hand cannon. Dust sifted off the broad forms of the duardin Irondrakes as they raised their weapons. ‘Uzkul-ha!’ they roared, as one.
The ancient drakeguns belched fire as the Vanguard-Palladors leapt over their wielders. The volley cut through the front rank of daemons and mortals like a scythe of fire. Mortals fell screaming from their abominable mounts, and daemons were ripped to shimmering rags. In the ensuing confusion, the duardin fell back into the ruins, reloading their weapons with a speed born of precision and experience, clearing the path.
Monstrous chariots rattled on in pursuit, over the broken bodies of the fallen. These were bombarded from on high, by hurled chunks of stone. Many slewed wildly, crashing into one another or flipping and rolling. Daemon-steeds screamed as they were pulled to the ground or crushed beneath the tumbling chariots. Even the Soulflayer’s massive carriage was brought to a halt, as a chunk of stone shattered one of its wheels, and killed several of the beasts pulling it. The Keeper of Secrets leapt from the wreck with a bellow of frustration.
‘Remind them that we’re here, brothers and sisters,’ Sathphren shouted. As one, the Hallowed Knights emptied their boltstorm pistols into the stalled horde. The Lord-Aquilor took aim at the Soulflayer, and sent a shot smashing into its chest. The daemon whipped around, eyes narrowing. Sathphren gave a mocking wave and glanced at Feysha. ‘Think that’ll do it? I’d hate to think the beast is getting bored of us.’
The daemon flung out a claw and bellowed. Its followers surged past it, clambering over the wreckage in their eagerness to catch their prey. Feysha jerked on the reins of her gryph-charger and turned the beast about. ‘I think so, my lord,’ she said. Sathphren laughed and jolted Gwyllth into motion.
Drakeguns spat death from the ruins, as the Irondrakes fired again. Followed by the echoes of that volley, the Vanguard-Palladors split up. Several turned back, arrowing through the ruins. They would harass the flanks, and bleed the enemy, striking and fading as only they could. It was what they had been forged for. The rest continued on, racing down what had once been a grand avenue, pursued by the main body of the enemy.
Sathphren looked ahead. At the end of the avenue, between two crumbled structures, a shield wall of duardin warriors waited. ‘Gazul-akit-ha!’ The words echoed through the cavern, accompanied by the crash of weapons against shields. ‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’ The wall of duardin shields parted, allowing the Stormcast Eternals to pass through.
Mourning bells, mounted on iron standard poles, tolled grimly as the duardin beat on their shields. Warriors wearing white vestments over their armour and golden war-masks, lifted stone tablets marked with crudely carved runes. As they paced up and down behind the battle-line, they began to sing an eerie dirge. The sound rolled across the line, and sent a chill down Sathphren’s spine.
‘That doesn’t sound like any duardin battle-song I’ve ever heard,’ Feysha said. The Vanguard-Palladors slewed to a halt behind the shield wall, their gryph-chargers yowling in protest. The beasts hated standing still, almost as much as their riders.
‘They’re mourning the dead yet to be,’ Sathphren said. ‘Singing their souls to the caverns of their god.’
‘Their god is dead.’
‘I don’t think they care.’ He gestured to the duardin. ‘Can you support them until Thalkun gets his Vanguard-Raptors into position?’
Cadres of Stormcast marksmen were even now scaling the broken heights of the oasis-city, seeking the best vantage points to deliver their lethal volleys. They would further bleed the foe, dispersing their strength. The enemy was caught fast in the jaws of the trap now, though they didn’t yet realise it.
Feysha nodded. ‘Aye, if we must. I still think one of us should go with you, at least.’
‘One soul more or less won’t make a difference.’ He gestured. ‘Remember, don’t fight too hard. Let the beast through. If we’re to win this, it must reach the oasis.’ The shield wall was only there to blunt the initial rush of the foe. Once they’d bloodied them, the duardin would retreat, as the Irondrakes had, and regroup in the ruins.
‘You can count on us,’ Feysha said. ‘It’s the duardin I’m worried about. They look set on dying here.’ The dirge swelled up, rolling through the ruins. The song of a dying folk, as they made what might be their last stand. Sathphren frowned and shook his head.
