LordofUzkulak’s fanfics

Attenotes pulled up his collar and pulled out his cheeks to ward off the cold.  He hated it on this ice ball and the honour of serving the Sky Faeroes was starting to wear off.  This wasn’t war, at least not like he’d been trained for or as the poets sang.  At least so far nothing of worth had been spent he reflected looking on the cavorting horde of tzaangors with a scowl.

“Disgusting aren’t they,” sneered Rhamoses, his attendant.

“They’re only good for dying, subhuman scum,” agreed Attenotes, glancing at Rhamoses out of the corner of his eye.  The lion faced mutant made his skin crawl, but at least he and the other beastman conscripts in the armies of Xandria were civilised, unlike the blue, half naked savages massing for the next charge.  Attenotes turned his attention from them to the fortress beyond the blood-drenched snow drifts.

The ugly slab of buttresses reared out of the ice, half buried in a rocky bluff that sat at the foot of a mountain.  It had not been built, at least not as a fortress.  Long ago in some forgotten battle above this nameless world it had been part of a frigate of the Imperial Navy, sheered off when the ship had been destroyed.  The quarter mile long fragment had hung in orbit for nearly a century before gravity took its toll and it had come crashing down through the atmosphere crashing into the bluff and compacting multiple decks under the sheer forces involved.

“Still,” puffed Attenotes, “I don’t see why the fleet couldn’t have levelled this place from orbit and wiped the Imperials out like the dogs they are.”

“The Sky Faeroes move in mysterious ways,” shrugged Rhamoses “Their plans are beyond our ken.”  The two of them turned, looking up the slopes to the pavilions of the Faeroes where armour-clad sky warriors stood sentinel, resplendent in their high war crowns.  Attenotes’ breath caught in his throat as he saw at the entrance to the main pavilion stood the First Faeroe.  Quickly his eyes snapped back to the tzaangors, feeling unworthy of the honour of looking upon a sorcerer-king of Xandria.

*************************************

High up on the raise, Heron Ahmose, First Faeroe of Xandria observed the battlefield, neither noticing nor caring about Attenotes’ action.  He surveyed the whole field, his lip curling at the sight of the tzaangors too.  He too despised them and saw them as filth, but unlike Attenotes he was privilege to the part they played.  His eyes traced the blood stains on the snow, noting the lines they formed and he allowed himself a small smile.  Turning his heel he ducked into the pavilion and took his throne at the hololith table.

“Is the circle complete?” asked Galen Nehebkau from across the table, studying the flickering holographic battlefield it displayed.

“Almost,” replied Heron, giving the machine a whack to clear the static from its display.  He gestured and glowing runes advanced towards the fortress “One more wave of our brother’s tzaangor and it will be complete.  The fortress flashed, simulating the weapons fire of the defenders and the runes for the tzaangors flickered and died.  Instantly blazing patterns flared into life, more complex and arcane than the simple battle display.

“How soon?” asked Galen clinically, caring less for the beastmen’s fate than even Attenotes.

“So impatient,” chuckled Haarexereces swanning into the pavilion.  The two sorcerer glared at their brother disapprovingly.  If the avian-masked sorcerer noticed or cared he didn’t show it. “I will order the advance in due time, when everything is in alignment.”

“And why are things not ‘in alignment’ yet?” growled Laertiades from the back of the pavilion “I thought your damn ritual was on a schedule.”

The sorcerer chuckled again.  “This ritual is an art, not a science cousin.”  His eyes flashed with mirth as Laertiades bristled at  the word.  “It is not yet time.  My Tower is yet to be in position.  I’d gladly explain the intricacies to you if you wish.”

“I’d love to hear your lecture,” snorted the Iron Warrior, “but it’s over time I checked the siege lines.”  The terminator clamped his helm into place and shouldered his way from the tent as Haarexereces cackled and took his seat.

“Must you bait him?” asked Heron flatly.

“But it’s so fun,” laughed Haarexereces.

Heron shook his head and studied the battlemap.  “He has a point though.  Timing is crucial if our father’s plan is to succeed.  Your Tower should have been in position long before now.  If it does not cross the pass by eveningfall the whole ritual will unravel.”

“My thralls have everything in had.  It will arrive in time, you just attend to your numbers and equations.”  He cocked his head “Shh, do you hear that?  The song is nearly complete, how beautiful it is.”  The other two opened themselves to the Great Ocean, drinking in the ritual resonating across the Warp.  To each it was different; Haarexereces heard it as an opera, to Galen it was a living, breathing entity and to Heron it was a complex mechanism of interlocking gears ticking in perfect synchronicity but all could tell things were drawing to a climax.

“Sound the advance,” whispered Heron, opening his eyes “There is no going back now.”

**************************************

Grothnar Ashmaw gripped the fortress’s buttress, gritting his teeth.

“Here they come again,” he growled, watching the advance of the mutant horde “Don’t they know by now it’s useless?”  He spat a wad of phlegm over the frost-rimmed battlements.  “And again with the mutants?  Cowards!  Why don’t you come yourselves Witchspawn!”

Hrald Wyrdtouched pitched the bridge of his nose and shrugged.  “It’s probably some part of some convoluted plan; the Witches have ever been the schemers.”

“If only we could draw them out,” snapped Grothnar, punching the buttress, “I still don’t see why we can’t use this wreck’s point defences to flatten their camp.”

“As I have enumerated multiple times,” interjected the red robes techpriest from nearby “1) This vessel was designed to operate in space, 2) while space is indeed cold, it is also a superb insulator and 3) when operational this vessel would have generated immense levels of heat which when combined with the aforementioned insulation properties of a vacuum would have prevented the weapons from freezing up.”  Grothnar looked down at the mortal and snorted derisively, not caring for his prattle.  While he respected the Midgardian Warriors of the Astra Millitarum that were holed up in the fortress with his squad, he held no such regard to the Martian Priesthood assigned to their regiment.

Hrald groaned, holding his head and Grothnar gave him a look that mixed irritation, disgust and awe.  As a Blood Claw the Wyrdtouched had been considered by the Rune Priests for elevation to one of their number, but had been dismissed for such honour for while he had a connection to the spirits, it was meagre and not strong enough to be one of that vaulted brotherhood.  That connection had led him to be morose and prone to visions, but also gave those around him a sense on unease and even years of serving together had done nothing to lessen that felling for Grothnar.

“What now?” snapped Grothnar “Do you taste some foul sorcery afoot?”

“Command the Midgardians to hold fire,” gasped Hrald “Those mutants cannot be killed.”

“Why brother?”

“I don’t know…the spirits of this world are unquiet…their screams are deafening but I get the sense the witches want us to slay those things.”

Grothnar frowned, loath to let the mutants live, but Hrald’s sixth sense had proven valuable over the year.  Muttering a Fenrisian curse, he activated his armour’s vox and gave the command.  Narrowing his eyes he watched the cavorting horse approach.  “You better be right,” he hissed as the front of the horde crossed the red smear marking where previous assaults had been felled.  His eyes flicked up the hill to the command pavilions where the cabal of Sorcerers stood watching too.  From what he could tell of their body languages from this distance they seemed somewhat agitated.  Maybe Hrald was correct.

The thought hadn’t even finished crossing his mind when the artillery opened fire.  The basilisk tanks entrenched on the hill thundered, launching their explosive shells in high arcs that terminated in the midst of the onrushing horde.  The two Space Wolves stood mouths agape at the perfidy.  In silence they watched as the surviving beastman started to scatter and were cut down by stubber and autocannon fire.

As the last died there was a peel of thunder and the sky went dark.

***************************************

On the hill by the pavilions, the three exalted sorcerers bowed their heads, sending psychic pulses to their awaiting Silver Towers.  Constructs just as immaterial as they were physical, the Towers drifted over the mountains from the valleys they had been hidden in, cresting the peaks gracefully.  Still they moved slowly and it would be some time before they were in position.  Without saying a word, for such communication was unnecessary as all three knew their part, the three separated and took their positions flanked by their Rubricae bodyguards.

Heron clutched his force axe, an immense two-handed khopesh of his own crafting, and studied the battlefield.  While the ritual required yet more blood to be spilled, he saw no reason to needlessly shed the blood of his own followers when there was plenty in the fortress.  With a signal, the entrenched artillery turned their weapons to cracking the defences rigged by the Midgardians.  While the artillery had no hope of cracking the hull, it would be sufficient to force the defenders to keep their heads down and would flatten the barricades and gun nests they’d erected on it.

With a smirk he strode over to where robed priests tended to a maniple of robots.

+Is it time?+ rumbled a voice in his head.

+That it is brother,+ he replied turning to look up at the frost-rimmed dreadnought.

+Good,+ Utu stood with a groan of gears, flexing his mighty hands. +The cold was starting to make my rotator cup seize.+

+Remember not to let your hatred for the Sons of Russ cloud your judgement.  You must be back here before completion.+

The ancient contemptor looked down at him and twitched its head in acknowledgement.  Hefting his mighty force blade, Utu sent a psychic pulse, spurring the maniple into motion and the calstellax automata lumbered after him.

That duty seen to, Heron headed back to his tent to prepare for the next part of the plan.  Though this world was a forgotten backwater, the Midgardians had managed to get an astrotelepathic distress call out before the Thousand Sons own astropaths had managed to cloud the empyrean around the system and three days ago a small flotilla had arrived in system.  On Heron’s orders, his own fleet had taken position in the shadow of the moon, hidden from the Imperials’ sensors.  Within a few hours the flotilla would reach high orbit and would begin launching drop ships to relieve the beleaguered defenders.  They could not be allowed to land and Heron had the perfect plan to deal with them, but it was crucial that he began his preparations shortly.

***************************************

Attenotes raised the whistle to his lips and blew.  All along the lines horns and whistles blew as the Xandrian troops were called to order as the command to attack came down.  He glanced up the hill to where the Sky-Warriors were being decked with their war crowns and anointed with sacred oils by their privileged attendants as his unit formed up .  The sight made him swell with pride that he would have the honour of going into battle beside them.  With a smile he took his place and waited.

Silence descended and then a single horn blared, echoing across the valley and as one the army advanced.  Attenotes strode forwards, resisting the urge to rush forwards; it would be unbecoming an officer of the Xadrian Spireguard to rush forward like some common mutant or tzaangor.  Behind him was the crunch of his squad’s boots, all but masked by the measured thrum of the guns firing in an almost musical pattern.  In front of him the shells they launched thudded into the walls of the fortress, blossoming into fire and shrapnel.

He glanced left and right to check that he and his squad were keeping pace with the rest of the line and was proud to see that they were.  At least they were with the other Spireguard; the remaining Tzaangor horde had pulled ahead, cavorting and cackling in their insane manner.  And above on a bejewelled brazen disc soared the avian faced Sorcerer that had brought them here.

The advance continued and as the front ranks approached the foot of the fortress walls, the barrage pulled up so that it wouldn’t hit them.  Attenotes glanced up at the high battlements and motioned for those under his command equipped with grapnels to toss them.  All along the walls, other squads did likewise while in the centre of the line specially trained assault troops locked shields and followed in the wake of the Tzaangors up a ramp to the remains of what remained of the ramshackle main gates.

As his men checked their lines were secure, he turned to look down the line and to his amazement a dozen paces away  stood a towering mechanical warrior, like some statue of an ancient hero come to life.  Awed, he watched as three giant robotic scarabs clanked up next to it.  The crimson plated warrior turned to look down at him and then gestured.  The snow at its feet hissed, vaporised by a sheet of telekinetic lighting and slowly it and its guards rose, lifted by a broad kine shield.

***************************************

Grothnar growled, crouching in the dark corridor, Hrald’s corpse at his feet.  Perhaps forewarned by his connection to the world spirits the Wyrdtouched had shoved him aside just before the first shells had hit and for his trouble had taken shrapnel to the head.  Grothnar had dragged his brother to the safety of the corridor, only to find he was already dead, a nasty shard of shell casing skewered through one eye and out the back of his head.  Grothnar had howled in anger and spite for five whole minutes, and had spent the rest of the time brooding.  Now the barrage was letting up he could go forth and avenge Hrald and the Midgardians whose shredded bodies littered the corridor mouth.

He loped out onto the battlements, weapons at the ready and glanced about at the carnage.  Below the sound of battle erupted as the defenders who’d either managed to take shelter from the barrage or who had been fortunate enough to have been inside when it hit charged forwards only to find the mutants and heretics swarming over the walls.  In his ear the vox bead squawked as the ragged defenders shouted commands at each other, trying to organise themselves.

From his position he could look down and  judge the flow of the battle.  Cursing fate, he tapped the vox bead and barked orders.  He ground his teeth, wishing he could throw himself into the press of battle, but like all Sons of Russ he was no mere berserker and his sense of duty overrode any desire to let his blade taste blood.  Still, it galled him.

“My lord!” called a mail-clad guardsman rushing up and thumping his chest in salute.  On his back was a bulky long range vox unit and his other hand held the speaker horn.

“What?” snapped Grothnar “In case you hadn’t noticed I’m busy directing a battle.”

“My lord,” grunted the guardsman, offering the horn “We’ve just received word that reinforcements are due; I have the commander on the line now.”

“What?” snapped Grothnar in disbelief, snatching it up “Give that here.  Who is this?”

“This is Captain Ptolmec of the Brotherhood of a Thousand.  We’ve just made orbit and are preparing to launch fighters.  What is your status?” came a clipped voice from the speaker.

“I am Thegn Grothnar Ashmaw of the Vlka Fenryka.  And currently I am trying to fend off an attack by the spawn of Magnus and their followers.”

“I gathered.  Can you hold out until-” the voice cut off and it sounded like a heated debate was going on at that end.  “I apologise brother; I will be unable to spare more than a token force to reinforce you.”

“Why?” snapped Grothnar, his hackles rising.

“The traitors had a fleet hiding behind the moon.  I will need as many assets as I can to fend them off.”

“Bah, that should be no trouble.”

“With due respect, I do not call what appears to be a heavily modified Gloriana class battlebarge ‘no trouble’.”

Grothnar snorted “The greater the foe the greater the glory.”  He ducked as a missile whizzed overhead and impacted the flank of the fortress.  “Now I have a battle to wage and so do you.”

“Good luck brother.”

“Luck,” snorted Grothnar, “Luck is the crutch of the weakling.”

***************************************

Utu stomped forwards, following the psi-automata maniple, directing it with pulses of psychic thought.  The scarab-like robot clattered in sync along the battlements clearing guardsmen away with bursts of ensorcelled bolts from their bolt cannons and reducing any who managed to get too close to red paste with swipes of their power fists.  Any that got past them he sent flying from the battlements with a telekinetic flick or crushed into too small fleshy balls with thought.  One had even got close enough to try throwing a krak grenade in his face but had misjudged the throw and it had bounced off his carapace back at the thrower.

The guardsmen manning the fortress were savage fighters, but sheer weight of numbers was overrunning them, and before long Utu found himself surrounded by Spireguard with no Midgardians to be seen.  At least none alive that weren’t in the process of decorating the deck plates with their own intestines.  Utu looked about and when he was satisfied that there was no immediate threat he sent a psychic pulse, gathering the automata around him and lifted them on a telekinetic disc to the next level as around them the Spireguard started their own climb.

The first level had been easy to take as the barrage had driven the defenders from their positions, but now they had recovered and as the four of them rose up las bolts and autogun shells flashed off his atomantic shielding.  Inside his control coffin he gave a sigh of irritation and as they drew level with the defenders he gave a telepathic command and the automata surged forwards, clambering over the wreckage of the battlements.

Stepping lightly he followed them, drawing on the arts of the Pyrae and incinerating a swathe of Midgardians.  For several minutes he and his guards were and island of resilience in a sea of fury, but gradually more and more red pushed their way up the walls.  Idly he wondered where the squad of Space Wolves were; it wasn’t like the Sons of Russ to avoid where the fighting was thickest.

***************************************

Heron sat on the floor outside his pavilion, eyes closed in concentration.  While his mortal body was locked in meditative poise, his aetheric form soared high, seeing not the savage battle being fought on the fortress’ ramparts, but instead its reflection within the Warp.  To his mind the whole thing was a vast, complex clockwork machine strung in and around a vast web of connections.  Dispassionately he observed it giving the occasional nudge or tweak to keep it ticking in tune or stringing a new thread which pulled or was pulled on the rest forming a new, equally complex web.  He neither knew nor cared what impact these changes had on the immediate battlefield, merely that the machine would be complete when the time came.

His thought-form sailed higher for a broader view and he permitted himself a slight smile, observing the three Towers closing in, drawing the noose closed.  Caressing one thread, he followed it up higher, to where a second weave was closing.  High above he knew his fleet was engaging the Imperial one that had come to relieve the beleaguered defenders below, and just as anticipated they had be caught between his fleet and the planet.

