Warbeast, p.21
Warbeast, page 21
‘I see,’ said Arkas, though he was not sure he did. He understood, intellectually, what Katiya was saying. What it meant, on the other hand, eluded him. ‘That is why her thoughts were so close to mine.’
Katiya simply nodded, her strength exhausted by the brief confession.
‘But when my... my mother and father died, I was their only child.’
Katiya nodded again. ‘Radomira had no more children either. But you did.’ Katiya looked away, suddenly ashamed. ‘You bedded women, yes? Your children... they were hidden from you... by your mother. To protect you. To allow you to lead all without favour.’
‘You said the bloodline was strong.’ Arkas turned her face towards him. She frowned. ‘What did you mean? The touch of Ghur? The beast-gift?’
‘In some, yes,’ Katiya told him. ‘The men, a few of them. For the women... The sagesight. The Ghur-tongue.’
‘And what of my real father?’
‘Nobody knows for certain.’
‘Why are you telling me this, why now?’
‘The truth.’ Katiya lay back, folding her hands to her chest. Her eye fluttered closed. ‘What you fight for.’
And there it was again, that startling, heart-stopping resemblance to his mother’s – to his sister’s deathbed. Radomira had lied to him for years, and even when he had been inside her thoughts she had kept this secret from him.
‘Was it part of her vision?’ he demanded, but Katiya did not answer.
Arkas’ heart trembled as he moved his head closer. He could not feel or hear her breath, but he saw the weakest of pulses in her neck. She held on, but only just. The conversation had sapped much of her remaining strength, taking an effort of will just to speak.
‘She needs rest,’ said one of the nearby women. The others came back as he rose to his feet. Arkas could see the family likeness, nieces and nephews, cousins, siblings perhaps. How many were his descendants? How many had really survived that day on Kurzengor? Not just his people by culture. His descendents, his blood.
‘Look after her,’ he told them, though it did not need to be said.
He gave a last look at his daughter by nearly a score of generations and turned away. He started the long climb back to the camp, knowing that he would not look upon her face again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Thick black smoke choked the sky, but though the twilight was obscured by the fumes, the light of many flames provided ample illumination for the marching Stormcasts. Their armour glinted in the gleam from the six fiery peaks of the Skagoldt Ridge, lit by bubbling lava flows and burning rivers that split and conjoined in a ruddy maze.
The ground was as black as the air, the hard volcanic rock strewn with ash. The column of Stormcasts navigated through a mesmerising labyrinth of pore-like tunnels, jagged spires and bulbous columns. In places the floor was ribbed and undulated, broken by clefts that could trap feet and break ankles. Fumaroles belched forth constant sprays of lava and vapour. Seemingly solid plateaus proved treacherously unstable, shaking and splitting to reveal themselves as skins across pools and lakes of semi-liquid rock. Sheets of fire and pillars of flame burned from naked rock, and ash-devils swept through, driven by no natural wind. Lizards the size of dogs with pelts of coals and ember eyes scuttled over the dark rocks.
Everything shimmered in the heat haze – heat so incredible only Stormcasts could withstand its sapping effects. Arkas laboured with heavy breaths, his reforged skin slicked with sweat, but the hardship was nothing – any advance along the ridge known once as the Bear’s Spine would have been impossible for his mortal army.
The ruddy, flickering light played tricks with the bizarre landscape, creating shadow-giants and threatening simulacra. Combined with the oppressive heat, and the knowledge that they were marching into battle against an untold number of skaven, the jarring volcanic wasteland subdued the spirits of the Celestial Vindicators and Knights Excelsior.
In the red-and-black sky, flitting through the wreath of smog, the Prosecutors, Knights-Venator and Knights-Azyros swooped and rose on the hot air from jagged thermal vents and winding lava trails. Theuderis had sent them ahead as scouts but no sooner had the Stormcasts started up the Skagoldt Ridge than Samat returned with news that almost nothing could be seen from the air, the cloud was so thick and low. Even so, they stayed aloft, ready to respond swiftly to any threat.
