The manticore dreadhold, p.1
The Manticore Dreadhold, page 1
Contents
Cover
The Manticore Dreadhold – Matt Westbrook
About the Author
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
The Manticore Dreadhold
Matt Westbrook
They said goodbye to their dead upon the dawn. There was little ritual to speak of; a score of tribespeople slain in the raid were carried out of the town to a cluster of flat-topped rocks stained a vibrant green with moss and lichen. While several of the elders droned a deep, sonorous prayer, the bodies were laid gently upon the stone, hands crossed over their hearts and eyes open towards the sky.
As the funeral party made their way back to town, the carrion birds began to descend, in a flock thick enough to blot out the early morning sun. They whirled and circled, a murmuration of black and grey specks that was oddly beautiful despite its predatory intent.
‘There’s a savage sort of poetry to it,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon, glancing back. ‘Though I’m not sure I would choose to be devoured by crows upon my death.’
‘Death feeds life,’ said Alzheer, priestess of the Sky Seekers. She still wore her leather armour, and carried a curved blade at her hip. ‘We return our bodies to the sky, and begin the circle anew.’
‘I am sorry for your losses,’ said Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon.
‘They would be much greater if you had not been there to defend us,’ said Alzheer. ‘We will not forget this.’
‘I wish I could promise your people more than further battle and bloodshed,’ said Mykos. ‘I wish I could say that the armies of Azyr will pour into this realm and make it safe for humanity once more, let you hunt the plains and grow your crops in peace.’
He shook his head, and lifted his war helm. It was the first time he had done so in her presence. His skin was a rich, dark black, almost perfect in complexion, unmarked at all by the many battles he must have fought. He had a round, boyish face, topped with a strip of shaved hair that ran down the centre of his skull.
She looked upon him, and for a moment she was surprised that she pitied him. His fight would never end, she knew. There must be uncounted realms that were equally stricken as this one, endless, shattered remnants of humanity praying desperately for relief from the long darkness. Mykos and his warriors would likely never see their task completed. How could even warriors as brave, as skilled as this defy so great an evil as the shadow that lay across the world?
‘I can only promise that the Celestial Vindicators will make our enemies pay,’ he said, and there was a fire in his voice that she had not heard before. His stark brown eyes bored into her. ‘We will seek them wherever they hide, in their fortresses where they think themselves safe from justice. We will tear down their walls, and we will put them to the sword. They will die as their victims did, begging for a mercy I shall not grant them.’
As quickly as it had flared, his rage was gone. He blinked and swallowed, and looked almost surprised at his own vehemence. She smiled sadly, and traced her fingers across the lion carved upon his breastplate.
‘Your vengeance is Zi’Mar’s justice,’ she said. ‘But do not lose yourself in it, my friend. You are a good man, in a world where few exist. Do not let revenge define you.’
They did not spare much time for grief. Led by the warrior Rusik’s horsemen, the Celestial Vindicators made good time to the mouth of the Dragonmaw Canyons. It was easy to see how they had earned their name. Jutting out of the low range of mountains like a snapping jaw, the entrance was a jagged cluster of sharp stone that seemed almost impassable, a twisting spiral of serrated rock keen enough to draw blood. As the Stormcasts approached, a thunderous rumble shook the earth beneath their feet. It was a drawn-out, grating roar, the sound of a hundred fortress walls collapsing.
‘The earth here, it moves and shifts,’ said Rusik. ‘One moment the path through the mountain may be clear, the next it is a forest of razor-sharp stone.’
‘Then how in Sigmar’s name are we going to march several hundred plate-armoured warriors through it?’ snapped Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather.
‘We will pass through because I know this land well, and I know when it is about to betray me. Priestess, I will need your riders,’ Rusik said. ‘We will scout ahead on horseback, find a route through. Once we are sure, we will send back a rider to signal that things are safe and guide you in.’
‘You require every single rider?’ asked Lord-Celestant Argellon.
Rusik nodded. ‘These canyons are vast, and not friendly to trespassers. Many dangerous creatures hunt within.’