A frown crossed his brow.  No not exactly as planned.  The tapestry of the space battle was frayed at one corner.  He tugged gently at the straggling threads, investigating them.  With a thought he severed their lines and started to weave them into the main construct below.  He could work with this, but it’d require a delicate touch…

***************************************

Grothnar pounded the battlement in frustration, once more one of the levels had fallen to the traitors and their filth was now washing through the lower levels.  A bestial curse snarled from his lips; the fortress was a maze of corridors and crawl spaces and now there was no way to guarantee they could be stopped from overrunning the whole place as there were too many routes.

“All units fall back to the main hall,” he breathed, “We’ll make our last stand there.”

A chorus of voices washed over the vox as units all over the fortress replied compliance.  All except one.

“Ah canna do it Groth,” spat a determined voice, “We’re cut off.”  The sound of bolster fire erupted over the line followed by a Fenrisian curse.

“Jorrik.  Jorrik!” shouted Grothnar.

“Ahm sorry Groth,” replied Jorrik, his voice thick with fluid, “Ahm done fah, bu’ ahm gonna take a big one wi’ me.”  Before Grothnar could even reply the distinct sound of a melta bomb came over the line before it cut dead.

Grothnar threw back his head and let rip a howl to let the wolves of Hel know a warrior had departed this world.  With Jorrik’s death Grothnar’s squad was down to four.  Four against all this.  The Midgardians were fearsome warriors, true, but he’d rather have had a couple more squads of Astartes at his back, even those toy soldier Ultramarines would be a vast asset.

As if on cue, the vox squawked and he answered it.  “Thunderhawk  Millenial to Sergeant Grothnar,” came a tinny voice, distorted by static “We’re incoming, approaching from south south east.  Do you require assistance or extraction?”

“Extraction?” spat Grothnar “I will not run from a fight like some dastard.”

“Acknowledged,” replied the voice on the other end “Expect us shortly.”

Grothnar snorted and rounded on the nearby tech priest who was supervising a team of menials working over one of the point defence cannons. “Get that working,” he bellowed, “The least we can do is try and give those ships some covering fire.”  The priest gave what sounded like a sigh of irritation but before he could speak, Grothnar cut him off “Save the why and just do it.”  He turned away ignoring the angry bust of machine code the priest hurled in his way and stared out over the battlefield.

In the distance, cresting the peaks behind the traitors’ camp a white, gold-capped pyramid was growing ever closer and far on the left flank he could spy a silver column with golden serpents coiled around it above a pass.

***************************************

Laertiades grunted as autogun bullets glanced off his pauldron.  The Midgardians were fierce fighters but in the ways of siegecraft were rather pitiful and prone to rash and foolhardy acts of valour.  And the Space Wolves were little better.  Already he personally had slain two and not five minutes before he’d seen one suicidally use a melta bomb to take down one of the battle automata guarding Utu when he could have used it on a nearby strut to collapse the corridor on the dreadnought and all the automata.

Dismissively he raised his combi-bolter and mowed down the last few guardsmen.  Their broken bodies crunched beneath the boots of his terminator armour as he headed onwards, his squad following in synchronicity, the clomp of their boots overlapping with the piston hiss of the mindless servitors they’d been charged with escorting.

Rounding a corner he came face to face with a dead end.  At some point there had been a leak or pipes had burst or something as instead of a blast door or a mangled mess of rubble that made most of the dead ends in this maze of corridors he was confronted with a block of ice.  Mag-clamping his bolter to his thigh he pulled a dataslate from a belt pouch and rechecked the schematic on it.

“This is it,” he grunted, turning to his squad.  As one they stowed their bolters and drew the meltaguns they’d been equipped with for this mission.  Taking up positions they began firing in a pre-agreed firing pattern, flashboiling the ice.

***************************************

Techpriest Hal Kabor swore and struck the cannon on its flank.  That blasted Astartes was asking the impossible of them.  They had neither the time nor the resources to get them working for what he wanted and yet he demanded they keep working.

The techpriest drew a breath.  Such emotions were unbecoming of an adept of Mars and had no place in his life.  Centring himself he permitted himself a view of the battlefield.  In the distance something glinted in the sky.  His optics clicked as he focused on it, zooming in.

“My lord,” he said, turning to Grothnar “The airborne reinforcements have arrived.”

The Space Wolf’s barking laugh was cut short by the shouting of the menials fussing over the nearest point defence cannon.  The Space Marine and techpriest turned to see what the commotion was and to their horror watched as the barrel warped into the maw of some malign, twisted beast.  Kabor could have sworn it growled.  And as it did so, the breach flung open, hell fire blazing within, and sucked in the nearest menials.  Deck plates buckled, then started to bubble and run like wax and all Kabor could do was stare in dumbfounded horror before Grothnar grabbed him and hauled him away, roaring Fenrisian oaths.

The warped cannon blazed, spitting helfire and the two could only watch as cannon all along the fortress’ flanks blazed into life.  The sky erupted above the enemy camp tearing apart the approaching Imperial aircraft.

“Cowards!” bellowed Grothnar at the distant camp “Witches!  Do you take pleasure in dashing hope?”

“M-my lord?” stammered Kabor, looking up at him.

Grothnar rounded on him, spraying him with spittle.  “The dastards could have done this any time.  They let those strike craft get through just to raise our hopes all so they could dash them.”

Before Kabor could answer the deck beneath their feet thrummed and blazing light lanced out into the sky.  “The lance batteries,” he gasped “But that’s impossible – the generatorium for them is cold.  How could they?”

***************************************

Laertiades lead his squad away from the generatorium, their task complete.  He didn’t pretend to even grasp t basics of the technosorcery behind it, but he couldn’t argue with its results.  As soon as the servitors had manoeuvred the daemonflask into position power had spread throughout the fortress.  He could already hear the thrum of the batteries recharging for another salvo.

He took up position at the mouth of the intersection with half his squad while the others set the charges and waited.  In the corner of his helmet’s display a timer ticked down, marking how long they had left before it’d be too late.

The sound of heavy footsteps told him the charges were planted and with a gesture he ordered the squad forward.  Their pace was measured, almost casual considering the impending expositions, but they were Iron Warriors and they all knew full well how much time they had and what was a safe distance and they well well beyond it when the charges went off, sealing the generatorium from interference by the defenders.

They met surprisingly little resistance on the way out and as soon as the reached the point where the wreckage and bulk of the fortress wouldn’t scramble their signal Laertiades activated a wrist mounted beacon and motioned for his squad to form up ready for teleportation.

***************************************

Utu tossed a guardsman aside with a telekinetic blast.  With the Midgardians in full tactical withdrawal the attacking forces were now surging through the corridors and halls of the fortress like a red and gold tide, washing away the few pockets of resistance left behind.

+Brother is this not glorious?+ cackled Haarexereces, drifting up on his disc.

+No, this is merely pest control+ snapped Utu, not caring for his fellow sorcerer’s manner +If our Father did not require it for his ritual I would have left it entirely to the mortals to deal with, or better yet bombard this place from orbit.+

+Where’s your soul?  I thought you were called the Avenger of Prospero.+

+Only by some, and that does not mean I take pleasure in this, quite the contrary in fact,+ he glanced up the corridor.  Beyond lay the grand hall where the last of the defenders were mustering for a final stand.  The fingers of his dreadnought chassis twitched, itching to slay the remaining few Space Wolves he knew were there organising the guardsmen.  +Come, it is time we departed,+ he rumbled turning away.

+Not yet,+ cackled Haarexereces +Not while there is fun to be had.+. Utu could swear the beaked helm clacked open and closed like a corvid’s mockery, and for a second he wondered if it truly was a helm or if his body was warped by the fleshchange.

+Leave or stay,+ rumbled Utu, taking a step away +I care not.  The ritual will continue either way.+  He did not wait for an answer and continued to walk, giving a final command to his automata to press the attack and then set them loose.  The sounds of battle drifted away as he made his way out of the maze of corridors and soon were lost to the cacophony of the lance batteries firing, and then all of a sudden silence, save for the whir of the servos in his legs and the clanging of his footsteps.

He picked up his pace.  The batteries ceasing fire could only mean the final stage was due to begin any time.  Breaking into a lumbering run he shoved aside a barricade of wreckage with a psychic shove and burst out onto the battlements.  He paused looking out over the battlefield, noting the closeness of the two visible towers and silently cursed at how close he was cutting it.  Summoning a kineshield at his feet, he lifted himself up and made his way downwards.

***************************************

Attenotes coughed, spilling more blood down his front as he raised a hand towards the retreating dreadnought, but it paid him no heed.  Weakly his arm fell to his side and he slumped back, head lolling to one side.  He’d been leading the charge against one of the few remaining pockets of resistance on the walls of the fortress when the bombardment had started up again and a stray shel had caused the floor beneath his feet to give way, pitching him, his men and the barbaric defenders to a lower level.  All about him was rubble and mangled bodies.

A wheezing laugh drew his attention and he looked over to see a bearded, mailclad savage dragging his way across the rubble, his legs a mangled mess.  The savage spat something in his heathen language and laughed again.  Scowling, Attenotes levelled his pistol and the man and then paused with a frown.  His arm ended in a stump.  Strange, he could have sworn he was still holding the pistol.

He looked down and half delirious with blood loss burst out laughing.  The savage cocked his head to see what the Xandrian was looking at and join in.  Next to Attenotes lay his hand, still holding the pistol.

Presently the laughter died and the two of them slumped, giving into exhaustion.  Attenotes closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the guns, their pounding a musical beat.  The tune changed as the guns of the fortress died, followed shortly by the Xandrian guns.

He opened his eyes and smiled giddily.  The rays of the setting sun were glinting off the summers of the two sorcerous towers.  The light flashed off the disc atop the serpent tower and a golden beam lanced out.  Gold was the last thing Attenotes saw.

***************************************

Heron clutched his force axe, watching as the lance beams carved runes into the face of the fortress.  Next to him Galen removed his helm, breathing in the evening air.

+You’re cutting it fine,+ said Galen to the approaching form of Utu.

+More to the point,+ interrupted Heron, not taking his eyes from the blazing script being carved into the fortress +Where is our other brother?+

+He is busy entertaining himself,+ grumbled Utu, resting his force sword on his pauldron +He refused to come.+

+So be it,+ sighed Heron, +We do not need him at this stage anyway.  His tower will be in position soon and that is all that matters.+

+He is loathsome, but we really should not forsake him,+ interjected Galen +He is still our brother.+

Heron shook his head +This is his choice, he knew the risks.  Sometimes I think you are too soft Galen.+

Galen shrugged +There are so few of us left in the galaxy.  I would say the same even if it was that cur Ahriman in there.+

Heron smiled and gently shook his head +It is already too late.  Any that still live in that place are doomed.+. He motioned with his staff to the blood-churned field between them and the fortress.  The smears of blood and flesh pulsed faintly in arcane script.

Utu stomped up and stood beside them, looking back at the fortress.  The three stood in silence, watching and ignoring the sound of the mortal troops packing up camp as night fell.  The sky darkened to a purple bruise and then to inky black, the stars overhead dim, as is a thin veil had been drawn over them.  High above rippled the weapons fire of the fighting ships and flaming wreckage streaked away to the horizon as burning hulks fell through the upper atmosphere.

“Now,” whispered Heron, thumping his axe into the ground.

***************************************

Sorcerous light blazed into being at the peak of the three towers and then flashed out towards each other in continuos beams, forming a sorcerous triangle in the sky, soon followed by a second set arcing around to circumscribe the triangle with a magical ring.  Energy pulsed back and forth along the lines, runes dancing their entire length, mirrored by the runes in the snow which now blazed furiously.

The peaks of the towers pulsed again and the vertices of the triangle started to travel around the circle.  When they reached a third of the way to the next tower the towers pulsed again, firing new beams at each other to form a second triangle which then started to follow the first at the same speed.  When the triangles had traveled another third of the arcs, yet again the towers pulsed and a third triangle sprang into being.

The now nine pointed star continued to rotate, its points gleaming.  More lines sprang between the points of the star, creating numerous overlapping shapes, forms and runes, an intricate design too complex for a mortal mind to fully grasp.

Below, the snow hissed, boiling away or churning apart.  The three Thousand Sons turned, the ritual passing the point where it could be stopped, now running on its own.  Behind them marched their Rubricae guards, shepherded by the aspiring sorcerers.  They formed up below Heron’s tower and turned back for one final look before a ripple of warp energy enveloped them, teleporting them up into the safety of the tower.

The towers pulsed a final time, launching beams into the air, arcing up, reaching their apex directly over the centre of the fortress where the last defenders remained.

***************************************

Grothnar’s axe bit deep into the sorcerer’ neck, launching his avian head into the air.  The Space Wolf threw back his head and let rip a victorious howl.  Around him the mutant filth squawked and bayed in dismay and melted away.  Breathing heavily he rested on his axe and looked around at the carnage.  Bodies were piled high where they fell, many wrapped in a deathly embrace with their foes as they had resorted to grappling and strangling one another when the firearms ran dry and their blades broke.

He looked around the cavernous hall with a grimace.  A quick headcount of the battered Midgardians who picked their way through the carnage was grim.  Of the three regiments he’d started with, only eighty men remained, and most looked to be dead on their feet.

“To me,” he bellowed, “We are not victorious yet.”  The looks they gave were a mix of horror, hope and despair.

“Surely its over,” groused a guardsman, a dirty bandage covering one eye “By the Allfather we’ve broken them.”

“Nay,” spat another “The witches guiding this still live.”

“You really think this is all they’ve got?” barked another “This filth was just the dregs they could afford to lose.  They have more to come.”

“Silence,” snarled Grothnar, “Talk solves nothing.”  He glared about him.  “Come.  We cannot defend this hall.  With me, we’ll fall back to the outer ante-chamber.”  Not waiting for a reply he limped away, heading for a chamber in the outer wall.

Once it had been an observation gallery in the side of a ship, but the viewport had shattered when the ship fragment had crashed, exposing the room to the elements.  They’d used it as a store room and the crates would serve well as a barricade.  He limped over to the viewport and looked out in time to see the light arc up from the towers.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled and he squinted out into the darkness.  The sorcerous beams offered little illumination, but it was enough.  Beyond the pyramid was churned snow, but a curious lack of siege works or troops.  Even the pavilions and banners that had fluttered proudly in the breeze had been packed away.

His eyes flicked up at the shapes in the sky but he quickly looked away, the images burning to look at directly.  Rubbing his eyes he looked back at the tower, then rubbed them again.  He could swear the tower was moving.

He swore, axe falling from his numb hands.  The tower was moving indeed.  He watched as it rose up gracefully and as it did so so did the arcs of light, peeling back the fabric of reality in the dome above the spinning circle and shapes.  The churning kaleidoscope the was revealed as the curtain of reality was pulled back from the dome brought bloody tears to his eyes and a dread certainty gripped his hearts.  He was looking on the Warp itself, and it was more than his sanity could bare.

***************************************

The towers continued to rise, the curtain of reality draped between them until only the apex remained connected to the dome.  And then the thread snapped and hell burst from the wound in reality, the curtain dissolving as the towers rose further.

High in orbit the battle had long since petered out and the Xandrian fleet awaited them peacefully.  Heron’s pyramid and Galen’s caduceus headed towards the Heron’s flagship, the Scion of Prospero, while Haarexereces’ jumble of jewels and bubbled silver headed toward his personal cruiser.

As soon as the towers were aboard, the fleet turned, heading for the jump point beyond the system, leaving the nameless world to its fate.

***************************************

Heron took a seat at the table in the Scion’s Panopticon and steepled his fingers, observing the crystal table in front of him.  Beneath it’s surface a map of the galaxy swirled into being.

“Is it done?” asked Laertiades, resting his chin on a gauntleted fist.

“It is,” nodded Heron, not taking his eyes from the map.

“What is done?” asked Laertiades, cocking his head to observe the map “You never actually elaborated.”

“Something that is part of a plan that is beyond all of us,” replied Galen, reclining in his chair.

“Observe,” said Heron with a gesture.  Across the galaxy pinpricks of light flickered into being.  Their lights bled into one another forming a serpentine shape that snaked from one side of the Imperium to another.  Laertiades frowned, noticing they were at the tip of one end, the other terminating deep within the Eye of Terror.

“You have some scheme involving Russ’s pups don’t you?” he asked, noticing two pinpricks burnt brighter than the others.  One was Fenris and the other… “Prospero?” he breathed, confused.

Heron nodded.  “It is a scheme of my father’s design.  I do not know the full details, but even now the Crimson King leads an invasion of the Wolves’ home.  For what purpose we know not.”

“All will be revealed soon though,” nodded Galen.

“Aye,” said Heron with a smile “We are destined for Sortiarius.”

“The Planet of the Sorcerers?” exclaimed Laertiades in shock “But I thought you were exiled from there.”

“It is time for the prodigal Sons to return home,” chuckled Galen, looking Heron in the eye and sharing a smile.  As one they turned their attention to the prisoner suspended above the far side of the table, the captain of the Brotherhood of a Thousand who been captured along with several of his battle-brothers during the space battle.  “All of them.”