Theuderis’ Judicators, led by the Prime called Trajos, scoured the land ahead searching for the best route through the meandering streams of lava and gaping chasms. Several times the army was forced to stop and turn back, retracing its steps until a way ahead was found. On occasion they scaled steep cliffs of dark rock and scrambled down tumbled slides of scree and obsidian shards. In places their route took them along crystal-lined gorges, the walls sparkling and faceted, in places sprouting prismatic growths as large as the Stormcast warriors. Pillar-like intrusions rose far above their heads, a mixture of dark, pitted crags and smooth, white columns.
The sun had set, as best could be judged, by the time the army crested the top of the ridge. From this vantage point, rare breaks in the fumes allowed them to briefly look down into the valley on the far side. In places the drop was precipitous, layer after layer of volcanic expulsion and magma extrusion forming a dense network of canyons and bridges.
Their goal was on the far side, the flank of the central peak of Ursungorod, from whose vertiginous slopes long-dead humans and duardin had delved and built the great city of Kurzengor. Beneath lay the bulk of the skaven lair, nestled in the ruins of the massive conurbation.
‘A volatile place,’ remarked Doridun.
‘My... My mother told me that the ridge first split asunder and spewed its fire on the day I was born,’ Arkas replied. He looked at the cratered peaks around them. ‘Its fury has not abated since.’
‘What was that?’ asked Dolmetis, marching on the other side of Arkas.
‘Did you see something?’
‘I thought so.’ The Knight-Vexillor pointed to a sharp spur of rock that overhung the trail ahead. ‘On the top there.’
Arkas looked but there was nothing to be seen.
‘My eyes are tired,’ Dolmetis admitted, ‘and filled with grime and soot. But I would swear I saw a figure on the rock.’
‘Impossible,’ said Doridun. ‘Nothing could live in this place.’
‘Nothing mortal,’ Arkas corrected him, scanning the surrounds with renewed interest. ‘If we can survive here... The Chaos powers have more than mortal followers.’
He weighed up whether to call a halt. In his years as the Bear-clad few had ventured to this part of the mountains and none had returned after anything but a cursory investigation. He had learned, as a Stormcast, of places where the realms sometimes bled together – overlaps between the planes. Often these were near hidden or damaged realmgates, the mystical energy of the cosmos mixing together in unpredictable ways.
Though there was no reason to suspect anything other than volcanic activity shaped the Skagoldt Ridge, Arkas had stopped taking evidence at face value a long time ago. He had never seen Aqshy, the Realm of Fire, with his own eyes, but something rang true in the descriptions of those that had returned from the war there.
‘Move on,’ he said. ‘We need to be in position to attack mid-morning.’
They carried on in silence for some way, negotiating the rough terrain without complaint. Arkas’ thoughts were focussed on the battle that waited at the end of the punishing march. As with the entire endeavour in Ursungorod, his was the bolder, more dangerous mission. Guided by the memory of his vision from the Queen of the Peak, he would lead the Celestial Vindicators directly for the realmgate. It was imperative that the skaven were prevented from opening it.
While the Warbeasts lanced into the heart of the undercity, paying no heed to any foes save those directly in their path, the Silverhands would advance in a more systematic fashion. Their strength divided between attacking the Warbeasts and defending against Theuderis’ assault, the skaven would succeed at neither. It was a simple but effective stratagem, and victory was further assured by the unexpected route of the attack.
A long clarion call broke through Arkas’ thoughts. The Silverhands swiftly changed formation, forming defensive clusters where they were, as allowed by the intervening terrain. Attaxes, the Knight-Heraldor, sounded another signal and the white-and-blue Stormcasts adjusted their ranks, skilfully moving together to form even tighter knots of warriors.
Doridun sounded the alarm of the Warbeasts, setting them into motion a few heartbeats later. Diocletus and his Protectors formed the outer rank, their glaives projecting an impassable wall of blades and points. Around the Lord-Celestant, the axe-wielding Decimators led by Martox stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Arkas scanned his surrounds, searching for any threat, but all he could see was forbidding rock and fire.
Theuderis rode his dracoth towards the head of the column, evidently where the first alarm had been raised.
