Warbeast, p.3
Warbeast, page 3
No more than half a mile from the realmgate stood a citadel raised from the dark rock itself, not a single seam or join on its forbidding surface. The blazon of Sigmar flew from a dozen poles along the walls. It was not large – barely the size of a tower of Castle Lyonaster of old – but it was far more potent than size alone would suggest. At the approach of the Knights Excelsior Strike Chamber, a horn sounded three notes from the castle and bronze gates opened to release a column of figures in white plate.
Theuderis urged Tyrathrax on and the dracoth broke into a run, claws striking sparks from the exposed rock, heading towards Lord-Castellant Neros Stormfather, who led the garrison force. Coming closer, the Lord-Celestant saw damage on the armour of the other Stormcast Eternals. He brandished his blade in salute to the efforts of Sigmar’s warriors.
‘Well met, Lord Stormfather,’ he called out when Tyrathrax came to a halt beside the Lord-Castellant. ‘I see that you have been kept in useful engagement.’
‘We have that, Lord Silverhand,’ said Neros, clasping his halberd to his chest in a gesture of respect. ‘But not for seven days have the degenerates attempted to regain the gate. I do believe they might have learnt the lesson taught by our weapons.’
‘Or they bide their time awaiting a moment of laxity,’ warned Theuderis.
‘They shall wait in vain. The Silverhands are always vigilant.’ Neros looked past Theuderis, to where the host was wheeling en masse, heading towards the hills above which the crimson glow of sunrise was creeping. ‘I judge from the direction of the march that the Capricious Wilds are not the final objective.’
‘No.’ Theuderis followed his gaze. ‘Securing this realmgate was only the first stage, Neros. I march for the lands of Ursungorod.’
‘The Mountains of the Bears – I have heard of them. Home to vile Chaos filth and skaven, and where the lands themselves rebel against the touch of the Dark Powers. No easy task.’
‘Sigmar did not elevate us to undertake easy tasks, Neros.’
‘He did not, but enough grains of sand can bury even the greatest monument. Another realmgate? It always is.’
‘Of course,’ Theuderis answered with a nod. ‘An important one. Buried beneath a mountain, no less, and surrounded by skaven. When we take the Ursungorod realmgate it will bring us to the Vaults of the Spring Moon, within striking distance of the Lifegate. Others are moving into position for the other great realmgates that lead to the Allpoints. We are the fist of Sigmar God-King, tightening around cursed Archaon. So our immortal lord demands.’
‘Blood-hungry hordes above, vile ratmen below. I hope your sword-arm is fresh, my lord. That is a long wound to cleave.’
‘We are not alone in the endeavour.’ Theuderis leaned forwards and dropped his voice. ‘The first piercing blow has already been made. The Warbeasts have been cast directly into central Ursungorod as a breaching force. They will draw the enemy to them for a time and allow us to cross into the mountains without hindrance.’
‘The Warbeasts? Lord Arkas? I have heard of them.’ Neros looked away, letting his halberds swing down to his side. ‘You best hurry.’
‘You think they will be overrun before we reach them?’ Theuderis was surprised that the Lord-Castellant showed such little faith in his fellow Stormcasts.
‘I think they will have torn a bloody path to the realmgate before you can catch up!’
Theuderis sheathed his sword and shook his head. He lifted a hand in farewell to Neros and turned Tyrathrax back towards his army. He signalled for his Knight-Vexillor, Voltaran, who broke from the other members of the command echelon, carrying the lightning strike icon of the chamber. While he waited, Theuderis eyed the mountains that lined the far horizon, stretching like a jagged barrier. Lit by the new dawn, a wall of cloud obscured the mountain peaks, roiling with a life of their own.
‘We must be prepared,’ he said to Tyrathrax. ‘And focussed. Nothing shall stop us seizing the realmgate. Nothing.’
Voltaran fell in beside his Lord-Celestant.
‘A change of orders, Voltaran.’ Theuderis looked again at the distant mountains. ‘Double-pace. I want to reach Ursungorod by dawn.’
‘As you command, Lord Silverhand.’