Zântrôm stomped up to the bow of his hull-destroyer the [i]Varvarfaz[/i] and stared out at the sea and cliff before him.  They were returning to port after a successful slaving raid an the hold was bursting with captives taken from the villages of Nordland and even the crew of a Cathayan junk they’d lucked upon leaving Marienburg.  The captain smiled, thinking about the price he’d get for them on the slave exchange in Uzkulak, a tidy sum even after the lords of the tower took their customs charges.  The better part of the voyage was behind them, but even here, a hundred leagues from Uzkulak it paid to be careful.  At this point the Sea of Chaos was narrow enough that dark cliffs loomed either side of the ship; Norsca to the west and the Chaos Wastes to the east.  Though they looked desolate, Zântrôm knew very well that all manner of beasts lurked in the shadows, waiting to pray on the unwary; chimera, manticore and wyverns all nested in caves high up in the peaks while sea trolls and leviathans made their homes on the sea bed.

He gripped the rail tightly, half wishing for an attack; humans were all well and good, but such creatures fetched a higher price, both in gold and renown.  A screech drew his attention, and he turned just in time to see a manticore take flight.  Solemnly he watched as it wheeled in the air and glided southwards, away from the ship.  He frowned, frustrated that it was now out of his grasp, but any thoughts querying why it would fly away were answered before they were asked by a low rumble from the north.  He turned aft ward to see a dark smudge on the horizon indicating a storm brewing.  A vicious storm in his expert opinion.  Grinding his teeth he stomped back to the aftcastle and when he arrived at the upper sanctum gave a smile of satisfaction that his seasoned crew had already leapt into action.  They’d dragged two slaves from the hold and chained them to the floor before the priest’s dais.  The captain, bowed his head and tilted his hat in respect to the two graven images that hung on the walls wreathed in shadows.

Chanting in an arcane tongue, the priest stepped forwards and drew a bronze dagger from his robes.  Spitting syllables that hurt to listen to, he grabbed the first slave, a seven foot tall Nordlander who’d been captured after splitting the skulls of three Dawi with his smith’s hammers, by the chin and cut out his tongue, tossing it into a braiser followed by the man’s eyes.  The slave tried to struggle, but the heavy iron chains bound him too tightly and a swift steel shod kick to the kidneys doubled him over.  Though none of the assembled dwarfs held any sympathy for the mailing wretches they enslaved, all of them nonetheless gave a collective wince as the blade cut low for the next offering to be tossed into the flames.  With the slave know longer able to fight back, the priest loosed the chains and dragged him up onto the dais and slit his throat, spilling his life blood onto the coals.

With the sacrifice to Hashut finished, the priest sheathed the dagger and still chanting, turned his attention to the sacrifice to Stromfels, the plump merchant that had owed the Cathayan ship they’d captured.  At the priest’s gesture, a barrel of salt water was brought forth and hefted by two burly sailors.  The priest stepped behind the whimpering slave and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth open.  The barrel was tilted and the water poured into the slave’s mouth.  Zântrôm watched silently as the slave slowly drowned, and when the blubbering mess slumped lifeless lay, the priest released him and gestured for him to be taken and thrown overboard.  With a nod, Zântrôm raised his hat to the gods’ images again and left the sanctum, heading to the bridge to order full steam ahead, hoping yo outrun the storm.

The next three hours were tense, but eventually the wind picked up and the clouds blew westwards towards the Norscan mountains.  Settling in his raised command throne he returned his attention to studying the landscape in front of the ship.  Eventually the unbroken cliffs gave way to fjords and he watched tensely, waiting for some foolhardy marauder tribe lurking in one to sail out and try to ambush them.  Disappointingly all he saw were a few longships returning home; the lands around Uzkulak were barren and lacking in wood and thus the fortress relied on Norscan traders to ship mountain pines to help fuel the furnaces of its industry and outfit the ragtag hobgoblin fleets under its sway.  Normally the Dawi Zharr would take what they wanted and enslave the local populace, but the lords of Uzkulak had long ago decided on the mercantile option as the trinkets traded to the Norscans for the wood cost them less than an occupation force enslaving the Norscans and logging the lumber themselves.  He was tempted to attack anyway, but he knew if he did then someone in his crew would rat him out for endangering the trade agreement;  if he was lucky he’d be flayed alive and his skin stitched into some hobgoblin’s sail.  If he was unlucky, then he’d be shipped off to the Black Fortress.  He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

The ship steamed on and a few hours later they reached the outermost defence of Uzkulak, seventy or so miles north of the fortress, not that non-Dawi Zharr would know that.  From this point on, the cliffs harboured concealed watchtowers and weapons platforms.  Any attacking fleet would be spotted long before they reached the fortress and warnings would be relayed along tunnel networks to the city.  As the attacking fleet passed, the cliff faces, in actuality doors and hatches indistinguishable from real cliff side to any but keen dwarf eyes, would slide aside or towers would rise from the ground of the cliff tops and rocket batteries and magma cannons would unleash a barrage of fire.  These concealed emplacements lined the way all the way to the fortress and after ten miles were joined by hidden doors at sea level that concealed hidden passages from which attack craft would issue to take the attackers midsips or even encircle them and cut off their escape route.

Zântrôm passed the time trying to spot them all, but knew even his keen eyes missed some.  Eventually the ship reached the next set of defences.  At fifty miles from Uzkulak, on either side of the route stood two towering statues of stoic dwarf warriors.  The two statues each held aloft a mighty axe and their axes crossed above the gap between them.  To an attacker, they looked like mere grandiose statues, erected by a vain and proud race, but in reality they were weapons themselves.  If an attacker reached this far, then the statues eyes and mouths would open, revealing cannons;  anyone getting closer would find that many of the scales in the statues’ armour were actually hatches which would open to allow blunderbusses to open fire; finally, any ship that managed to pass between them would be shocked to find that the arms holding the axes were hinged, and the giant blades would be brought down upon them.

In the past three millennia, only once had an attacker gotten beyond this point, and even then it was largely due to the bulk of Uzkulak’s forces being tied up trying to repel a landward attack by a horde of Khornate warriors during the last great Chaos incursion.  Since then, the lords of Uzkulak had spent much effort on improving the defences, adding more of the concealed watchtowers and entrances and pouring fortunes into updating the navy.  Zântrôm scowled as his ship was forced to let an example of this modernisation pass through the statues.  The ship was a low, sleek, wedge shaped prow destroyer and in his opinion didn’t have the soul of a four century old girl like his [i]Varvarfaz[/i].

Beyond the statues, the solid cliffs once more gave way to fjords, although these were all under the control of Uzkulak.  Many were abandoned, but most contained either a dockyard, dry dock or hobgoblin village, and many of them contained more concealed passages back to the main dockyard at the fortress.   From here the going was slower as strict laws governed the movement of ships along the main waterway to avoid collisions, but before long the ship rounded a bend, revealing Uzkulak in all its glory.

The waterway widened out into a large cove, and high atop the rear cliff stood the tower of Uzkulak.  During the last great Chaos incursion, the tower had been overrun, it’s walls shattered and cast down.  When the forces of Chaos had retreated at the end of the war, the displaced clan’s of Uzkulak had returned in force and retaken the ruins.  Since then they had raised the tower up higher and stronger.  It’s walls had been built from black granite and then clad in sheets of ivory magically transformed from the bones of mighty beast long dead collected from all over the Zorn Uzkul.  At its peek the twelve sided tower widened out, shaped into a four-faced skull, each face gazing in one of the cardinal points and atop them sat the colonnaded rotunda of the Temple of Hashut.  Around the tower, hidden from the vie workhorse down in the bay, the tower was shielded by layers of curtain walls and trenches to the south and west and by a river to the east.

The river cascaded down from the tower into the cove in a mighty waterfall which concealed the entrance to the docks of the tunnel that connected Uzkulak to the River Ruin, and from there to Zharr-Naggrund.  Either side of the waterfall the cliffs were hollowed out into immense caverns where the main fleet sat at port.  The roof of each cavern was supported by many mighty pillars carved from the parts of the cliffs that hadn’t been dug out, and each cavern extended back for miles via a network of tunnels.

In front of the port caverns, a stout bulwark stretched from the middle of the eastern cliffs to the centre of the bay where the Thunderblast tower stood.  The tower had been one of the earliest defences built at Uzkulak and had served the fortress’s inhabitants well in the early centuries after the coming of Hashut.  It was an ingenious design, a round tower of six levels, with each level having twelve cannon at evenly spaced points, and each level being built such that it could rotate independently of the others; not only did this allow the defenders to attack multiple directions, but fresh cannon could be brought to bare as the one just fired was reloaded or in the event one were to be destroyed, either by misfire or enemy action.  Such was its efficiency that the design had soon been adopted for the tower’s landward defences and had even spread to other parts of the Empire.

West of the tower the cove s open, or so it appeared.  A second bulwark stretched from the tower to the west cliff, but it was kept lowered.  When under attack, it could be raised creating an almost impenetrable barrier to all ships.  Zântrôm glanced west to where the hidden bulwark met the cliff and sneered.  There stood a small ziggurat, half buried in the cliff side at the mouth of another fjord.  Looking down the fjord between the ziggurat and its twin which sat at the other side of the opening he could spy the ships of the lesser races.  The fjord housed the Outsiders Quarter, a port where Sartosan buccaneers, Norscan marauders, Arabayan raiders and even Naggarothi corsairs could come to trade slaves and captured goods.  Zântrôm didn’t trust any of them, but begrudgingly he had to admit they had their uses.  Like the lumber traders they could be palmed off with worthless trinkets in exchange for valuable slaves and goods such as Indish spices or Cathayan silks without the risk to Dawi lives and it was said more than a few were spies for the lords of Uzkulak, paid to provide information invaluable to Dawi Zharr raiding parties seeking to attack the various manling lands to the west and south.  Still, that cut both ways; anyone willing to sell out their kin for gold would easily take coin from them to return the favour and Zântrôm was sure they were all secretly trying to figure out the fortress’s defences for the Dawi Zharr’s many enemies.

Shaking his head he turned to his crew and started bellowing orders for them to prepare to dock – they had a valuable haul to unload and he was itching to get them on the sales block as soon as possible; after all, the sooner they sold, the sooner he could set off for a fresh batch.

Above all other shapes, the ziggurat is most sacred unto Hashut, praise be His name, for it can be found throughout our society, greatest in all Creation.

For above all other shapes, the ziggurat is most sacred unto Hashut, praise be His name, for it can be found throughout our society, greatest in all Creation.

– author unknown.  This mantra is carved into a stone tablet found in every Dawi Zharr clan’s throne room to serve as a reminder of the correct order of things and to keep them in their place.

“There once was a mighty sword.  In its time it served its masters well, never growing dull and slaying many foes.  From father to son it was passed down through many generations until after many years being wielded by its eighth lord in a mighty duel it shattered along the blade.  Weaponless, the overlord was forced to take refuge behind his shield, but a mighty blow cleft it in twain and the overlord’s head was struck from his exposed neck.  The lord’s son, it’s ninth master gathered up the shards and handed them to his clan’s Daemonsmith, who took them to his forge.  He set aside the shield halves and cast the sword shards into a crucible.

At this the shield grew quiet and fearful, knowing the shards spoke the truth, even as they melted.  And as the shards foresaw, the smith returned to the forge and hammered them into a new blade, while the shield was stripped of its boss and the rest discarded.  So to shall the weak and unworthy be discarded in the End Times and only the strong shall emerge from the flames, hammered and tempered by the will of the gods into new forms for a new world, but at their heart still the same as they have always been, for as this has all happened before, so too shall it happen again.

– fable from the Apocrypha Uhr-Kulmbizharr, a collection of writings attributed to the renowned Uhr-Kulmbizharr, but believed by all right minded scholars to instead be the work of a lesser author using the Daemonsmith’s name to try and spread his lesser works.

Grazkh Coaltounge stared into the hot coals and casually tossed the blade shards into the crucible.

“Why bother?” sneered Drazkha Brassfist, “The axe is broken, throw it aside.”

Grazkh shook his head, not taking his eyes from the furnace.  “Symbolism is lost on you,” wheezed the Daemonsmith as the metal heated up.

“Symbolism?” snorted Drazkha, rolling his eyes.

“Look into the flames.  Tell me what you see.”

“Fire?”

“Nay.  I see the future and the past.”

“So now you’re a seer?”

“Hashut has granted me this vision,” explained Grazkh, pouring Taurus blood over the molten metal.  “It is always the same and always when I reforge a weapon…it troubles me, and reassures me at the same time.”

“So what do you see?” sighed the other Daemonsmith, as he set up the mould, impatient to know where this was going.

“A corrupt, broken world dying, consumed by the fires of war.”

“Comforting,” sneered Drazkha as his friend poured the metal into the mould.

Grazkh did not reply, instead murmuring incantations over the blade as the metal cooled.  Satisfied, he opened it up and grasping brazen tongs, removed the blade, plunging it back into the fire, before withdrawing it again and starting to hammer at it.  “I see the world die, but from its shattered remains a god forges it anew, a new world made from the old, just as from those shards I have forged a new blade.” He plunged the sword into a bucket of blood, gathered from the crucified body of an overlord that had dared turn on his clan’s ruling family and had failed.  “But just as this is not the first time this sword has been reforged, so to in my vision do I see an older world re shaped into ours by the gods, and six more times before that.  And just as one day this sword will be reforged, so too will the new world.”

“Sounds like you’re just bad at reforging weapons,” laughed Drazkha, “For this to be the ninth incarnation does not bode well for it.”

Grazkha shrugged, “All things die given time, what matters is whether they do their job it the time the gods allot them.  I would far rather reforge this sword a hundred times in as many years and have it slay a thousand foes each life, than reforge it once in that time and only slay a single foes once a decade.”  He smiled a dark smile and without warning plunged the blade deep into Drazkha’s broad chest.

“All this has happened before, and all it shall happen again,” he cackled madly, as the life seeped from his friend and into the blade.

“…And thus again did it come to pass that the world did burn,
Screaming and staunchly defiant to the end,
But such brazen demands were futile for,
Entropy brings even the greatest low.
Fiery embers flickered out and ashes grew cold,
Last follies lost amidst uncaring stars.

[fragment missing]

‘…As surely as life beget death, does not too death beget life?’
Sternly and stoically did the great drake set about its task,
Labouring slowly lest carelessness undo its creation;
Tirelessly labouring ’til at last the world were forged anew,
Again ’twas arisen from the flames,
For all this has happened before, and all this shall happen again.”

– only surviving fragment from an apocryphal Dawi-Zharr creation myth said to have been found inscribed blood on an iron tablet discovered below Daemon’s Stump.  Much of the text is damaged where the tablet has been melted by warpfyre after a daemonic incursion below the Stump centuries ago.

Krazk tilted his head back trying to drain the last drop of ale from his goblet and gave a grunt of annoyance as it stubbornly refused to budge.  Giving up, he plunged the golden vessel into the open cask  and took a swig.  It was a rare cask of Bugman’s taken in a raid long ago and seasoned with spices from Ind taken in a much more recent raid.  Resting the goblet on his broad paunch, he reclined back and peered out the open sides of his palanquin and the slave fields outside.

The empire of the Dawi Zharr was a vast enterprise built on the backs of industry and slavery.  Across hundreds of miles of wasteland that was the Darklands from the cold barren plain of the Zorn Uzkul in the north to the fiery ashes of the Desolation of Azgorh in the south countless slaves of numerous races toiled in service of their dwarfen masters, and each and every one required food to continue their tasks.  In a land beset by frequent volcanic eruptions and where vast ash clouds blotted out the sun for weeks or more at a time, arable land was hard to come by, and meat from dead slaves and cave grown fungi could only stretch so far; as a result, long ago in a half forgotten time near the founding of Zharr-Naggrund the Dawi Zharr had turned their minds to mastering nature and by might of sorcery and industry had pushed back the desolation of the tainted Plain of Zharr, leaving a small sliver of land around the great ziggurat able to support life.

The crops planted in the new slave fields had thrived for the volcanic soil was fertile.  To oversee their slaves who toiled the fields, and to give them a quiet retreat away from the prying eyes of their rivals, the sorcerer-prophets had started to build smaller ziggurats out in the plain and soon quarrels broke out over who had the rights to farm what and where.  To avoid civil war, the High Prophet Tammuz, later mockingly nicknamed Tammuz the Gardener, had laid down strict rules governing the division of the lands.  Great stone causeways had been constructed, crisscrossing the plain in an arcane pattern and dividing the fields into plots.  The plots immediate to each clan’s personal ziggurat were bequeathed to that clan and the rest were at first divided amongst them with the choicest plots going to those in highest favour.