‘Make way!’ snapped Arkas, pushing through the Decimators to head after Theuderis. ‘Dolmetis, Doridun, with me! All others hold fast.’
They broke into a run, hurrying after the lord of the Silverhands. The Knights Excelsior were like statues, every warrior facing front with unwavering attention, the Primes at the centre of each retinue ready to respond. Not a single head turned as the Celestial Vindicators raced past.
Arkas caught up with Theuderis at the edge of a ravine some three hundred paces away. The Silverhand had dismounted and was peering over the edge, a cluster of Judicators around him pointing into the depths.
They turned at the scrape of Arkas’ boot on the rock, bows and crossbows raised. Seeing that it was the Warbeast who approached, the Knights Excelsior parted, moving along the lip of the chasm to give his party room.
‘What is it?’ Arkas stepped up beside Theuderis to look down into the ravine. The Silverhand did not need to reply.
At the bottom of the chasm a winding river of fire cut through the darkness. The smog was thick, carried on the gusty wind along the canyon. But it was not this that had unsettled the scouts. Cut neatly into the vertical wall of the chasm was a set of steps, starting somewhere off to the left and zigzagging down until they were swallowed by the fumes. At each turning was a short landing where the wall was marked by archways, although there were no visible breaks in the rock. In places there were bridges, narrow spans that curved across the chasm, their silhouettes fading into the smog.
‘Duardin ruins,’ said Dolmetis. ‘Why such alarums?’
‘Look again,’ said Theuderis. ‘Not ruins.’
Arkas examined the closest steps more carefully. The Silverhand was right, they showed little sign of wear. In fact, had they existed before the eruption of the volcanoes they surely would have been broken and scattered.
‘They were cut after I was born,’ said the Warbeast. He turned around, surveying the surface for any other sign of habitation. There was nothing, though the conditions cut visibility to a few dozen paces. The design of the solid archways was consistent with the duardin style. ‘Maybe the skaven had duardin slaves?’
‘What skaven could survive this heat?’ said Theuderis.
‘Perhaps they escaped by building this way out of the skaven tunnels,’ suggested Doridun. The others looked at him.
‘With dressed stone and perfectly built arches?’ said Dolmetis. ‘A very circumspect escape attempt.’
The Knight-Heraldor realised the ridiculousness of the statement and withdrew a few paces, embarrassed.
‘There was something else,’ said Trajos. The Judicator-Prime stepped into view. ‘Several reports of figures seen. In the fire, in the smoke.’
‘Watching?’ said Dolmetis. ‘That’s what I thought I saw.’
Trajos nodded.
‘I do not think they are related to the skaven,’ Theuderis concluded. ‘It is not in the ratkin’s nature to make such constructions and they cannot possibly make use of these steps themselves.’
‘Something else is here,’ said Arkas. ‘Something that arrived after the mountain broke.’
Theuderis nodded and stepped back from the precipice. ‘The question is whether they mean us harm, whether they are allies or enemies.’
‘Or neither,’ said Dolmetis. ‘If they have been watching us they have made no effort to make contact or attack.’
‘They are thinking the same about us,’ said Theuderis. ‘Gauging whether we are friend or foe, perhaps?’
‘If they wished us ill, they have had sufficient time to plan and execute and attack,’ said Trajos. ‘In fact, we are not far from the end of the fire-morass. Crags and canyons lie ahead, but no more lava or volcanoes.’
Arkas turned around, standing with his back to the chasm. He thought for an instant he saw a fleeting glimpse of something in the heat haze across a lava stream a few dozen paces away. A face, flat-nosed and broad, surrounded by hair and beard of fire. The figure had been squat and solid, like a duardin… but different.
‘They are watching us pass through their territory,’ he said to the others. Arkas raised his voice. ‘We are the Stormcasts of the God-King Sigmar. We seek only to bring justice to the minions of Chaos, we are foes only to the forces of destruction. We are passing through these lands, to wage war against the skaven. We have no intent to stay and mean no harm to any that struggle against the Dark Powers.’
It seemed as though he were talking to himself, the fiery spectre a hallucination of heat and the effort of the march.