By the time the sky was bronzed by the approaching dusk, not a single alter-warrior was left alive in the Glittering Breaches.
Ten times a thousand glowing torches lined the road back to Castle Lyonaster. A thousand banners from a hundred lands and more were lit by their pale light, each borne by a champion of the realm. Behind the colour bearers, the regiments of the Reforged Kingdoms stood in solid ranks, weapons lifted in salute to their lord.
Demigonnes and other great machines of war stood sentinel between the companies of cavalry and infantry, the weaponcasters and forge wizards who created them standing proudly with the crews. Overhead, flights of pteragryphs and hippadons seeded the skies with explosions and ribbons of colour from censers and maces empowered by the light of Chamon.
Theuderic dismounted before the gate of Castle Lyonaster, having ridden the length of the triumph to acknowledge his followers. Once it had been a simple keep and curtain wall, erected by Theuderic’s ancestors to hold against the hordes of the alter-folk. Like other castles across the Glittering Breaches, it had become a focal point of the resistance against the demented armies from the Iron Wastes. Generation after generation, supplied by springs and mines, walled orchards and fields, Lyonaster weathered every assault and siege laid upon it by the likes of Turkhar Nex’s draconic hosts, the Silvered Horde and the half-dead shambling legions of Ghorgorondoth the Tumourfiend.
To call it a gate was not wholly accurate. It was nothing less than an outer citadel, made of five towers in pentagon formation, each capable of housing a company of five hundred soldiers. Passing into the central courtyard, Theuderic crossed the gilded sigil carved into the flagstones, so large it took him five paces to cross it. He felt the shimmer of Chamonic energy flicker through his armour as he passed into the Auric Shield, the true strength of Castle Lyonaster.
Seven forefathers, seven Dukes of the Breaches, had held court here, but for Theuderic it had not been enough. He had seen the toll it had taken on friends and family, a lifetime lived close to walls, ever fearfully watching the horizon. Children grew up with a haunted look and parents quelled any adventurous spirit and curiosity with grim tales of the savages and nightmare armies that lay just a few days’ march away.
On ascending to the Marble Throne, Theuderic had declared it not enough to hold their lands against invasion. Lyonaster had to expand if it was going to thrive. The first marcher forts had been built the following year. Neighbouring dukes sent emissaries, complaining of encroachment into their lands – lands that were for the most part overrun with rogues, monsters and wild thaumic automatons from the Great Unleashing, but their lands all the same. Rather than argue with these messengers, Theuderic sent them back to their masters and mistresses with gifts of metal from the mines, of plans and engineering secrets that had been kept in the vaults of Lyonaster since its first founding. Artificers and auromancers were escorted at great expense to the other keeps, to advise on how to improve their defences, taking with them designs for demigonnes and enchantments for flameswords and other wonders.
The others started to call Theuderic ‘Forge-lord’, delighting in the double-meaning of the title. When the terrible wrath-drake Ankalaonos descended upon the realm of Princess Swanachild, Theuderic himself rode out with his knights and jezzailers to bring down the bronze-scaled beast. By example he led the other rulers, always ready to defend their lands, never requiring any oath in return but receiving promises of fealty nevertheless.
Lyonaster grew along with the dominions of its lord, and its population swelled along with its defences, to the point that it now rivalled the old cities of Tyren and Colbertine, before they had been swallowed by the expansion of the Iron Wastes.
Theuderic reached a flight of steps and ascended them two at a time. Gaining the rampart, his arch-warden Carloman awaited him. Decked in robes of red threaded with gold, platinum and steel, the auromancer shimmered as he bowed, his steel skullcap reflecting the ruddy twilight. Straightening, Carloman smiled, his expression twisting the burns and scars of many an alchemical mishap.
‘Magnificent, my king, simply magnificent,’ said Carloman. His voice was a staccato whisper, which some took for constant agitation but was actually the result of damage to his vocal cords from inhaling the wrong sort of fumes during an experiment. ‘A wondrous day to live for.’
‘And credit all to you and your brethren, Carloman. If not for your skills, the strength of Lyonaster would have been outmatched by the fury and number of our enemies.’