‘They know what’s at stake, as well as you.’ The Gazul-Zagaz had set the price for their aid, though it meant duardin blood would be shed, as well as that of his warriors. For centuries, they had suffered the depredations of the Soulflayer. Now, at last, they had a chance to free themselves. Whatever the cost.
Feysha met his gaze solemnly. ‘Much is demanded…’ she said.
‘To those whom much is given,’ he replied, completing the canticle. They clasped forearms. ‘Fight well, sister. And don’t let them catch you standing still.’
‘Never,’ Feysha said, cheerfully. ‘Hup!’ She thumped her steed, and the gryph-charger leapt into motion. Sathphren watched her. She would circle through the ruins in order to flank the horde flooding down the avenue. Several of the remaining Vanguard-Palladors followed her, while the rest readied their javelins and drew their boltstorm pistols.
Sathphren twitched the reins and urged Gwyllth deeper into the ruins, seeking their heart. The beast growled low, unhappy at being denied the chance to savage the enemy. ‘Soon enough, old girl,’ he said, stroking the bright green plumage on her neck. ‘Now let’s go bait ourselves a trap, eh?’
Traps within traps. That was how the Swiftblades waged war. Sathphren had learned the art of the oblique approach in those harsh, bloody days before he had been called to Sigmar’s side. Those lessons had stayed with him, even as he had been reforged, body and soul, on the Anvil of Apotheosis.
And if there was one place where such an approach was needed, it was Shyish. The Sea of Dust was a harsh land of broken mountains and dust storms that could strip flesh from bone, as easily as gilt from sigmarite. It had its secret roads and hidden paths, and the Swiftblades had sniffed them out, one by one. This was not merely aimless wandering on their part, but a quest given to them by the God-King himself.
The Swiftblades had been sent to Shyish to find the ruins of Caddow, the City of Crows. And in that broken city was the Corvine Gate – an ancient realmgate linking Shyish with Azyr. Only a scant few such transdimensional apertures remained, in the wake of the War of Death and Heaven. Sigmar had commanded that it be rediscovered and reopened. Sathphren did not know why they sought it, or what might await them there. Nor, in truth, did he care. That t
he quarry was named was enough. He would find it, or perish in the attempt, and explain his failure to the God-King in person.
But first, he had a daemon to slay. And a bargain to make good on.
He smiled. It was the Soulflayer he’d set this trap for, and it had proved very obliging, thus far. The creature had been easy to provoke – one whiff of fresh prey, and it had been on their trail. Then, in his experience, daemons were many things, but rarely shrewd. They had provoked and teased it for days, leading it into the ruins. Now, it was time for the trap to snap shut. A thrill of premature satisfaction surged through him. He forced it down. The hunt wasn’t done yet.
Gwyllth loped through the ruins, carrying him down long, aqueduct-lined avenues towards the central plaza, where the waters of the oasis still ran fresh and clean within the great temple of Gazul. The remains of that edifice rose up around the softly bubbling spring like a forest of stone. It was a massive rotunda of pillars and glowering statues – as with everywhere in the city, the faces of the dead had been captured forever in stone.
Sathphren could hear the soft susurrus of the water as it swirled about its stony prison, deep within the forest of pillars. It filled the watercourses, which stretched from the base of the temple and connected to the closest aqueducts. He hauled back on the reins, bringing Gwyllth to a stop before the vast, flat steps leading up into the temple. A group of duardin awaited him. They wore soot-blackened robes and armour, and their beards and hair were covered in ashes. Some carried weapons, but most had their hands free. They were rune-singers – the last members of an ancient priesthood. Once, they had guided their kin through life. Now, they warded their souls in death.
One of them stepped forwards. ‘You have returned.’ The War-Mourner of the Gazul-Zagaz was clad in black, and his armour was bronze. Several heavy tomes were chained to him, the cover of each marked with the Khazalid rune of death. He bore an iron staff, surmounted by a dirge-bell and a heavy hammer. Unlike his companions, he wore no mask, though his face had been painted with ash and soot to resemble a skull.