‘Over there,’ whispered Trajos, nodding to the right.
A group of five duardin-like shapes stood silently amidst the fires of a lava flow, oblivious to the deadly temperature. They were all but naked, wreathed in the flames rather than clothes. The shimmer of the heat made it impossible to see where the fires stopped and the figures began. In their hands they held what looked like wands and staves, but on better inspection Arkas saw that they were the handles of axes with blades of fire.
One of the duardin-folk took a step closer, eyes like coals regarding the Stormcasts solemnly, moving along from one end of the line to the other. The figure nodded once, slowly, and raised a fire-axe towards the north-east.
Turning his head, Arkas saw the fires dimming, a path of blackness curving through the lava, flames, geysers and tar pits. He raised his hammer to return the salute, but the figures had already vanished.
‘What do you suppose they are?’ he asked Theuderis.
‘I do not know, but it is not the last we will see of them, I think,’ said the Silverhand. ‘We will be upon our enemies all the sooner with their aid. Attaxes, signal the advance.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The sun had not yet risen when the Stormcasts fell upon the outer strongholds of the skaven. Coming down the mountain from the Skagoldt Ridge, the warriors of Sigmar swept towards the surface ruins of the ancient city. Theuderis’ Angelos Conclave formed the spearhead, their attack concentrated to slash a path to the entrances of the underground lair. The Silverhands’ Paladin Conclave would follow, forcing a breach into the undercity through which Arkas and his Warbeasts would launch their assault.
The light of celestial beacons lit up the ruins as strands of lightning wreathed the heavens. Arkas had never ventured here in his mortal life and marvelled at the extent of Kurzengor. He had seen nothing of the spectacle in his vision. The mighty city he had defended on the day Sigmar had taken him for Reforging was but a bastion of a far mightier conurbation that had once stretched across the highlands of Ursungorod.
The concentric rings of the old city walls divided cramped streets and high towers, broken apart where those soaring edifices had collapsed to scatter immense stones, leaving foundations and lower storeys jutting like broken teeth above the skyline. Plazas opened up wider spaces where temples to forgotten gods and palaces of long-dead nobles looked upon cracked mosaics and stained tiles.
He could see where markets had once bustled, shop fronts and domiciles had been home to countless thousands of humans and duardin. Onion-domed cathedrals sat broken next to a dry riverbed crossed by stout duardin-built bridges. Centuries of subterranean perturbations had torn open large gouges in the city, exposing the duardin dwellings below. The azure celestial light was swallowed by huge shafts and sinkholes that split vast throne halls and treasure vaults.
Despite its state of ruin, the city was not empty. Wooden walkways and rope bridges criss-crossed the old streets from sagging rooftops and cracked chimneys. Ramshackle fences and walls had been erected to delineate the territories of vying warlords. Vast swathes had been levelled and replaced with corrals for monstrous beasts and Chaos-tainted steeds, while pits and scaffold-decked gorges pierced the underbelly of Kurzengor, countless slaves sleeping where they had laboured on the unforgiving planks and cable.
The ground beneath the city showed its tortured past. In several areas it rose up to high plateaus reached by rope ladders and clumsily constructed scaffolds. Neighbourhoods had been swallowed by churning tar pits that continued to bubble and gurgle. Parts of Kurzengor had been reclaimed by the landscape, tentacle vines swallowing whole districts, the remains of houses and workshops caught in the branches of gargantuan trees, granite and marble fingers pulling at stretches of curtain wall and watch towers.
The fires of the Skagoldt Ridge had also made intrusions. The craters of dead volcanoes and fissures bleeding lava marked the outer quarter closest to the Stormcast advance. Sinkholes opened into crystalline shafts that dropped into the depths, lined by seams of sapphires, emeralds and diamonds.
Entire tribes that Arkas had never seen or heard of occupied the vast city. As he looked down on the maze of roads and shattered buildings he wondered if any clan still resisted the skaven and the touch of Chaos. It was a short-lived hope. Immense sacrificial pyres and monstrous effigies to the Dark Powers dotted the cityscape, built from the ruins of churches and shrines dedicated to lesser, fallen gods.