However, after decades of strip farming, the soils grew poorer and the priesthood quickly realised that ironically their forefather’s actions to allow them to farm had inadvertently doomed them, for it was the volcanic ash from the regular eruptions that had granted the soil it’s fertility.  There was much debate over the course to take until an elderly Tammuz had again devised a solution.  Under his instruction, a great ritual had been performed and a covenant had been signed with Hashut and Slaanesh to refertilise the land and every twelve years the ritual had been conducted again.  Soon it had evolved into a festival; for the sorcerer-prophets it was a somber time that could alter the fate of their race, while for the common dwarfs it was an excuse to get drunk on the first new casks of ale brewed from the grains of the previous festival.

Krazk begrudged having to participate in such an ‘elfy’ affair as a harvest fertility festival, but he acknowledged its necessity so had dutifully set out that morning on the road from his clan’s ziggurat to the temple of Hashut high atop Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.  Normally he would have traveled via the tunnels carved deep below the plain that joined the lower levels of each clan’s ziggurat to one of the many subterranean levels of the mountainous capital, but currently they were packed with slaves baring the harvest to the numerous granaries and storehouses and lesser dwarfs on their way to the various festival halls.  Still, traveling by the causeways did have its benefits – as he traveled he could eye his rivals farms, marked out by the banners planted at each corner of every plot, and see who was behind on this years’ harvest, and he let out a smirk noting that his immediate rivals were far behind in both quality and quantity.  Combined with the boon of slaves and gold his clan had taken in raids these last few years, he would rise in status this year.

A shadow fell over him, sending a shiver down his spine and disrupting his musings.  He turned and peered out the other side of the palanquin and saw he was passing the ziggurat of the Bonebeard clan.  The pyramid was cold and silent and the farms around it were choked with weeds and bracken.  All who lived in Zharr-Naggrund knew the tale behind that thrice cursed clan.  Centuries ago they had been one of the middling clans, not powerful, but nowhere near the bottom of Dawi Zharr hierarchy either.  In secret their chief prophet Gallû had delved into shunned necromantic knowledge and had revealed his treachery on the Night of the Restless dead.  When Nagash had arisen, for a whole night all over the world the dead had walked the land and the capital of the Chaos Dwarfs was no different.  Legions of dead slaves had lurched to their feet and burst forth from the cold houses where they were being kept awaiting the butchers.  Seizing the opportunity it provided, Gallû had played his hand and had cast a ritual to take control of the dead in the city and a bitter struggle had broken out.  Setting aside their grievances, the disparate clan’s of Zharr-Naggrund had banded together and had forced the dead back into Gallû’s ziggurat.  Cursing him, the irate High Prophet had ordered the ziggurat sealed and rune encrusted cap stones and plaques and be chained over the doors and windows of the ziggurat, trapping the dead inside.  Ever since then the ziggurat had been shunned, and the farms immediate to it had been abandoned as no clan wished to claim the tainted land and every slave refused to toil in its shadow.

Krazk breathed a sigh of relief as his palanquin passed out of the shadow and drained his goblet in one swig, followed by a second and then a third.  A more compassionate soul would have been concerned about how the warrior escort marching along side him were holding up, but Krazk was a Dawi Zharr and only cared about the welfare of others in so much as it benefited himself or his clan.  With a grunt, he settled back into his seat, there were still many miles to go before they reached the base of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, and from there was the long climb up the mountainous pyramid to the temple of Hashut at its summit.

The sun was setting as Krazk reached the foot of the great ziggurat and he bellowed for fresh slaves to be brought forth.  He would ascend to the temple of Hashut by one of the four staircases carved into its sides and the slaves that bore his palanquin would need to be strong and healthy to make the climb.  Stoically, his guards brought forth four slack jawed ogres from the slave wagon that had accompanied them on the journey from their clan’s ziggurat.  The ogres hoisted the palanquin onto their shoulders and at the prodding of the taskmaster lumbered towards the foot of the stairs.

As they did so, Krazk noted the approach of the Prophet Khorr, patriarch of the Coldhand clan and nodded a greeting.  The Coldhands were a queer clan.  Unlike all other clans, the scions of that bloodline had no aptitude for Fire magic but instead possessed an innate affinity for ice magic.  As such they had no holdings outside of Zharr-Naggrund, and only meagre ones within, but had still carved out moderate prestige by selling their unique services to those seeking to raid colder climates such as Kislev and Norsca or wishing to raid during winter.  Krazk grimaced at the thought remembering how he’d had to sell one of his great grandnieces to be married to Khorr’s grandson in exchange for the services of a Coldhand Icemage three months ago, only for the raiding party’s ironclad to be sunk by an iceberg a week out of port.  Of course, as a Dawi Zharr Krazk had to much decorum to open accuse the Coldhands, instead opting to attack the rival clan indirectly and subtly.

He took another drink from his goblet, now savouring a fine Bretonian red, the Bugman’s long drank, using it to hide his smile of malice from his rival.  He had thought long and hard about how to exact his revenge on the Coldhands and to his chagrin he’d had to enlist the aid of cult of Nurgle.  Though the Dawi Zharr venerated Hashut as supreme, they were wise enough to know not to risk angering the other gods of Chaos.  Though Hashut’s temple stood proudest atop Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, they had built an entire complex of lesser temples to the other gods as way of respect, and shrines to them could be found throughout the main ziggurat in hidden halls and chambers.  Even the duplicitous Horned Rat had a ziggurat, though very few attendants.  Most Dawi Zharr paid respect to the other gods to avoid drawing their ire, but not so much as to draw their attention either, but there were those who gave themselves wholly over to the worship of the other gods and it was they who formed the priesthood and temple guards of the lesser temples.  For the most part mainstream society shunned them and only came into contact with them when paying the other gods respect or when they marched to war alongside their sane Hashut-worshiping brethren, but sometimes they could be valuable allies in the constant power struggles between the Prophets and the clans.  Weapons blessed by the priests of Khorne were more deadly, sorcerous components by Tzeentchians more potent and so forth.  But just as they could be a boon to your own assets, they could also be a curse upon your foes.  Such was Krazk’s plan; in his aspect of the Plaguebringer, they were to taint the lands the Coldhands were allowed this festival so that they would wither in the coming years and bring great shame upon the clan.

Composing himself, he lowered the goblet and raised it to Khorr as the latter started to ascend the stair ahead of him.  The ziggurat that formed Mingol Zharr-Zaggrund was as large as a mountain and though the ascent was far less arduous than that of an actual mountain, it still took a considerable time to traverse and by the time they reached the penultimate level the sun hung low in the sky.  The final level was Hashut’s temple and only those consecrated could enter.  Cursing his half petrified limbs, Krazk alighted from his palanquin and continued on his journey up into the black marbled edifice, leaning heavily on his skull topped staff.

He entered in through the southern portal, joining in the procession of the other Sorcerer Prophets as the passed through the Avenue of Kings, the great hallway lined with the petrified bodies of all the High Prophets were placed in high honour.  Dawi Zharr were a long lived race and as such many of the plinths had yet to be filled as all the prophets eyed the empty ones jealously.  As he passed through the open brass gates at the end, the heat from the furnaces hit him in the face like a wall.  The hall could have swallowed even the grandest of manning palaces but even at this distance the heat from the pillar of flame that ran through the centre of the ziggurat singed his beard.  Making the sign of the bull horns, he shuffled off to his allotted place and knelt on the warm stone floor.

The Dawi Zharr were a proud and arrogant kind, loath to submit to anyone and any sign of supplication to another was seen as weakness, but even they were humble enough to submit before the Dark Father.  Not even the mightiest were crazed enough to place themselves as equal with a god.  Bowing his head he began chanting a prayer to Hashut, awaiting the last few prophets to arrive.  At the appointed time the temple doors would be sealed and for eleven days the prophets would fast in silence in preparation for the Harvest Ritual.  On the dawn of the twelfth day, the doors would be opened and young Astragoth, the new high priest would lead those that survived the fast outside to take up their positions around the bronze bull statue atop the temple.

This year only three prophets fell to the fast, a good sign and fortunately for Krazk, Khorr was not one of the three – Krazk wanted him to know the misfortunes that would befall his clan these coming years.  Singing his appointed hymn, Krazk took up his position on one of the stone benches and broke his fast with a loaf of stone bread baked from this year’s harvest.  When the sun reached its zenith, as one the assembly turned their gaze north and a silence fell over them.  On cue, herded by masked acolytes of both Hashut and Slaanesh, ears of corn and barely woven into their beards herded up twelve times six slaves up the stairs, dragging a statue of the Dark Prince followed by a second group of slaves numbering six times twelves.  Each and every slave had been mutilated, its hands and feet cut off and iron shoes shaped like hooves hammered in their place.  Half the slaves were daubed with the rune of Hashut in blood and wore bronze masks fashioned in the shape of a bull while the other half were daube with Slaanesh’s glyph and wore silver goat masks.  Under the whips of their twelve overseers, the slaves cavorted around the pyre of wood and harvested food that had been set between the two gods’ statues.  A horn blared twelve times and was answered by six trumpets and as the last clarion faded away, twelve acolytes of Hashut marched forth from the temple, each baring a torch lit from the flaming pillar while six attendants of Slaanesh baring flasks of oil sprang up the stairs.  The eighteen priests took up their positions and the assembly began to chant once more as the slaves continued to dance.

Astragoth rose from his throne below the bull and took his hammer.  Turning to a great gong he struck it six times and with each strike a flask was thrown onto the pyre.  Twelve times more he struck the gong, shouting Hashut’s name each time, and on the twelfth, as one the torch bearers tossed their charges onto the pyre.  The oil soaked wood and food ignighted with a whoosh, driving the slaves back.  If they hadn’t had their tongues torn from their mouths and their eyes gouged from their skulls, they would have screamed in terror.  As it was they could only cringe away from the sudden heat as it bloomed, and then towards it as their handler whipped them for their impudence.  Given the choice between the fire and the whip, the slaves all chose the fire and one by one threw themselves onto the pyre.

The assembled prophets started a new chant as the twisted bodies started to burn, and setting aside his hammer, Astragoth took up a scythe.  Ordinarily he would never have touched such a tool, but as it was required for the finale part of the ritual he bore it stoically and without complaint.  The twelve handlers stepped up to the pyre, so close that their beards started to smoulder.  Uttering a dark chant in a voice too low for any save the gods to hear, Astragoth stomped from one handler to another, striking each with a single swipe of the scythe, beheading them.

As the final blow fell, he screamed one last word and the whole ziggurat started to shake.  There was a colossal boom, and from the temple sprang a pillar of fire, spewing ash that darkened the sky.  The whole valley in which Zharr-Naggrund sat shook and Krazk and the other prophets turned their gazes outward to see smaller ziggurats, ritually placed throughout the valley answer Mingol Zharr-Naggrund with fire pillars of their own.  An almighty crack echoed throughout the valley and on cue ash clouds billowed over the crags known as the Hoofcleft than ringed it, blotting out the last of the sunlight and plunging the land into darkness.

The ritual complete, Astragoth cast the scythe into the flames and turned back to the temple, leading the prophets back inside to the customary feast that followed the ritual.  As he took his place in the procession, Krazkh smirked, looking forward to devouring this year’s bounty to end this festival’s fast and as he passed under the bronze bull he offered up a silent prayer to Hashut that the great deeds of his clan would be recognised with the appropriate land tithes and the feasts end.

…for Chaos is a wheel and as surely as a chariot grinds the mud so to are we ground by Chaos.  And as the Star has eight points, so to does the Wheel have eight spokes.  The principal spokes are that of Rage, Desire, Despair and Hubris just as the principal Gods are Khorne, Slaanesh, Nurgle and Tzeentch.  And as the lesser Gods are named Necoho, Zuvassin, The Horned Rat and Hashut, the lesser spokes I name Nihilism, Anarchy, Ruin and Dominion.  For where rage against order and desire for freedom meet, mortals throw off the shackles of organised region; where desire to know what will happen meets the means to lead others to despair, mortals will throw the plans of others into disarray; where the despair at a loss meets the hubris that another is more deserving, mortals will seek to undo the fortunes of friend and foe alike; when the hubris that places one above another meets the rage that follows the discovery that this is not so, mortals will seek to set this right and subjugate all.  And as surely as the wheel turns about the spoke, so to does Chaos turn around Malal who I name Malignancy for it is the very nature of Chaos to turn upon itself and be self destructive.  And as the wheel turns about its axel, Chaos turns in a malignant cycle, each spoke chasing the one next to it.  Now one spoke is on top, now another, then another, forever turning.  And as no spoke may ever catch another, nor may it sit at the top of the turning wheel, so to can none of the Gods cast down another forever and no God can ever remain supreme.  Only by breaking the wheel can the cycle end, but to do so is doom for if the wheel is broken it is no longer a wheel.”

– a heretical text by an unknown author which was scratched into a hull plate from a Thinderfire Battlebarge.  The hull plate was discovered washed up fifty miles north-east of the Uzkulak port with no sign of the ship it came from.  It is now housed in the White Archives* in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund along with numerous other heretical texts collected by the Dawi Zharr during their long history.

*The White Archives is a naturally occurring immense chamber of white marble found deep within the heart of Zharr-Naggrund that stores artefacts that the Sorcerer-Prophets deem to dangerous for the general population to know about but which they do not wish to destroy, either because that would be more dangerous, that they might be of use in dire times or in the case of prophecies, books and other texts so that they can be studied by sanctified scholars in the hope that some useful knowledge may be gleaned from them for the betterment of the Empire

Bardek lounged back in his seat watching as a group of slaves hurried out to clear away the ashen remains from the centre of the arena, undoubtably collected for use as components is some sorcerous ritual or another or even bartered away to the human savages that eek end out a living in the northern wastes as talismans or charms.  He took a sip of his tankard and pulled a face, finding it empty.  Yelling curses he called over a slave to refill it.  As the wretch did so, he studied her, and his lips curled with disgust.  The human, a descendant of slaves taken from Cathay long ago was thin and ragged; her shoulders were hunched and she dared not lift her head for fear of the lash.  Even so, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, empty dead things, less alert than even tamed herd beasts.  Bardek was offended by how easily she was bent to the will of her dwarfen masters; no Dawi Zharr would tolerate such abasements; even their faithless kin from the Worlds Edge Mountains would not submit so.

Snatching the amphora she bore from her hands, he waved her away and turned back to the arena waiting for the first match to begin.  Presently, the iron portcullis to the east ground open and a large troll was herded out by a gaggle of hobgoblins.  The foul creature stood five time the height of a dwarf and it’s hide was covered in brownish green scales.  What was most peculiar however was that it appeared to be a mutant; proportionally it seemed squatter hand most trolls, being broad of shoulder and hip and it’s head was subsumed by its body; beady eyes atop, crowned by long curved horns, and an immense tusk-filled mouth that took up most of its torso; in contrast it limbs were long and gangly, ending in oversized hands and feet.  Overall it put him in mind of a Pink Horror; undoubtably it had been birthed by some amusement of the trickster god.

“I wonder if you cut it down it’ll spring back up split in two an’ turn blue?” jested Nâzkuk, spotting the resemblance too.

“I hope not,” spat Dor’rek, “I worked in Cousin Valzek’s Helforge a century back.  He tried binding horrors an’ they got loose.  Took us five years to shift the buggers.  An’ I’m still not convinced me got them all.”  The friends laughed at the whitebeard’s outlandish tale.

“What ‘ave they go’ ta fight it?  Tha’s wha’ I wanna know,” spat Krovnar, scratching at the iron nails hammered into his forehead that gave him his Ironbrow moniker (and accounted for his crude speech patterns thought Bardek).  “Mah money’s onna Ogre.”

“Maybe it’s another troll,” grinned Nâzkuk, “But one in the shape of another daemon.”

“Why not just get an actual daemon?” spat Dor’rek “Would save on clean up afterwards.”

Bardek stayed silent, watching as the western portcullis rose, but was distracted as the crowd erupted in cheers and laughter.  One of the hobgoblins had gotten too close and had been plucked up by the troll.  The abomination swung the greenskin about, dashing it’s brains on the ground before tossing it into its mouth and biting down with a sickening crunch that reached Bardek halfway up the arena seating.  The other hobgoblins scattered and scurried back into the dark tunnel they’d dragged the troll from.  The troll looked around, misshapen eyes blinking as it surveyed the area it was in, sniffing the air and grunting and growling in frustration.

Bardek looked over at the opposing entrance, wondering where its opponent was.  Cautiously, a squat shape edged from the shadows, taking everything it saw in with the stoic gaze that could only belong to a dwarf.  All around there were gasps and confused mutterings, which swiftly turned into laughs and jeers as the realised what it was.  The dwarf worn nought but rough-spun britches and heavy iron manacles around his wrists and ankles.  His beard was short, a mere few inches long, but from the way he stalked, sticking to the edge of the arena it was clear he was no beardling; even from this distance, Bardek could see the beard was filthy and stained red with blood.  Curiously, his head was bare save for a strip running from front to back which was also blood-stained and from the rawness of the scalp and the many nicks and cuts Bardek surmised that the dwarf had shaved his own head with whatever sharp objects he’d been able to get his hands on.