A walkway of shining steel marked with many runes linked the towers, cunningly wrought so that its outer fence created an overhang from which jezzailers could pour bullets down onto a foe through murder holes. The metal rang to the tread of the king, almost drowning out Carloman’s next words.
‘A weapon needs be wielded, my king,’ he said humbly, bowing once more and allowing his liege to move on alone to greet the next group.
Standing back from the battlement, his wife Ermenberga and their two daughters waited with broad smiles. Theuderic kissed Ermenberga on the cheek and knelt to carefully embrace his children, wary of the unyielding nature of the plate that covered almost every part of him. He stood, laying a hand on the head of each child.
‘It is done!’ declared his wife, her smile bright in the gleam of his magic armour. ‘The war is over!’
‘Is it true, papa?’ asked the youngest, Peneranda.
‘The alter-folk have been slain,’ he told them, the words bringing home the scale of the victory he had won. He stroked the child’s cheek. ‘I started this campaign before you were born, little one, but now the lands are free of their taint.’
‘Does that mean we’ll have more time to play?’ said Clothild, older by three years.
‘We will,’ he assured her, standing up. ‘Though ruling the Glittering Breaches will not be without its tasks. Now that the foe has been driven out, I must work to keep the unity of the Reforged Kingdoms. But if the serpents of the Iron Wastes cannot keep me from my daughters, the arguments of princes shall not either.’
He heard chanting – his name – and Ermenberga waved him towards the parapet.
‘Your subjects await you,’ she said, eyes moist with joy. She patted her stomach meaningfully, ‘and soon you will have other news to brighten their spirits further. I think it is a boy…’
Theuderic was struck dumb, his thoughts whirling. He pulled himself up onto the rampart edge. His army, led by princes and dukes and war leaders of many other castles and citadels, erupted into even greater noise, such that Theuderic almost didn’t hear the rumbling of thunder above.
He looked up and saw that the darkening sky was filling with ominous clouds. Fearing some last treachery of the alter-folk, Theuderic glanced back at his family.
With his name still ringing in his ears, and the loving expressions of his wife and children etched into his mind, Theuderic juddered as a bolt scythed through his body without warning.
In a moment, all that he knew, the wide plains and jagged hills of the Glittering Breaches, dropped beneath him. The great keeps and fortresses of his lands became specks of gold and silver before they too were lost, and in a moment the blur of the Auric Shield of Lyonaster disappeared from view.
He thought for a moment that he had been swallowed by a star, suffused with light and heat.
And then he was no more.
Watching his adjutant turn away, Theuderis considered his command. Every warrior had been selected by Sigmar himself, chosen from across the Mortal Realms to be the best fighters in history. His own feats had marked him out for leadership, but each and every Stormcast Eternal had a similar story of heroism and defiance to tell. There was not one amongst them that would take a step back in the face of the enemy, or flinch from the battle ahead. These were concerns for leaders of mortal soldiers.
Yet for all that, the Strike Chamber of the Silverhands was untested in war. The training fields of Sigmaron and the orchestrated battles of the Gladitorium were tests, nothing more. Theuderis did not fear death, for he would be remade if he fell, just as would all who followed him. There was a price for immortality, he had heard, but the greater loss would be the pang of failure. Though Neros Stormfather’s comment had been light-hearted, it had cast a doubt in Theuderis’ thoughts – the Silverhands were ready to be tempered in battle, but what of the Warbeast and his warriors? More than skill, bravery and fury were required to overcome the foes ahead.
In his former life, Theuderis had never known defeat. The Silverhand was not about to commence his eternal service to Sigmar with anything less than total victory.
Chapter Four
Much had changed, though much had stayed the same. Arkas found the spot where he had been standing when Sigmar had ascended him to the Celestial Realm. Not only was he able to pick the place from the general layout of the collapsed fortifications, he could feel an imprint on the world from where he had been plucked for a new existence. The bolt of Sigmar that had taken him, the same cosmic energy that had deposited him earlier that day, left an indelible mark in the fabric of Ursungorod.