Alzheer’s force numbered around a hundred mortals, fifty or so on horseback and the rest lightly armoured skirmish troops carrying bows and simple hatchets. Rusik led another fifteen horse riders – dour, battle-scarred men who eyed the Stormcasts sullenly. Clearly their leader had not extolled the virtues of the Celestial Vindicators to them after his treatment at the hands of Thostos.
‘Be careful, priestess,’ said Mykos as Alzheer made her way over to Rusik’s band.
‘I am always careful, my friend,’ she replied. ‘And besides, I would not miss the chance to see you and your warriors in battle once again.’
As she and the rest of the riders filtered into the maze of jagged rocks, Mykos Argellon got the uneasy impression that those had been the last words he would ever hear her speak.
Diash felt the hard ground beneath him clatter his old bones with every step taken by the ancient, rheumy horse that carried him. Not for the first time he wondered why he had decided to join this damned fool expedition. He had never intended to. Then that foul-tempered troublemaker Rusik had opined loudly that it was good he was not coming, as coddling old, frail warriors past their prime would only slow them down. Well, he could hardly stay after that, could he?
They had been travelling for almost an hour now, and the sunlight of the plain had given way to a gloomy darkness as the canyon walls loomed overhead, knotted together far above with a canopy of twisting vines. As they rounded a sharp turn, dust fell from the canyon wall, and another loud groan echoed around them.
This was a cursed place, as the tales said.
‘Stay close,’ growled Rusik, at the head of the line. ‘Another five hundred yards and we will send back a rider to the sky warriors.’
As he spoke his men, identifiable by those ragged, crow-skin cloaks, dropped back to the flanks. Their hands rested on their curved sabres, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. Diash frowned. A lot of good that would be in such tight quarters. It would take a single rockfall or a few good bowmen to end this little expedition in short order.
‘I do not like this place,’ said Emni, riding at his side. ‘It has an ill feeling.’
They emerged from the tight canyon into a small, oval clearing, mottled with fallen sunlight. Vines wrapped around the edges of the space, pouring forth from the pockmarked and crumbling walls. Here the canyon forked left and right, and Rusik’s men spread out to guard each exit.
‘We are stopping here?’ asked Alzheer. ‘We should send back a messenger to inform the Stormcasts that it is safe to progress.’
A blood-curdling roar split the air, echoing loud enough that Diash cursed and covered his ears. Then, the sound of dozens of iron boots rattling on stone.
‘Orruks!’ shouted Alzheer, drawing her sword.
‘No,’ said Rusik softly. His own blade was in his hand. He sliced it into the neck of Alzheer’s horse, and the animal gave a horrifying shriek, rearing and kicking out as arterial blood fountained into the air. Alzheer gasped and toppled from her mount, and the beast collapsed on top of her, writhing and whinnying.
‘We are betrayed,’ shouted Diash, scrabbling for his own blade.
‘To the priestess!’ shouted Emni, but it was already too late.
Ragged, filthy warriors came towards the Sky Seekers from all sides, hurtling from hidden gaps in the canyon wall, brandishing cleavers and wicked, serrated blades. They leapt at the surprised riders, slashing, hacking and dragging them from their mounts.
Emni was already in motion. She hefted her spear, aimed and hurled it in one fluid motion. It sailed through the air, hitting one of the reavers in the gut and dropping him screaming to the floor.
‘Come on, old man!’ she shouted, drawing her sword and gripping the reins of her horse as it reared in panic. ‘We must break through.’
Diash was still fumbling with his blade, which he had tangled awkwardly in his reins. He got it loose, and slashed at a warrior who was charging at him with blood-flecked saliva dropping from his screaming mouth. The blade sliced flesh and scraped across teeth, and the weight of the blow flipped the attacker to the ground like a ragdoll.
‘Run, Diash,’ screamed Emni, and through a blur of sweat and blood he saw her fall, unhorsed by a wicked, hooked glaive. ‘Warn them!’