“A Trollslayer?” ruminated Dor’rek mournfully, “Suppose that’s apt.”

Bardek nodded.  He’d never seen a Trollslayer before, but he had heard tell of them in hearth side stories as a zharrling and camp fire tales as a warrior grown.  Truth be told, he was disappointed by what he saw, how could this sorry specimen be one of that forsaken brotherhood?  As he stared at the self inflicted wounds he realised this wasn’t a true slayer.  He guessed that it was a regular dwarf, taken as the spoils of war after some recent raid of the westlands; one of the few similarities the Dawi Zharr shared with their honour less kin was an inability to self terminate, to both races being captured by such a hated foe and subjugated by them was a great shame, an almost unerasable blot on their honour; even those dams abducted to serve as concubines for the wealthy Dawi Zharr had to be chained up or regularly drugged to keep them under control long enough for the deed to be done and at the birth of any ensuing progeny.  Driven mad by his captivity the dwarf had clearly sworn an oath to his vile gods and taken the mantle upon himself, making up for the lack of the proper rituals by conducting them himself.  He was no true slayer, but that would not disused him from trying to expunge his lost honour by following that path in hope that Grimnir would forgive him and bestow upon him the reward of the slayer.

The troll caught his scent and turned in his direction.  Letting out a deafening roar it lollopped  towards him, the chains still bound to its arms flailing around.  The dwarf dropped to a low crouch, waiting for the right moment.  The troll swiftly closed on him despite its ungainly stride, and still the slayer waited.  The troll roared again and lashed out a few yards away from him, confident that its stretched limbs could reach, but at the last moment the slayer took a single step back and the blow missed by a hair, or rather hit by a hair, for it clipped a single strand from his beard (not that Bardek or his friends could see that detail from where they sat).  But more unexpectantly the chains on that arm lashed out, wrapping around the pillar the dwarf had been lurking near, jerking that arm to a stop.  That was why the blow had been short, and the troll had been too stupid to see it coming.

The dwarf darted in, inside the creature’s reach, swinging his axe and biting deep into the troll’s flank.  The troll howled with pain and frustration as the dwarf rolled aside.  It twisted trying to keep the dwarf in view and swung its free arm trying to grasp him, but he’d already skipped back out of reach.  Roaring again it tried to run after him and fell flat on its face, tripped up by the chains tying it to the pillar.  The dwarf saw his chance and rushed in, putting his full strength into an over arm swing aimed at the back of its skull hoping that it would be  a death blow or at least lasting, unlike the first wounds inflicted which had already knit together.  The axe bit deep and wedged in its skull, leaving the dwarf straining to dislodge it.

Spluttering in the dirt, the troll reached up, plucking the dwarf and tossing him halfway across the arena.  Laughter echoed all across the amphitheatre at such a humiliating sight.  As he bounced and skidded across the ground the troll twisted and turned, clambering to its feet, pulling on the chains trying to break them.  Roaring in frustration it hawked and gagged, vomiting over the chains with acidic bile, gave them one more tug, severing the links an turned to face the dwarf who by this point had skidded to a halt, sprang to his feet and was sprinting back across the arena, axe raised high.  Dimly the troll studied the chains hanging from it’s other hand and a moronic grin spread across its face.  While the dwarf was still a dozen yards away, it lashed out, striking him in the face with the chains, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground.

The troll bounded forwards, pouncing on its opponent in one leap, but as it’s clawed feet touched the ground the dwarf rolled aside between its legs and in one swift motion brought the axe up that made every male in the stands wince and cross their legs in sympathy. The troll howled in pain, falling flat on its face once more and yanking the axe from the dwarf’s grasp.  The dwarf backed off, glancing from side to side for a new weapon, not wanting to risk darting back in to retrieve his axe and getting thrown across the arena again.

As the troll finally clambered to its feet, the slayer gave up on finding a weapon and ran over to the pillar he’d used to trick the troll and leapt up, grabbing the hanging chains, using them to scale halfway up the pillar.  The troll bounded towards him and he quickly shimmied to the top, but was unable to climb up onto the top due to it being occupied by a large bowl shaped iron braiser.  Unperturbed, the dwarf waited, craning his neck to watch the troll who swiftly reached the pillar.  The troll swept its claws at him, but he was out of reach.  Howling in rage, the troll wrapped its arms around the pillar and tried to shake it, but the fine dwarfen craftsmanship held firm.

The dwarf laughed manically and reached up with one hand, grasping the braiser and pulling hard, toppling it over and spilling the flaming coals all over the troll.  Or rather, tipping them into the gaping maw of the troll, and causing the braiser itself to hit the troll square in the face.  Hastily, the dwarf clambered up on top of the pillar and, taking a deep breath, leapt off, bouncing off the head of the troll and landing with a roll on the arena floor.  Panting he, backed off watching the troll writhing in agony and stumbled on something.  He glanced down, then stooped to pick up one of the chain links, twisted by the troll vomit, wincing as his hand closed around the still acid coated scrap.  Dazed, the troll rounded on him, stumbling forwards, skin blistering and half blind.  With all his might, the slayer hurled the link, piercing the troll in its good eye, fully blinding it.

The troll moaned, clawing at the fragment, ruining its face even more.  The dwarf used this distraction, running past it and over to the braiser, righting it.

“Over ‘ere ugly,” he shouted, taking advantage of the fact that denied sight that the troll would be forced to rely on it’s other senses, mainly hearing.  The troll immediately turned round to face him and bounded towards him as he took hold of the baiser and braced himself, waiting for the right moment.  The troll closed, mouth gaping and as it was about to reach the slayer, he heaved the spiked braiser into its mouth.  Instinctively the troll bit down, driving the spiked tips of the braiser up through the roof of its mouth and into its brain, the damage done by the flaming coals not long before preventing any chance of regeneration.  The troll gave a whimper and keeled over, dead.

The dwarf backed away slightly, waiting to see if it was really dead, and when it didn’t move, sighed, exasperated.  As he began glancing around wondering what was going to happen to him next, hatches in the arena floor were flung open and a hush fell over the crowd.  Twelve armoured wardens brandishing fireglaives marched out from the openings, fanning out around the dwarf who crouched low, preparing to fight them.  All eyes turned to the box as the presiding priest stepped up to the rail and suddenly the silence was broken as everyone called out at once, some to spare the dwarf, and others calling for his death.  The priest stroked his beard thoughtfully, taking in the cacophony.  Casually he raised a hand, calling for silence.

“Twelve talents of bronze says he let’s him live,” whispered Nâzkuk.

“I’ll take that bet,” smiled Bardek, not taking his eyes off the priest.  The priest stretched out an arm, palm flat and horizontal.  He took a breath and closed his fingers, turning his hand so the thumb pointed up.  As one, the wardens lowered their fireglaives and gripped the the firing mechanisms.  Jets of fire spurted out before the slayer could react, roasting him.  Howling he ran forwards defiantly, but only managed three steps before he keeled over.  The wardens kept up their attack for a whole minute, before shouldering  their weapons and turning on their heels, marching back to the hatches.

Bardek smirked and held out a hand for his payment.

“I’ll give it to ya latter,” grumbled his cousin, pouting.

“Slave,” roared Bardek, “More ale for me and my friends, Nâzkuk’s paying all night!”  Nâzkuk grumbled but didn’t countermand the order, there were plenty of games left to bid on; by the end of the Father’s Quarter he could easily earn that bet back and then some.

Bardek Cinderbeard stroked his beard, looking out from the parapet that encircled the twelfth level of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.  All around him Dawi Zharr packed the raised walkway behind the parapet awaiting the arrival of the procession that marked the first day of the Father’s Quarter.  First thing this morning the procession had set off from the gatehouse in the Hoofcleft, the ring of shattered stone that marked the city limits, and it was only now, in late afternoon that it neared Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, the Black Tower of the Chaos Dwarfs.  Many Outliers, the name the inhabitants of Zharr-Naggrund gave to those of their dark kin who lived in the fortresses and settlements outside the capital, erroneously thought only the sixty tiered ziggurat was the city, but that properly was called Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, whereas Zharr-Naggrundalso encompassed the valley in which it sat; only a complete bumpkin would call the former the latter.  It made Bardek shudder to think such hicks would soon pass through the streets of his beloved city in such great numbers.

That being said, he did take pride in the spectacle that was about to take place, and felt honoured that he had been chosen to be among those of his clan that were to represent them in the generously named ‘Welcoming Committee’.  Bardek was but the second son of a third cousin four times removed of the Overlord of a lesser branch of the Cinderbeard clan and thus had not expected to be chosen for such an honour.  Instead he’d expected that he’d have had to spend the first fortnight of Father’s Quarter overseeing one of the pump houses in the Hoofcleft that fed the lava moat around the city.

The procession neared, marching across the Dark Causeway towards the city.  The Dark Causeway, so named for the purple-veined black marble it was carved from, was a vast viaduct that stretched sixty miles from the Gateway to Mingol Zharr-Naggrund and was held aloft by colossal statues carved into likeness of long dead Dawi-Zharr.  Though he would dare not speak such thoughts out loud, he thought the statues, bearing the Causeway aloft atop their high hats looked comical rather than the intended regal.  A short parapet lined each side of the Causeway, and every four yards was a plinth on which stood statues.  Or at least they looked like statues.  In truth they were sorcerers that had fallen afoul of Hashut’s curse, doomed to stony forms for all eternity.  Sometimes a sorcerer was taken down from his plinth and was borne aloft by sanctified Acolytes to be carried into battle as a holy relic, a stark reminder of the price of failure and attracting the Dark Father’s ire, but for important ceremonies all were returned and reinstalled on their plinths, and Bardek had heard rumours that those that had been lost were replaced by transmogrifying some poor wretch via dark rituals that not even the blackest hearted would dare speak of in more than passing and in hushed, frightened tones.

“I’m bored, when are they going to get here,” said a high pitched voice near Barek’s right leg, and seconds later he felt a tugging on his robe at the knee.  Bardek looked down ready to cuff the brat, peeved that his best robe might now be creased, but stopped himself when he saw who it was.  The boy, who could be no older than ten, eleven at most, only had a few inches growth of beard, but it already showed the characteristic black and copper streaks that gave the Cinderbeard clan it’s name, and due to his age was hatless.  Normally that would be justification for giving him a hiding, but the white robe and heavy silver medallion hanging from his neck stayed Barek’s hand; the Zharrling before him was none other than the Zarrik of Clan Cinderbeard, the firstborn son of Overlord Grukrum, head of the main Cinderbeard clan.

Bardek dropped to his knee, bowing and holding a hand to his head in supplication.  Allegedly the salute was supposed to be a sign of respect, but Bardek suspected it had the more practical purpose of keeping one’s hat from toppling over.

“They’ll be here soon,” he smiled at the child, “Look, already they approach.”  The child stood on tiptoes to look over the parapet but was clearly too short.  “With you permission m’lord,” he said offering his arm, knowing that to touch a Zarrik without permission was to sign your own death warrant.  The boy looked up at him and nodded his consent.  Bardek scooped up the Zharrling and hefted him onto his shoulder.  In the distance the procession drew closer and soon the dark smudge on the causeway resolved itself into distinct units and then into distinct figures.  The Zarrik grinned enjoying the spectacle.

At the front of the procession the Sorcerer-Prophet Nar’dûk Bronzefist was borne aloft a mighty palanquin carried by twelve ogres.  Nar’dûk was high in Lord Astragoth’s graces, and as such it fell to him to represent Zharr-Naggrund in the order of march.  Behind him marched the chosen warriors of the Plains of Zharr who swore direct fealty to Astragoth.  Behind these were those clans that swore fealty to the other major Prophets and clans or who had managed to carve out a niche of independence for themselves, and behind them were regiments from the Outliers.  Being a humble dwarf, Bardek did not know most of the banners borne by the procession and could not put names to many of the lords that lead them; to him the procession was a riot of colour – reds and black, purples and bronze, bone and gold, and many more besides – but nonetheless reinforced his view of the Dawi Zharr’s superiority.   Among those few he could identify were warriors of Clan Bloodbeard, whom he only knew due his mother’s great-grandmother being of the clan, the Red Host of Nir-Kezhar, with whom he had once sailed on a slaving run in his youth, and warriors from Uzkulak which he had passed through on the return trip.  There were a handful more he could recognise, but their names escaped him at present.  Bringing up the rear in the place of lowest honour was a compliment from the Legion of Azgorh, the dread legion of dishonour that all feared that fate would drive them to and that all hoped to avoid.

Bardek, the Zarrik and the other gathered representatives of Zharr-Naggrund watched as the procession approached them.  As the Causeway neared the twelfth level, it split in two arching around like the horns of a bull to meet the level either side of the Southern Stair, one of the four great stairways that ascended directly from Mingol Zharr-Naggrund’s base to the Great Temple of Hashut at the tower’s peak.  Bardek grinned at the sight, and along with the Zarrik and the other assembled dwarfs cheered as the procession split and marched along the horns of the Causeway, rejoining and ascending the Stair.  When they had passed bared set the child down, who ran off to find his parents, and leant on the parapet heavily.

“I need a drink,” he breathed, drawing a flask from his robe and taking a swig.

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“This is definitely a perk of being from a lesser branch of the clan,” grinned Nâzkuk Embertooth, Bardek’s favourite cousin, so named for the black iron and brazen brass set of dentures he wore.

“Aye,” chuckled Bardek, leaning back in his seat “The Nobs can have their pious rituals up in the tower; I’ll take this worship any day.”  He nodded, indicating the great amphitheatre they were sitting in.  His cousin and friends laughed raucously at the jest.

“I jus’ wish they’d get this part over with an’ cut right to tha’ bloodle’ing,” grunted Krovnar Steelbrow.

“I like this part,” grumbled the white bearded Dor’rek Chromedome.

“Hush,” sighed Bardek “It begins.”

They turned their attention to the area where one hundred and forty-four slaves of all kinds of races were chained up in the shape a large Hashut rune.  A hush fell over the crowd as the presiding priest stepped up to the edge of his box overlooking the area floor and raised his hands for silence.  He waited for complete quiet until not even a breath could be heard.

“We are gathered here on the third day of the Father’s Quarter to praise the Dark Father,” intoned the priest who wore a mask fashioned into the likeness of Astragoth.  So finely was it crafted that as the priest spoke it moved as if it were a living face.  “We give unto Him this sacrifice.  In the Dark Times when He came to us we were beset by daemons and foul spirits.  We cried out to the Ancestor Gods to deliver us from the evils of Chaos, but we were forsaken.  To each of the Three Great Ancestors, the twelve leaders cried out and each time were met with silence; twice more to all Three together they cried out, and silence met them; in despair they cried out a final time, cursing the Ancestor Gods, swearing fealty to whomever could deliver us from destruction and grant us the chance for Vengeance.  It was then that He came to us.  Glorious Hashut gathered the Twelve unto His bosom, declaring that they were to be His Twelve Sons and that their sons and daughters would also be His children.

“It is on this day, at the dawn of a new Father’s Quarter that we give thanks and praise Him loudest.  In honour of the memory of His coming we give up these voices.  As in those Dark Times seven score and four voices cried out, so now seven score and four voices shall cry out.  But it is not in anger, fear and lust for vengeance they shall cry out, for it is not us who shall cry out.  Nay, it shall be the Lesser Races who shall cry out, glorying Hashut and His children and that which His boon has allowed us to build.  Look now to His Temple far atop His Tower, for the time is now!”  As one all the Dawi Zharr seated in the stadium turned their gazes westward and upwards to the peak of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.

Far at the top, comprising the highest tier of the ziggurat was The Temple of Hashut.  There were many temples dedicated to the Dark Father scattered all over the empire of the Chaos Dwarfs; many either within the capital city, but this was The Temple, and perched atop it was a colossal bronze statue of the Great Bull.  At this moment, framed by its curved horns was the sun, shedding light into the centre of the arena where the slaves stood chained, straining at their bonds.  To the south and east, if one of the dwarfs had looked that way hung Maanslieb, faint in the afternoon sky.  But it was not Maanslieb that was important, rather its sinister twin, Morrslieb.  Normally the evil moon would wander the sky on a whim, as fickle as Tzeentch, but even its capricious natured bowed to the will of a god on such sacred days.  Even now it hastened across the sky.  In silence, they watched as it glided north and west, heading towards the sun.  Morrslieb slowed its journey, creeping across the face of the sun, and as one the dwarfs held their breath.

Barek spared a glance at the slaves.  They were chained to one another and to iron stakes that kept them in place.  They were of all sapient races and all intermingled in what he presumed was some sort of order, but he himself could not fathom the pattern.  All races had multiple representatives.  All races, but one.  Of dwarfs there was but one member and he stood at the apex of the ‘V’ part of Hashut’s rune, his back turned on the temple, symbolically representing his unworthiness to gaze upon the temple, further reinforced by his nakedness save for an iron helm over his head welded to his flesh.  Barek knew not his name but he did know his story.