‘How long?’ he whispered as he looked at the tumbled ruin of what had once been Kurzengor.
‘Did you say something, Lord Arkas?’ asked Dolmetis, a few paces behind his lord.
‘When I last stood upon these stones they were mounted on each other as a great gatehouse,’ he told his companion. ‘I suppose they were knocked down by the sorceries of the foes that came that day, but it is the passage of time that has buried them. How long would you say, Dolmetis, would it take for the land to claim back its own?’
‘Centuries, Lord Arkas, as judged in the Realm of Heavens. Perhaps half a dozen or more.’ He stepped closer. ‘It is only a mortal measure, my lord. The past is of no consequence, only the future holds the hope of change. Many of the God-King’s host were taken from their realms in even more distant times.’
‘A good point, Dolmetis.’ He stamped a booted foot on the hard block beneath him. Blue sparks flew. ‘These walls were old even when I held them, set down in a time long past, along with the rest of the city below Ursungorod.’
‘The Shadowgulf?’
‘The lowest parts are called that. We thought they were the tomb of those that hollowed Ursungorod. I know better now. Gnaw-burrows of the skaven, bleeding the realms together, spreading canker into the depths of this place and the neighbouring regions.’
‘That is where we are heading?’
‘In time. We do not simply thrust our hands into the vermin nest. The clans of the Ursungorod I knew are no more – the hand of Chaos stretched far across these lands and despoiled the souls of its people. We will purge this taint and secure our route to the realmgate. Theuderis the Silverhand marches from the dusk to rendezvous for our attack and we shall crush the followers of Chaos between us like a fist closing. The battle will wet our blades and whet our wrath for the true war below.’
Doridun had been close at hand too and now stepped forward. His clarion was slung across his back and he held a blade slicked with blood.
‘And where will we find these enemies, lord?’ He sounded eager.
‘Everywhere,’ Arkas replied with a chuckle. He turned and pointed up the mountainside, to where the slopes disappeared into dark clouds. ‘But there is somewhere else we must go first.’
The Lord-Celestant raised his hammer thrice and from the gloomy skies a spark of light dropped in response, quickly resolving into the shape of Hastor, his Knight-Venator. On blazing sapphire wings he descended, the long curve of his realmhunter’s bow in hand. He landed as softly as a feather and held out his free arm. A blur of colour streaked across the pale mountainside and a few moments later Hastor’s star-eagle settled on his wrist, resplendent with yellow and red plumage.
‘Hastor, take the Prosecutors and scout me a route to the summit. You will find an old outpost there, I hope, of duardin style. Do not enter, simply return to me with the news if it still stands.’
‘There are duardin in Ursungorod, my lord?’ Dolmetis looked up the slope as if he might see one of Grungni’s stocky descendants. ‘I did not know.’
‘No cause for excitement, they were driven out by the skaven before I was born. Another… person makes her lair in their old workings though, and she will have invaluable intelligence about the Pestilens and the corrupted tribes.’ He looked at Hastor. ‘On no account are you to enter the tower. The Queen of the Peak may be a useful ally, but she will certainly be a foe if you come upon her unannounced.’
‘How are we to announce our presence, my lord?’ asked Hastor.
‘Leave that to me. Though I am reforged, I still have a few tricks from the old times.’
Hastor nodded and tossed his star-eagle into the air, leaping effortlessly after it a moment later. His shrill cry cut across the wind and the Knight-Venator’s twenty Prosecutors rose up to meet him, the pale spines of their Azyr-crafted wings shimmering.
‘Dolmetis, you will remain here with a small rearguard. Take Martox and his Decimators, and half the Retributors. Doridun, call the rest of the chamber to column. We have a long climb ahead of us.’
Chapter Five
The march across the foothills passed without incident. The peaks rose abruptly ahead of Theuderis’ army, delineating the boundary between the Capricious Wilds and Ursungorod. As the Lord-Celestant had commanded, the host had started ascending the lower slopes before the light of the rising sun fell upon their backs. They advanced without pause, covering the ground with giant strides, as relentless as the pistons of a duardin engine.