Someone struck her in the face, and she spat blood before she struck back. Her assailant howled, and as he spun around Diash could see the knife Emni had left in his eye.
‘Run, you old bas–’ she yelled, and her voice was cut off as someone struck her with an axe haft from behind.
Grinning, gore-streaked faces turned to him, and fear cut through the haze of pain and confusion. He wheeled his horse around, saw a spear arc through the air and miss his head by only a hair’s width. He kicked the beast into motion, making for the path t
Something punched him hard in the chest, and Diash reeled, almost toppling out of the saddle. Gods, but it hurt. Whatever was attacking him struck his leg, in the meat of his calf, and scratched at his cheek. His vision blurred, and he hacked and coughed blood. Desperately, drunkenly, he kicked his horse forwards, leaning down low as the creature built up speed and barrelled through a cluster of painted warriors wielding barbed axes.
He was dimly aware of a jolt in his gut as his mount leapt over another obstacle, and the clattering of spears as more of the enemy sought to strike him from his saddle. Then the horse was running free, every single step taking him closer to the Stormcasts and hammering a nail deeper into his chest.
‘Lord-Celestant Thostos,’ came the cry from one of Goldfeather’s Prosecutors. ‘A rider.’
A pale horse broke free from the teeth of the cavern at a gallop, carrying a solitary figure upon its back. The rider was slumped low in the saddle, and as the beast drew closer Eldroc could see arrows protruding from his chest. Within his bloody, matted hair could be seen streaks of silver-grey. It was the old warrior, Diash.
The Lord-Castellant rushed forwards, placing himself before the terrified horse, which was frothing at the mouth with pain and fear. It came to a stop, and made to rear back, but Eldroc grasped its reins and placed a calming hand upon its panting chest.
‘Easy, my lad,’ he whispered, ‘easy there. Your task here is done. Be at rest.’
The creature whinnied and shook, but allowed him to gently lift Diash free and lay him on the floor. He was in a bad shape. Two arrows had struck him, one in the shoulder, just under the collarbone, and another between his ribs.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ said Eldroc. ‘Removing the arrowheads may kill him.’
‘Let me see,’ said Yereth, the leader of the tribal infantry that had remained behind with the Stormcasts. He was a squat, bullish man of middle years, with a shaved head covered in intricate tattoos. He knelt down beside Diash, and studied the wounds, then reached for a pouch at his belt.
‘You can help him?’ asked Mykos.
‘I can clean the flesh and numb the pain, but these are deep wounds,’ Yereth said. ‘He will likely not survive.’
Diash’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped and choked for air.
‘Easy, old man,’ said Yereth. He dipped his fingers into the leather pouch, and when he withdrew them they were covered in a thick, green paste. He began to apply the ointment to the arrow wounds on Diash’s chest.
‘They… they,’ gasped Diash. He coughed blood.
‘Do not speak, friend,’ said Eldroc. ‘Rest now.’
The old man shook his head furiously, and looked fiercely at the Lord-Castellant, reaching out to grasp the warrior’s arm in one trembling hand.
‘We were… betrayed,’ he whispered. ‘Rusik.’
‘The others,’ asked Mykos, ‘where are they?’
But the old man’s eyes had lost focus, and his hand fell limply to the ground. Yereth shook his head and cursed.
‘Bury your dead,’ said Thostos, ‘and return home.’
Yereth opened his mouth to protest, but the Lord-Celestant ignored him and turned to Mykos.
‘We must make haste,’ he said.
Unheeding of their own safety, the Stormcasts hurled themselves into the depths of the pass. Each dark corner of the path promised an ambush that did not come. There was little time for an ordered, safe advance. Instead they marched apace, in loose formation, shields raised, while Prosecutors swooped overhead with celestial hammers and javelins raised and ready.
After some time they emerged into an oval clearing, where dead mounts and shattered weapons covered the floor. Blood was spattered liberally across every surface, though only a few bodies littered the ground.