The sacrifice was a disgraced daemonsmith who had been responsible for the deepest shafts in a mine out somewhere in the Plain of Zharr.  He had shown a disregard for the slaves under his purview, leaving them to their own devices provided they kept up their quota and sent food down via the chain carriages, not even bothering to properly police the slaves with dwarven overseers, merely sending hobgoblins down when they slacked, not caring or even noticing if they came back.  Such disregard far beyond the contempt all Dawi Zharr had been his undoing, for when an inspection team had descended into the mines to see why production had ceased entirely and had been beset on all sides.  Only a single survivor had escaped the deep shafts, bring dire news to the despot who ran the mines.  The shafts under the watch of the nameless daemonsmith had fallen to the undead, hundreds of slaves raised as zombies, and even skeletons.  The garrison of the mine and several fortresses and workshops nearby had been roused and descended en mass to cleanse the shafts, and in the deepest level they found a vampire lurking in a forgotten cavern in the depths of the mine.  Many good dwarfs had fallen that day, and the cost of the daemonsmith’s negligence was great.  Even the death of the vampire had not stopped the undead horde, forcing the shafts to be sealed and the mine to be abandoned.  As punishment the daemonsmith had been stripped of all titles, his family banished to the Legion of Azgorh and he himself taken into the darkest chambers within the darkest depths of Mingol Zharr-Nagrund so the proper penance so could be observed.  Now he stood as sacrifice to pay the final one.

Barek watched as Morrslieb eclipsed the sun, casting a sickly glow over the arena floor.  As the foul moon fully eclipsed the sun, all one hundred and forty four slave spontaneously combusted, erupting in green flames.  On cue the silence was broken, one hundred and forty [i]three[/i] voices screaming in pain.  The sole dissenter was the fallen daemonsmith who strained  at his chains.  As all the other slaves fell to their knees, he stood tall and proud.  Taking a deep breath, even as his flesh melted from his bones, he threw his head back and gave the mightiest cry of all the slaves.

“HASHUUUUUUUT!!!!!!!”

And with that his charred bones collapsed, crumbling to dust.  The crowd roared and whooped giving up their own cries and praises to the Dark Father, and thus, in the eye of the dwarfen plebs, the Father’s Quarter had truly began.

“Get a move on ya laggards,” bellowed Hârzrazh Coalheart, hobbling up the stairs of the gatehouse to the battlements “I’ll not have those curs from the Outliers showing us up.”  The despot wheezed stony breaths as he ascended the black stairs.  The air inside the gatehouse was cool and comfortable, the temperature maintained by wards enscribed by the hands of apprentice daemonsmiths as part of their training and when he stepped across the threshold it felt like being hit in the face with a furnace; outside the heat was searing and the air carried a hit of ash no matter where you were.  Coalheart smiled with pride seeing his warriors ranking up swiftly and neatly, their crimson scaled armour neatly polished and their hats sitting perfectly straight on their heads.

The dwarfs under his command comprised the garrison of the western tower of the Naggrund Gate, a might brass door standing betwixt two basalt ziggurats at the southern end of the fortress-city of Zharr-Naggrund.  To the south, west and east stretched the Plains of Zharr, a vast desolate expanse dotted with towers, forts and ziggurats from which the lesser clans oversaw the toiling of innumerable slaves.  To the north sat the city of Zharr-Naggrund, a hundred and twenty mile wide bowl at the centre of which stood Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, the immense tower that was the capitol and chief temple of the Dawi Zharr empire, less fortress than mountain in stature.  Mingol Zharr-Naggrund was a colossal ziggurat carved from a single piece of obsidian sixty miles wide and sixty levels tall, each level one twelfth a mile in height and one mile wider than the level above.  Some said that there were sixty more levels below ground, each growing as you descended at the same rate the above ground levels shrank, though Coalheart knew none that had gone beyond the twelfth (though each level being so vast it could contain multiple sub levels it was hard to judge how many levels you had actually descended).  There was even a semi-heretical tale that deep within the bowls of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund dwelt Hashut himself, biding his time, sustained by the blood shed by slaves across the Plain of Zharr, waiting for the day spoken of in the Twelve Books of Prophecy bequeathed by Hashut to the Twelve Sons when the Dawi Zharr had pledged themselves to the Dark Father’s service in the Dark Times many millennia ago, though Coalheart placed no stock in it.

The top most level of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund was the Temple of Hashut, a mighty edifice of iron and bronze capped with a large, hollow brass bull which reared up above a fire pit that was consecrated each day by a gross of slaves, and never allowed to go out.  To reach the temple there was one option; to ascend the most arduous road in the city by climbing one of the four steep staircases that rose from the ground to the top level in a single unbroken line and one of the trials required to become a priest in the Cult of Hashut was to climb by this route without faltering, rest or nourishment.  There were other roads that went as far as the second highest level; the easiest was a broad road, wide enough for ten wagons to drive abreast, that wound in a spiral around the tower ascending in a series of ramps, one per level.  Each level below the highest was mostly hollow, riddled with passages, halls and buildings worked into the stone of the ziggurat itself, but none of these levels above ground were restricted to the interior of the ziggurat; built on the ‘roof’ of each level were more buildings, towers, workshops and even smaller ziggurats, many serving as the family holdings of the city’s numerous clans, and some were set aside to house envoys from the Ogre tribes of the Mountains of Mourn or the human barbarians of the northern Wastes in an attempt to cow them at the sight of the might of the Dawi Zharr.

From the base of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund to the edge of the bowl which marked the city limits was a broad plain covered in a scattering of ziggurats, the private residences of the Sorcerer-Prophets which allowed them a semblance of privacy away from the main tower so that they could engage in study bereft of the stresses of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.  Fed by an ash fall every twelve years, this plain was fertile and had long been cultivated into gardens and plantations tended by the most trusted slaves of each estate.  It was from here the best quality crops were harvested and sold in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund as delicacies.  It was also here the River Ruin ran, entering the plain from the northernmost point, meandering to the base of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund where it was swallowed by an iron gate set in the side of the ground level and spewed out by another on the other side of the ziggurat’s base, whence forth it swung to the east and left the plain.  The lands east of the river were the poorest soil wise and invariably the estates there belonged to those clans lowest in standing.  As such a millennia or so ago, the ruling council had bought up most of the estates and set about transforming it into something more useful.  New schools had been built to train beardlings in the art of war and some private academies had been founded entering on the arts rather than warfare in an attempt to revive the swiftly diminishing culture among the Dawi Zharr.

The grandest achievement of this was the Phlâzian Amphitheatre, built by Vezpâzan Plâzia, a mighty general of the time.  The Amphitheatre was a vast, twelve-tiered, inverted ziggurat dug into the ground and tiled with black marble.  So large was it that it could easily seat half the dwarves in Zharr-Naggrund, and many private boxes lined the arena.  A sophisticated system of trapdoors were hidden under the area floor allowing slaves to be brought up from the pits below, or for sections to be raised or lowered transforming the lay of the land.  There were even powerful pumps that enabled the arena to swiftly be filled and emptied with water so naval battles could be simulated.

At the furthest extremes of the Eastern plain, in its north-eastern corner was a, relatively, small temple complex.  Though the Dawi Zharr as a race as a whole were dedicated to Hashut, they were not so foolish as to ignore the other Chaos gods and it was here that they were acknowledged.  The complex consisted of eight squat ziggurats tended by those few dwarfs that pledged their service to the other gods; these extremists were regarded as renegades and were only permitted to leave the complex to march to war and on special occasions at special dispensation from the ruling council of Zharr-Naggrund.  Each temple was possessed of its own quirk which reflected the god it was dedicated to; the six tiers of Slaanesh’s was wreathed in incense, its halls carved to resonated and magnify the sounds of the debaurcheries held within; Nurgle’s was carved from wood, rotten with age and each of its seven levels slick with mould and fungii; the eight brass levels of Khorne’s were slick with blood, its sides carved into leering skulls; Tzeentch’s was blown from a single piece of glass, multi spectral fires flickering within and a different coloured gem encrusting each of its nine levels; Malal’s, built from white and black blocks of marble, was constantly being rebuilt, only to tear itself down on the heads of its adherents; Necoho’s stood silent and empty, each person to cross the threshold struck down by a single bolt of lightning; Zuvassin’s was incomplete, each brick set slightly askew; finally there was the temple of the Horned Rat, who had no adherents among the Dawi Zharr, instead it was used as a breeding centre for skaven slaves, many of whom were not destined for the slave fields, nor the mines or workshops, but rather the dinner table as basic fare for the other slaves.

At the edge of the plain that was counted as part of the city and before the Plains of Zharr were the city walls.  Despite their name they were not true walls.  Rather the ‘wall’ consisted of broken ground, huge shards of rock and tumbled monolith spearing the sky away from the city out into the Plains of Zharr.  Legend had it when the ancestors of the Dawi Zharr had first pledged themselves to the Dark Father he had stamped his hoof on the earth and had declared that there was where they we’re find their new home.  The force of the stomp had shattered the ground in what was now the Plains of Zharr and the hoof print had formed a natural bulwark within which Mingol Zharr-Naggrund had been raised.  The cyclopean shards ringed the tower and the fertile plain around it, but it was not a perfect ring, and actual walls, many yards high had been built to plug the gap.  Every twelve miles stood a tower, fort or ziggurat to watch over the walls, and halfway between each the Dawi Zharr had erected statues so large they dwarfed even the mighty K’daai Destroyers.  Each statue was in the shape of Taurii, Lammasu or a daemon and each constant vomited lava drawn up from the depths of the earth into channels carved into the Plain of Zharr which fed a moat, a mile wide which encircled the city walls.  The moat could only be crossed in three places, a half mile wide bridge which lead to the only gatehouse in the walls, or by one of the two aqueducts that allowed the River Ruin to pass through the city.

Coalheart raised a farglass to his eye, an ingenious device created by Fûggîth, a Daemonsmith of his clan.  The farglass appeared to be a simple monocle, but by twisting the rim, which consisted of a two dozen rings, gently the wearer could bring into focus object far away without the need for bulkier equipment as was the norm.  Peering through it, he brought into focus the forces arrayed on the other side of the bridge.  Today began the Father’s Quarter, a holy period of twelve weeks that only occurred every seven score and four years and to celebrate there was to be a procession.  In camps outside the city waited delegations from all the holds of the Dark Lands and even a few from outposts beyond.  Coalheart watched as they drew up in the correct order as had been decided by a committee of Sorcerer-Prophets twenty-four years ago.  Coalheart could see the reds and blacks of the Plainsland holds, the gold and bone of Uzkulak, the tower shields bearing an iron gate as a device of the garrison of the Gates of Zharr, the ornate hats and jewelled rings of the Tower of Gorgoth and even, at the rearmost and most shameful position in the procession, the faceless masks of the Infernal Guard of the Black Fortress.

Coalheart turned to the sundial next to him, waiting for the appointed hour.  An eternity seemed to crawl by until finally it was time.  Coal heart raised a gloved hand and a dozen musicians raised bronze horns to their lips.  With a swift motion he dropped his hand and the trumpets blew deeply, the blaring of their horns resonating over the Plains of Zharr, striving to outdo the horns of the Eastern gate tower.  In answer, the procession blew their own horns and beat their drums in co-ordination.  As the answer died down the gatehouse garrisons trumpeted again.  Fifty-nine times the exchange happened, each time growing in strength until on the sixtieth the greatest trumpet sounded.  From high atop Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the great bronze bull bellowed, a rolling thunder that could be heard all across the Plains of Zharr.  At that signal, the gates ground open and the procession set forth.

“Where are they?” grumbled Gahzrak, peering out over the parapet.  “The reports from the watchtower said they’d be here an hour ago.”

“Manlings are always unreliable,” shrugged Hrazzan, hawking a gob of phlegm through crooked teeth  “And the Wastelanders more than most.  They’ve probably had to stop to fight an honour duel ’cause one of ’em stole another’s favourite skull.”  Gahzrak barked with laughter at his friend’s jest and gestured to a nearby slave to bring over a skein of wine so he could wash the mountain dust from his mouth.

“Still, it’s not like them to dawdle when they could have a scrap against someone else.”

“Hush,” Harazzan raised a hand, “Listen.”

“Two miles?”

“And a half at least,” nodded Hrazzan.  “Best sound the alarm.”  Raising a rune encrusted bronze horn to his lips, he gave a single, long blow, which echoed over the valley.  Resting the horn against the crenellations he began to casually reset the game board, smirking “Should give us time for another game, your turn to be trolls I believe.”

“Doesn’t matter,” grumbled Gahzrak, draining the last of the wine, “You’ll beat me again somehow.  I swear to Hashut you cheat somehow.”

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The sun was setting as the first of the marauders rode into the valley, horned and scaled hounds bounding ahead of them.  Spotting the walls of the fortress, they pulled up short of the broad stone bridge which spanned the chasm outside its gates.  Hollering in their uncouth tongues, the riders spread out, galloping in circles around the plain on their side of the bridge as if to mark out their own personal territories.  Horn blasts, drum beats and savage chanting echoed up the valley from whence the riders came and shortly afterwards the infantry marched from its mouth in ragged ranks.

First came the northern tribesmen clad in pelts and armour scraps, savage tattoos etched on their bare skin and rings or iron, gold and bone piercing their naked flesh.  The stoutest marched at the front of their rabblous units, bearing aloft ragged skull topped banners embroidered with foul runes and symbols.  Behind them in ordered ranks came the warriors – those favoured by the gods and bearing their marks.  While the marauders broke ranks, dashing forward whooping towards where their mounted kinsmen had claimed camp spaces, the warriors maintained discipline, striding in step to the centre of the plain and planting their banners in unison, the personal standard of their lord, Hroathgnaw Crowborn, flying high above the rest.

Last came the supply train, wagons piled high with looted weapons and pillaged food, drawn by hulking beasts or pitiful wretches mutated by the northern wastes.  Towering over the carts were four hulking shapes, dark fusions of hell-forged steel and daemons.  While the carts trundled down into the camp, the four hellcannons, goaded by their dwarfen handlers, lumbered to take up positions on the slopes of the hills that formed the valley mouth.

On the fortress walls on the other side of the bridge stood the disciplined ranks of the Dawi Zharr, waiting and watching.  As darkness descended and the barbarian hoard at their gates fell to drinking and feasting, the stoic dwarfen warriors held their places, still as the stones of the mountains.  Through the depths of night they stood watch, keen eyesight surveying the northmen’s camp for signs of movement, but all they saw were the debauched revelries of the servants of the Dark Gods.

[]=== []=== []===

As dawn broke the next day, there were stirrings in the camp and a lone rider road forth from the centre of the camp, the bows of some northern tree lashed to the top of his lamp in sign of parley.  The massive warrior cantered over the stone bridge, lance held aloft and he drew up short of the gate, a bow shot and a half from the walls.  He waited patiently as the great iron bound doors groaned open and an emissary, escorted by thirty steel-clad warriors marched out to meet him.  From their position on the walls, Hrazzan and Gahzrak couldn’t hear what was being said but they could guess – undoubtably the Crowborn had come to barter for weapons and armour; impressed by the hellcannons following him, he surely wanted more.  From the gestures being made it looked as if the barbarian horde wished to buy passage through the fortress and down into the Dark Lands; a request the two Chaos Dwarfs knew would be denied.

The gestures grew more animated, and it was clear the messenger was loosing patience.  With a growl he took the lance in two hands and broke it over his knee, signalling an end to the discourse.  Tossing the shattered shaft aside, he yanked on the reigns, wheeling around and galloping back to the bridge.  With a shrug, the dwarfen emissary turned and signalled the warriors on the walls to prepare for battle.  With a chuckle, Hrazzan raised his horn to his lips and gave three sharp blasts which were answered by three matching blasts from the fortress nestling on the cliff face behind the wall.

The fortress, nominally and outpost of Uzkulak but in actuality, due to the extent of the delving of the Dawi Zharr, the outskirts of the Place of the Skull, was a four tiered ziggurat half buried in the cliff at the rear of a cwm overlooking a chasm in the mountains to the north of the Zorn Uzkul.  Across the mouth of the cwm spanned a great wall, bookended by two ominous towers.  The gate, iron shod and ten times the height of a dwarf sat in the centre of the wall and lead into the cwm.  However, this was not the true way into the fortress, for the ziggurat was built high up on the rear cliff with no door or gateway opening to the valley floor.  Instead a warren of tunnels nestled beneath the surface, leading to platforms lining the sides of the cwm and to secret doors hidden outside the wall on the narrow plain between the mountainside and the chasam.  Secret doors were hidden in the main walls’s gateway too, on either side of the gate, cunningly disguised as the walls of the arch, so that if the gates were breached, units of blunderbusses could spring as from the wall itself and ambush the invaders as they passed under the wall.

As the rider crossed back over the bridge, wide enough for a hundred men to walk abreast, secret signals were given and dwarfen warriors marched from the tunnels where they had lain in wait, appearing to the encamped barbarian horde to be marching through the gate from a courtyard betwixt wall and fortress.  Seeing the stunted warriors deploying and their own emissary returning in disgrace, lords and chieftains sprang to their feet, rousing their men.  The sun ascended higher as the rabble began to form, different tribes jostling for the honour of being the first to cross the bridge and it was past mid morning before the advance was sounded.

Beating axes, swords and hammers against their shields rhythmically the horde began to march.  Shoulder to shoulder the crossed the bridge in a tightly packed mass, banners snapping in the wind.  At the front once more were the marauders, the warriors and knights holding the centre, letting their disposable allies be the ones to rush forwards and taste the blades of the Dawi Zharr.

Hrazzan and Gahzrak watched idly as the barbarians crossed, waiting for the right moment.

“Now?” asked Hrazzan, sucking his teeth, trying to dislodge a stuck bit of meat, as the first marauders reached the halfway point of the bridge, slavering hounds bounding ahead.

“Wait for it,” grumbled Gahzrak, raising a meaty fist.  When the front rank was only a quarter span from fully crossing, he dropped his hand.  “Now.”  With a grin, Hrazzan grabbed a speaking tube built into the parapet and blew his horn into it.

A heartbeat passed and hen there was a mighty crack.  Sections of the bridge, large enough to hold a hundred men fell away on mighty hinges, pitching the marauders standing on them into the chasm below.  Screams of horror and bellows of rage went up as hundreds fell to their deaths.  Such was the strength of the flow of bodies that those standing near the new holes were forced over the edge to join their recently fallen comrades.  Confusion went up as the forward momentum was broken as men pushed against each other to escape the death pits.

Without warning, the human cries were joined by heart stopping, inhuman screams as the deathshriekers positioned on the cwm’s platforms opened up.  Rockets leapt up high into the air, sailing over the chasm to burst over the hordes yet to cross.  Daemonically infused explosives corkscrewed down, slamming into the tightly packed mass on the opposing plain sowing more terror and confusion in their ranks.  Panicked and seeking to escape the death from above, the remaining marauders threw themselves forwards, trying to force their way onto the bridge, while the mutants and more cowardly of the barbarians scattered, rushing back towards the valley they’d marched down the afternoon before, hoping to outrange the rocket batteries.

Seeing this, Hrazzan and Gahzrak bellowed with laughter, knowing what was about to happen.  Without warning, the dwarfen handlers of the hellcannons leapt to their feet and snatching up heavy hammers and axes, cut loose the chains binding the daemon engines.  Howling with joy, the hellcannons leapt forwards bearing down on the fleeing mutants and forcing them back to the killing zone.

As the press increased, those crossing the bridge soldiered on, more tumbling into the chasm through the gaps.  As they did so, flames bloomed in the iron statues lining the low walls of the bridge and jets of flame were vomited from their mouths as hidden magma cannons activated as the next stage of the fortresses defences come into play.  Black smoke gusted up from the bridge with a great charnel stench which billowed in the breeze, obscuring the plain where the hellcannons wreaked havoc.  In the centre of the bridge, surrounded by the death fires, the knights wrestled with their horses who bucked and stomped, spooked by the screams and heat.

Sitting tall in the saddle, the Crowborn tugged on his reigns, causing his daemon steed to rear in anger.  Bellowing instructions, the barbarian lord thrust his bloodthirsty axe forwards towards the ordered dwarfen ranks waiting on their side of the bridge.  Digging his spurs in he forced his horse into a gallop, trampling the milling mass of marauders that blocked his path.  Gaining control of their own horses, the knights followed after him swiftly, cutting down any marauder who got in their way.  Clearing the crushing mass of confusion, the charge picked up speed, hooves striking sparks on the flagstones of the bridge.  Seeing the fast approaching cavalry, the blunderbussers hefted their weapons and took aim.  As the knights cleared the bridge a sharp crack split the air as a wall of lead streaked into the charging horsemen who disappeared in a red mist.

A breath of stillness fell over the dwarfen fire lines as the shots echoed down the chasm.  A stillness broken by a bloody snort and the clatter of armour.  With heathen obscenities on his lips, the Crowborn plunged from the mist and crashed into the heavily armoured dwarfen lines.  In good order, the blunderbussers fell back from his fury, and forward stepped Zahxan Bullslayer, the fortress’s overlord, accompanied by the silent ranks of his obsidian-clad Immortal Guard.  Spying his foe, the Crowborn screamed a challenge, tossing aside his shield.  Zahxan gave a silent nod and strode forward, his bodyguards spreading out to encircle the duel.

Spitting hate filled words, the Crowborn took his axe in a double handed grip, sweeping it in a low arc aimed at his opponent’s chest.  Zahxan raised his shield casually, deflecting the blow with a sneer of disdain on his lips.  Furious, the Crowborn reigned down more blows, hammering away at the iron barrier betwixt him and his stunted foe.  Biding his time, Zhaxan stood resolute, shrugging of the attacks as if they were no more than insect stings.

Suddenly, without warning, he lashed out with his maul, striking the Crowborn’s left leg, shattering the knee.  The barbarian howled in pain and redoubled his efforts, but his new limp threw him off balance and his once precise, if savage, attacks began to miss, clipping Zahxan’s shield rim rather than pounding its brazen boss.  Again Zahxan bided his time, and again when he was ready it was a single bludgeon he delivered, this time to the right knee.  Cursing to his gods, the Crowborn staggered on broken legs, his attacks now wild and un aimed.  Snorting derisively, Zahxan stepped forwards and delivered a third blow.  All men and dwarfs in eyeshot winced in collected reflexive sympathy at the sickening crunch as maul collided with armoured groin and the Crowborn sank to his shattered knees.  Not missing a beat, Zahxan dropped his shield, stepping to the left and took his weapon in both hands, twisting it as it swung in an underarm arc up into the Chaos Lord’s neck, launching his head high into the air.

With the death of their master, the will of the horde finally broke, and they turned and fled back over the bridge.  As they did so, yet another layer of the fortress’s defences was revealed.  Of the statues on the bridge five had not gouted flames, and under the plinths of these had clustered many marauders.  But as the barbarians had began to rout, these statues burst into flames and fell upon their flanks.  Roaring with red hot fury, the K’daai Fireborn plunged into the tide of flesh, lashing out wildly, scorching their prey with their fiery forms, the flagstones of the bridge blistering and cracking in the heat.

As the daemonkin pursued the survivors, the pyre clouds parted revealing the far plain.  From hidden doors flooded hordes of hobgoblins, sweeping down from the mountains to meet the fleeing men.  Armed with whips, nets and chains, the cackling greenskins fell upon the broken force, capturing those they could and driving the remainder back towards the bridge and into the waiting arms of the advancing chaos dwarfs.  Zahxan and his Immortals held the centre and to either side of them marched fireglaive armed warriors and on the flanks were eager young beardlings, most not even a century old.

Exhausted, the last few hundred marauders threw down their weapons and fell to their knees, crying for mercy. Chuckling evilly, the beardlings rushed forwards, dragging down the barbarians and binding them tightly with heavy chains.

Up on the wall, the gathered dwarfs began to disperse, the entertainment done for the day.  Resting against the parapet, Hrazzan sighed and grabbed a wineskin.  Nodding the the carpet of corpses coating the bridge he chuckled “Looks like meat’s on the menu tonight.”

“Aye,” nodded Gahzrak “Was getting sick of year-old hobgoblin; much prefer mutton to chicken.”  Hrazzan roared at his friend’s jest and passed him the skin.

“Thank Hashut we have plenty of drink and a warm brazier up here – I pity the poor gits who have to clear that mess up down there.”

“I’ll drink to that,” laughed Gahzrak, tossing back the wine and settling in for the remainder of their watch.

Heru-Ur stirred.  A thin stream of dust cascaded from the cracked ceiling down onto his hull.  With the grinding of gears, the dreadnought’s head lifted, his gaze shifting from the mosaic patterning the camber floor to the crystal widows set between the pillars lining the walls.  The hum of his power plant changed pitch as he commanded it to switch from idling to battle mode.  Cautiously, he stood up from the marble throne purpose built so that those battle-brothers entombed within one of the Legion’s dreadnoughts could continue to take part in the debates and discussions mooted by their able bodied brothers.  With slow ponderous steps, Her-Ur approached the windows and looked out.

In the streets below he saw platoons from the Spireguard rushing to and fro, setting up defensive positions and preparing for battle.  Curious, Heru-Ur opened a link to the local vox network and froze in horror.  The unthinkable had happened.  The tranquillity of Tizca had been shattered.  Someone was attacking.

Turning his back on the windows, he stomped off to join the fray.  By the time he’d reached the stairs leading down, he’d gathered from the vox that it was none other than the Space Wolves who were attacking!  The news took him aback – had those barbarians finally broken their leashes and gone rogue?  Such a thing was nigh unthinkable, but then again the Wolves did not have the restraint inherent in true Astartes like the Thousand Sons.  As he descended the stairs, the picture grew grimmer.  The Wolves were pressing hard and the Spireguard were crumbling under the ferocity of the attack.  By the time Heru-Ur had reached the foot of the stairs, the Wolves were nearly upon his position.

Heru-Ur strode up behind the Spireguard line, and those who turned at the sound of his approached let out a cheer, taking heart from his presence.  A tense few seconds passed as they waited for the Wolves to close.  For a moment, it was almost peaceful, reflected Heru-Ur, admiring the way smoke drifted across the street.  The serenity, however, was spoiled by clamour of the Wolves’ advance.  Suddenly, without warning, the Wolves burst through the smokescreen and hell, as the old saying went, broke loose.

As the Spireguard squatted behind their barricades and aimed their lasguns, Heru-Ur hefted his multi-melta and took aim.  Lasbolts splashes ineffectually against the power armour of the Wolves and inside his sarcophagus Heru-Ur frowned.  How could the Spireguard be expected to hold back the tide when their weapons were ineffectual and those of the enemy tore through their ranks like a reaper through wheat?  No longer holding back, Heru-Ur opened fire.  The melta beams flashed into existence, the brilliance of their light momentarily burning after images onto the exposed retinas of any who looked at them.  The Wolves howled in anger and pain as the melta beams decimated their ranks.

Not letting up, the dreadnought continued to fire at the Wolves as he charged forwards.  Clearing the barricade in a single step, he rushed into the enemy ranks and swung his khopesh – a giant blade in the form of those wielded by his battle-brothers, but oversized so it could fit his enormous hands.  The power sword clove through armour with the same ease that the melta beams had and the Wolves drew back.  A few fool hardy one rushed at him from the left, his gun side, but unperturbed, Heru-Ur swatted them aside with the secondary khopesh bolted under his melt arm.

Distracted by the charge, the Wolves had left themselves exposed to the Spireguard who opened fire with everything they had, heavy weapons tearing through the Space Marines without a care, and the sheer number of lasbolts being enough to overcome their armour.  Howling in anger, the Wolves pulled back, and elated by his success, Heru-Ur followed them, driving them back through the smoke.

Abruptly, the smoke cleared and Heru-Ur found himself on one of the promenades looking down onto a plaza.  The destruction before him would have made him weep if he’d still been able.  A vile bestial roar broke him from his reverie and he turned to see a slate grey dreadnought stomping towards him.  It was one of the newer models – bulky and blocky whereas Heru-Ur’s body was sleek and rounded – but no less deadly.  Heru-Ur raised his multi-melta and fired once.  The blast struck true but seemed to have no effect.  The hull of the dreadnought was festooned with rune carved bones and wolf hide fetishes, and as Heru-Ur watched the melta beam dissipate he noticed some of the bones crumble to bust and a glow in the runes dim.

“Hypocrites,” rumbled Heru-Ur – the Wolves were always accusing the Thousand Sons of sorcery and witchcraft, and yet here they were employing warpcraft of their own.  The dreadnought charged towards him and he brought his khopesh up into a defensive stance.  The enemy dreadnought swung a fist and Heru-Ur twisted aside, narrowly dodging the blow.  Dancing backwards, he continued to dodge blows while striking out with his own weapon whenever he spotted an opening.  The enemy dreadnought was nimble, more nimble than anyone would expect such an ungainly looking device to be, and as such Heru-Ur was unable to land anything approaching a direct hit.  Fortunately he was not aiming for a killing blow.  Instead, each strike slowly whittled away at the talismans festooning the dreadnoughts chassis; snipping binding ropes and slashing pelts.

As he backpedalled, Heru-Ur became aware of the edge of the promenade growing ever near.  Switching from a defensive stance to an offensive one, he lunged forwards with his Khopesh, but with lupine speed his foe caught it in a claw like fist.  Lightning crackled as the two energy sheathed weapons met.  Metal groaned as the two war machines strove against each other, their strength evenly balanced.  Opening himself to the Great Ocean, Heru-Ur drew on the powers of the warp and channelled them into his force sword.  With a deafening thunderclap, the blade erupted with arcane energies.  The sword went flying from Heru-Ur’s hand and the arm of his foe twisted into a mangled lump of metal.  The Wolf roared in anger, speakers embedded into its shoulders twisting the pre-recorded animal cries into something vile and vicious.

Crouching low, the dreadnought grappled with Heru-Ur and forced him back.  With a grunt, it tipped him up and toppled him over, demolishing the ornate balustrade and knocking him off the promenade.  As he fell, Heru-Ur let out a bark of laughter.  His mind went back, remembering his youth.  He remember the time when, as an initiate of the Legion he went into the temple of the Corvidae cult where he’d studied for a short time in an attempt to further his understanding and insight into his abilities.  He had been ill-suited to the scholastic domain of the Corvidae, just as he’d been told by his masters, but stubbornly he’d insisted on spending at least some time in study there.  In all the long hours he had cloistered himself in the temple he’d had but one vision – a foretelling of his own death.  The vision was one of fire; an inferno consuming his body.  Yet here he was falling.

Heru-Ur struck the ground with enough force to crack the marble flagstones and buckle the plating on his left shin, but miraculously was otherwise undamaged.  Groaning, he clambered to his feet and looked up.  Above him the enemy dreadnought crouched on the edge, the speakers bellowing out howls of triumph.  Infuriated, Heru-Ur aimed his melta and opened fire.  At this distance the beams dissipated before they reached his foe, but it was close enough that it still got buffeted by waves of superheated air.  With a growl of surprise, the dreadnought lost its footing and toppled over the edge.  Heru-Ur dove aside as it fell and narrowly avoided being crushed beneath its bulk.

The two dreadnoughts picked themselves up and began to circle each other.  As they did so, Heru-Ur became aware of Space Wolves gathering around them, however none made a move to attack and assist their brother.  Instead they began to woop and howl, and beat their armour with their fists.  Encouraged by their cheering, the Space Wolf dreadnought lunged at Heru-Ur, beating at him with its power fist and the mangled remains of its power claw.  Frantically, Heru-Ur backed away, deflecting blows with his own arms.  A flagstone gave way underfoot and Heru-Ur fell to his knees, raising his combat arm to ward of the pummelling blows of his opponent.

A plan formed in his head and he mentally disengaged the safeties on his melta.  Swinging the weapon round, he pointed it at the dreadnoughts feet and opened fire.  Blast after blast pummelled into the flagstones turning them molten.  Knocked off balance, the Space Wolf dreadnought ceased its onslaught momentarily.  A moment was all Heru-Ur needed.

Lightning fast, he snatched up the secondary blade stowed beneath his melta and plunged it into the sarcophagus of his opponent, and not a moment too soon he reflected as the barrel of the melta erupted under the stress and heat of overuse.

The Space Wolf dreadnought staggered back, wrenching the blade from his grasp, its howls of rage diminishing to sad, pathetic whimpers.  With a final whimper, the dreadnought toppled over, lifeless.  Around them the chanting and drumming died down in shock.

Heru-Ur staggered to his feet and glanced about.  Professional warriors, it didn’t take the Wolves long to overcome their shock and thus he had no chance to rest.  Bolter shells pinged off his hull as he centred himself and opened his mind to the aether.  Lurching to life, Heru-Ur’s hand shot out, azure fire springing to his finger tips.  He hurled the fireball into his audience, the impact sending a whole squad flying.

“For Prospero!” cried Heru-Ur and charged, his bulk smashing aside marines like rag dolls.  As he fought, he drew more on his powers, arcane energies springing to life to obliterate those around him.  On he charged, forging his way through the crowd, not caring where the charge took him.

The Wolves drew back and Heru-Ur began to laugh in triumph.  The laughter soon died on his lips.

A tall figure in gilded armour strode through the Wolvish ranks, his high helm towering over his allies.  Doubt entered Heru-Ur’s mind for the first time that day.  What were Custodes doing here?  Moreover, why were they fighting alongside the Wolves instead of against them?