‘Reavers,’ spat Axilon, turning one of the corpses over with his boot. ‘Flesh-hungry savages. Chaos filth.’
‘No tribal corpses,’ said Goldfeather, scanning the scene. ‘This was a swift and well-planned ambush. They intended to capture, not slay.’
‘Food for their vile feasts,’ spat Axilon. ‘No loyal mortal deserves such a fate. We must pursue this raiding party and crush them beneath our boots.’
The Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden knelt, examining one of the dead horses. It had been run through with a barbed spear, and hacked apart with axes. Pointless barbarism of the sort that the enemy hordes delighted in.
‘There were fifty warriors here,’ he said. ‘Blood-crazed reavers would have not the wit or self-control to capture every one of them. So why are there no mutilated remains?’
‘Perhaps they desired prisoners?’ asked Mykos.
‘Then why not just take a few, and kill the rest?’ said Thostos. ‘No, this has the stench of something darker about it.’
There was a silence. Each Celestial Vindicator was imagining in horrifying detail why a servant of Chaos might require a few dozen living prisoners.
‘We march,’ said Thostos at last. ‘These are no aelves – they will not pass without leaving a trace. We follow them, at pace, and when we find them we kill them.’
‘And if they make it back to their cursed fortress before we catch up with them?’ asked Mykos.
‘Then we attack. With full force, and no quarter,’ said Thostos, raising his voice so that every Stormcast in the clearing could hear him. ‘Let the might of our Warrior Chambers be unleashed. Let the enemy see what doom awaits them. No more waiting. We tear that place down, and we put every single one of its cursed defenders to the sword.’
Both the Argellonites and the Bladestorm had brought the greater number of their Warrior Chambers into the Roaring Plains, some five hundred warriors in total. A fighting force strong enough to tear down all but the most redoubtable bastions of the enemy. The Stormcasts roared, and songs of vengeance and of the glory of Sigmar shook the walls of the Dragonmaw Canyons. Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon nodded.
‘For once we agree, Lord Thostos,’ he said. ‘No waiting to discover what fell purpose the enemy intends to use those captured warriors for. We fall upon them in full force.’
The Manticore Dreadhold was a cancer nested in the midst of the mountains, a brutal, imposing wedge of iron that comprised three grand towers and a semi-circular perimeter wall. As the Stormcasts broke out through the canyon and into the valley that housed the fortress, each of them felt the oily, nauseous touch of fell magic. The grand statue of the hated Everchosen, Archaon, loomed over them, cut into the heart of the mountain itself, casting a great shadow across the valley floor. Thostos felt the pitiless eyes of the monument bore into his own.
Build your self-aggrandising statues, Chaos filth, he thought. Watch as we hunt them down and shatter them beneath the lightning storm of Sigmar.
‘They are at the gate,’ shouted Goldfeather, high in the sky above the Vindicators’ position, accompanied by his Prosecutor retinue. ‘They have the prisoners!’
‘Then we are not yet too late,’ said Mykos. His grandblade Mercutia was already in hand, and Thostos could feel the man’s eagerness for battle. It very nearly rivalled his own.
‘We promised them hope, brother,’ Mykos continued, ‘and we let them all be taken. We failed them. I cannot accept that. I will not.’
‘We will rescue those we can,’ said Thostos. ‘But remember our mission, Lord Argellon. You know the consequences if we fail to secure that Realmgate.’
‘Prisoners, Lord Varash,’ boasted the leader of the Bloodreavers, a balding, anvil-jawed creature with putrid, yellowed teeth. ‘Meat for the fire!’
Varash backhanded the wretch as he passed, sending him flying into his fellows, unconscious and drooling blood.
‘There will be time enough to fill your bellies later,’ he bellowed. ‘These ones are for the ritual tables. Slaadh?’
The Slaughterpriest loped over, his perpetual, razor-toothed grin etched across his face.
‘You see a man here touch one of these slaves without my permission, you give him a meal. Feed him his own lungs, and make sure he’s still alive so he can savour the taste.’