The Custodian marched right up to Heru-Ur and levelled his spear.  Heru-Ur brought his melta to bare, then cursed himself for his lapse in judgment – the weapon was useless for anything other than bludgeoning now.  Grunting in frustration, he took a step towards the Custodian.  The Custodian sidestepped and leapt forwards, faster than Heru-Ur had anticipated.  The spear was a blur of silver and gold, striking Heru-Ur thrice before he could react.  Every counter he made was too slow, every riposte met thin air.  Dents and cracks began to form in his hull, the Custodian exploiting every weakness and stress inflicted in Heru-Ur’s duel with the dreadnought.

Frustrated, Heru-Ur channelled his powers and stomped down with one foot.  The shockwave scattered Wolves, but the Custodian agilely leapt into the air moments before he could be caught.  Heru-Ur lashed out with more eldritch blasts and for the first time the Custodian was on the back foot.  Ceasing the psychic barrage, Heru-Ur bounded forwards and managed to grasp the Custodian’s spear.  With a mighty tug, he yanked it from his foe’s grasp and tossed it aside.  Unnoticed, the weapon span end over end, the force of the throw taking it over a nearby marble railing where it fell down to a lower level, skewering a Wolf Lord in the head as he lead an assault on a group of beleaguered Spireguard.

Unperturbed, the Custodian snatched up a sword from a fallen Wolf and attacked once more. In retaliation, Heru-Ur began to draw on his powers once more, but paused.  Long dead synapses were beginning to reawaken, and he could feel sensations seeping into his flesh body.  Concerned he turned his thoughts inwards, inspecting himself.  What he detected horrified him.

Cocooned in life support wires and amniotic fluids, his organic body was secured safely in the sarcophagus of his dreadnought body, or at least, that was the theory.  There was one thing the defence systems could not protect against – the body itself.  Triggered by the surge of aetheric energy he’d been drawn on, the Flesh Change was now ravaging Heru-Ur’s carcass.  Flesh ran like candle wax; bone splintered and grew into spikes; skin hardened, cracking into carapace and scales.  Horrified by what was happening, Heru-Ur stood immobile, his attacker’s blade striking his hull unopposed.  Realising what he had to do, Heru-Ur lurched into action.

Taking the Custodian unawares, Heru-Ur grappled his gilded foe and held him tight to his chest.  Charging into the audience of Wolves who had gathered, he threw himself down on top of the Custodian, pinning him under his bulk.

As they lay there in the dust, the Custodian began to laugh.  It was a wet, bloody laugh where his lungs, torn by Heru-Ur’s unexpected attack began to fill with fluid.  “Fool,” laughed the Custodian haughtily, “You will not slay me here.  I know my fate.  It is my destiny to die in fire.  The Emperor himself prophesised to me that I would fall in an inferno, taking down a mighty foe.  How could such a perfect being as he be wrong?”

Heru-Ur did not reply.  Subconsciously, he was aware of the Wolves circling him.  Inside his sarcophagus, what remained of his mouth twisted into a parody of a smile.  His limbs whined as they powered down and his power plant hummed with energy as he diverted everything into a feedback loop.  Turning his attention back to the Custodian, Heru-Ur whispered a single phrase as power left his vox systems.

“None of us can escape our Destiny.”

With that, the power plant overloaded.  For an instant a miniature sun flared into existence on the surface of Prospero, immolating those nearby; the shear heat roasting those Wolves slightly further away in their armour and turning dust, ash and stone for several yards around to glass.  A psychic shockwave thrust out from the blast, penetrating minds and overloading voxes for near a half mile around.  The shockwave carried but one word.  A single word.  No physical damage did it bare; no impact on the material world did it wreak, save that caused by those cowed by the mental shout.  A single word.  Heru-Ur’s final word.

“DESTINY!”

Sotar ground his teeth as the medic applied a medi-patch to his wound – a glancing hit from a bolter shell had torn through his flak vest, leaving a bloody hole in his side.  Around them, the rest of the squad crouched in the ruins, taking cover in the rubble while returning fire on their attackers.  Pain washed over his as the patch sealed and released a chemical cocktail into his bloodstream designed to dull the pain while keeping him on his feet.  Pressing a hand to his side, Sotar limped over to the makeshift barricade which lay across the street and peered over it.  Dust and smoke billowed across the once beautiful avenue, obscuring his view, but he could still see the lumbering shadows of the attackers looming in the clouds.

“Fall back!” ordered Sotar, turning from the scene.  Obediently his squad began to retreat, some laying covering fire as the rest ran to the nearest cover where they in turn lay down covering fire so the remainder could catch up.  They’d reached the end of the street and were about to turn the corner when suddenly one of the rearguard called out “Incoming!”

Sotar glanced back and growled in anger as he saw the missile dart out of the smoke.  Instinctively he began to leap out of the way, but his wound slowed him down and the edge of the blast caught him, sending him somersaulting into a nearby building.  Ears ringing, Sotar groaned as he tried to pick himself up, but a sharp pain in his gut sapped his strength, and instead he slumped against the nearby wall.  Screwing up his eyes he gathered his strength and then glanced down.  Piercing his armour was a large shard of crystal, probably from the tower that had once stood behind the building he was now in.

Glancing around, he recognised it as Athelene’s, a cafe he had frequented once upon a time.  Now it lay in ruins, its marble was smeared with dirt and soot, its tables and chairs smashed to kindling.

Harsh laughter broke him from his reverie, a deep bestial growl that made his heart flutter.  Looking to his left, he saw an immense shape crouching in the corner.  It wore slate grey armour draped in furs.

“Mercy!” cried the Spireguard, raising his hands in submission.  The beast laughed again, and Sotar noticed that his first impression had been misguided.  The Space Wolf did not crouch – instead he too was slumped against the wall, and one side of his armour was scorched, while the furs were matted with blood and his unruly hair and beard smouldered.

“Why should I give you mercy?” slavered the Wolf, “You who consort with Wytches?  You’re nothing but a traitor!”

Sotar gulped, tasting a hint of metal.  “I am a warrior sir, and you will respect that!”

“Pah!” spat the Wolf.  “What do you know of war coward?”

Sotar’s face flushed with anger.  “I have fought on many battlefields,” he replied, “I have won many honours.”  He tapped a bronze plate bolted to his flak brigandine; it was engraved with a stylised image of a man slaying an ork.  “I was at Praadus V,” he informed the Wolf, “I fought for a year and a day to purge that world of the greenskin.”

“Heh,” sneered the Wolf, “If the Rout had been there it would have taken no more than a month, and that only if we’d been sleeping for most of it.”

Sotar’s eyes narrowed at the arrogance.  He tapped another honour plate.  “Even you barbarians acknowledge the difficulty in driving the Krurn from the Goldburnt Stars,” he replied.  The wolf merely gave a bow of his head in admission, so Sotar continued.  “I was there when we boarded their flagship,” he said; this drew an interested growl from the Wolf.  “I lead the charge as my company took the lower landing decks.”

“And that is what you are proud of?” laughed the Wolf, “Killing a few mewling deckhands?  A child could slay those pitiful worms.”

“Fool,” snapped Sotar in anger, “Do you know nothing?  The lower landing decks were where their leaders hoped to flee from in secret if the battle turned against them.  An entire squad of Executioners defended it.”  At this the Wolf pricked up his ears.  Sotar unclasped his left vambrace and tugged off his glove.  “I lost my arm in hand to hand with the squad’s Hangman.”  He raised the arm showing the gilded bionic that had been under his glove.  “I still remember the fight blow for blow.  I remember the stench as my sword slid between the chittinous plates on its belly and its lifeblood washed out.”  Sotar’s hand fell to his side and he raised his khopesh.  The sword had been snapped halfway along then blade where the Xenos monstrosity had stamped on it, and halfway down from the break to the hilt the blade was blackened and twisted where the Xenos’ blood had soaked it.  Ever since Sotar had born it as a trophy, letting it hang proudly at his hip opposite the gilded replacement that he had afterwards used as his combat weapon.

Frustrated, he tossed the blade aside and glared at the Wolf.  Growling, the beast clambered to his feet, left arm hanging limply and left leg dragging.  The Astartes limped over to the Spireguard and looked down at him.  Sotar glared up defiantly, while the Wolf looked down, staring him in the eye.  After a few seconds the Wolf looked away.

“You speak truly I deem,” he chuckled, a hand resting on the butt of his bolt pistol.  “Yes you are a warrior.  I will grant you mercy.”

Sotar sighed in relief.  He looked back up at the Wolf and paused.

“You said you’d give me mercy,” he protested as the Wolf levelled the pistol.

“I did, and I will,” replied the Wolf, cocking the weapon, “The Warrior’s Mercy.”

A single shot rang out, lost in the tumult of the battle around them.  Without a second glance, the Wolf limped away, searching for hew prey.

Holtz looked down at his pocket-chrono, an antique brass device passed down through his family for over two centuries.  He flipped open the lid and took a moment to marvel at the ingenuity of the device; surely it was a marvel that something so complex could be contained within such a small casing?

“Half an hour more lads,” he called out to his squad, “Then we can go back topside and Varren’s mob can take over.”  His men acknowledged stoically taking neither cheer in the concept of being relieved soon, nor dismay that their shift had yet to finish.  Holtz slipped the chrono back into his pocket and stepped up to inspect a buttress that his squad had just installed in the shaft.  Nearby, the Hades breaching pod began to slow, drawing the Watchmaster’s attention.  The Hades drew to a halt and began to power down, shutting off completely rather than going into idle.

Frowning, Holtz went over to the control panel at the rear of the machine and checked the status display.  Muttering a catechism of activation, he began the start up sequence, and then turned to his squad.

“Private,” he said, beckoning over one of his men, “Return to the forward command post and tell Lieutenant Jarl that we’ve reached Combat Range.  We’re proceeding with caution and awaiting the order to attack.  The rest of you,” he ordered, turning to the remainder of the squad, “Gear up.  In lieu of the circumstances, Varren’s boys should be relieving us early, but I don’t want to take any chances.  From now on we’re treating the situation as if we were already in battle.”  Saluting him to show their comprehension, they set about donning their carapace armour and combat webbing that had been stowed on a flatbed cart.

“Masks on,” commanded Holtz when they were all kitted up.  The Hades had now trundled on several yards and Holtz was about to instruct his squad to lay another buttress when without warning the tunnel floor gave way and the breaching pod collapsed into a hole.  Snatching up his shotgun, the Watchmaster ran over to the hole and looked down.  Below, the Hades was bucking and lurching as its tracks tried to grind down the spoil beneath it and right itself.  Holtz swore and turned to his squad.

“Contact!” he cried and immediately they all snapped to attention, bringing their weapons to bear.  “Jurg, get back up to the command post and apprise them of the situation.  Inform them that we’re heading into the enemy tunnel to do a reccy and that we require reinforcements ASAP.”  As if to punctuate his point, a burst of autogun fire lanced out of the hole, peppering the tunnel roof.  Holtz stepped back from the hole and drew out a grenade. “Masks on!” he ordered and Jurg sped away to deliver the message.  Not waiting for his men to reply, because he knew that all of them would comply without hesitation, Holtz primed the grenade and lobbed it down into the enemy tunnel.  Quickly, he fastened his own gas mask and counted down mentally as two of his other men lobbed their own gas grenades at the foe.

The soft hiss of the grenades shedding its contents was muffled by the mask and his helmet, but the screams of the enemy as they choked on the poisoned gas was unmistakable.  He gave it ten more seconds for the gas to take effect before signalling the attack.  Holtz leaped down into the hole, the gas cloud screening him from view and thumps around him told him that his squad were doing likewise.  Raising his shotgun, the Watchman advanced forwards cautiously.  A large shape loomed in front of him and a step later it resolved into the blocky form of the Hades which during the opening of the combat had had time to right itself and had began to head down the tunnel towards the enemy.  Over the roar of the drills he could discern the sound of bullets pinging off the front.  He winced, praying to the God-Emperor and the Omnisiah that the blades wouldn’t be damaged – there’d be Warp to pay if they were.

Crouching behind the pod, he activated the status screen, and selected a manual override, giving him control of the melta-cutters hidden in the nose of the machine.  The targeting screen flickered to life, displaying a grainy image obscured by the gas filling the tunnel.  A shadow loomed in the fog and Holtz hit the firing rune.  Bright white light lanced out, filling the enclosed space like a starburst and screams told him that the blast had vaporized several of the assailants.  His squad mates took up position on either flank of the Hades and advanced in time with it.

The gas had begun to dissipate and it became clear that the enemy had retreated further up the tunnel.  When they’d advanced hundred yards beyond where the two tunnels met, Holtz called for a halt and switched the Hades over into idle mode.  They waited patiently, but no more enemies came.  Presently they were joined by a second team of Engineers and a half squad of Grenadiers who were accompanied by Cele, the regiment’s newest Commissar.

“Status report?” asked Cele, fixing Holtz with his steely gaze.

“All quiet sir,” replied Holtz, signalling for Jurg, who had returned with the Commissar and other squads, to take over his place at the Hades’ control panel.  “The enemy retreated swiftly after our initial assault and there have been no further signs from them.  My estimate would be that they were just worker rabble and not line troops.”

Cele nodded.  “Sergeant Varren,” he ordered.  Holtz cringed slightly at the misuse of rank designation, but remained silent – the Commissar was young and there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of Krieg hierarchy. “You and your squad take point.  Holtz, designate five men to remain here and guard the Hades, then take up the rear.  Sergeant Gruber, you and your Grenadiers, are with me.”

Disciplined and orderly, the guardsmen moved out, advancing cautiously up the passage.  The tunnel cut straight, not winding once, only deviating as much as could be accounted for by human error, and it was completely deserted, discarded mining equipment and the odd over turned cart or mound of spoil the only indications of recent activity.  The advance continued unimpeded.  After a while, Cele fell back to converse with Holtz.

“Assessment Sergeant?” he asked.

“Sir?” replied Holtz.

“What do you make of our uninterrupted progress?”

“I don’t like it sir,” sighed Holtz, shaking his head, “I suppose that this could have been an abandoned project and the men we encountered were a rouge or forgotten team, but that’s just too good to be true.”

“Agreed,” nodded the Commissar, “Still, why would we be allowed to advance this far unchallenged.”

Holtz shrugged.  “I don’t know how the mind of a heretic works sir.  Who knows why they do anything?”

Cele smiled and nodded.  “Still, what is your recommended course of action?”

Holtz mulled over the question for a few seconds then replied, “I say we continue to advance.  If we turn back now, we’ll have achieved nothing.  If we continue, then we may be able to get behind the enemy lines and take out something vital.”

“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Cele.

“Sir!” came a cry from up ahead.

“What now?” muttered Cele advancing to see what was going on and beckoning Holtz to follow him.  Up ahead, the vanguard had paused and some of the troopers were looking up.  A vertical shaft was thrust up through the roof, its other end concealed in shadows.  Holtz drew a data slate from his pocket and punched in some data.

“I estimate that we’re under the enemy’s forward command post,” he said, reviewing the slate.

“What possible use could they have for a shaft in their basement?” asked Cele bemused.

“Sir,” grunted Varren, “This may explain.”  He shone his luminator further up the tunnel revealing partially laid rail tracks.

Cele stared at them in confusion.  “Excuse my inexperience,” he said, “But what exactly is the relevance of them installing public transportation?”

“Transporting explosives,” replied Holtz, “The tunnel leads towards our forward command post.  If they’d reached it, they could have used the rails to easily transport enough explosives to demolish it.”

“Then you think that this shaft leads to their main armoury?” asked Cele, looking up into the darkness.

“Aye,” nodded Gruber.  “If we can get up there and plant charges, we could throw them into disarray.”

“Then that’s what we’re going to do,” stated Cele.

“Sir?” questioned Varren.

“It’s too good an opportunity to pass up,” explained Cele, “Besides, it’s too risky leaving the tunnel open and collapsing it is no guarantee that we’ll have stopped them.  We’d have to divert extra troops to make sure the tunnel is secure and we can’t afford to draw them off the front lines.”

“Then how do you propose we get up there?” asked Gruber.

“The same way the miners did,” suggested Holtz, pointing to a rust ring ladder set into the wall in one corner of the shaft.

“Surely that’ll be suicide?” sneered Varren.  “The workers will have fled up there and there’ll be security teams waiting in ambush.  We’d get cut down as soon as we reached the top.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Holtz thoughtfully.  “We could use gas grenades.  If the first one up the ladder takes a bunch in a satchel, he can pause before the top of the ladder and prime them then toss the satchel over the lip.  The grenades should scatter and conceal us as we go over.”

“Worth a shot,” smiled Cele, “Looks like you’ve just volunteered to be the first man Sergeant Holtz.”

“Sir,” saluted Holtz grimly.

A few minutes later, balanced precariously on the top of the rusty ladder, Holtz began to wonder if his plan had been a mistake.  The ladder felt like it could barely take his weight and it was awkward to hold onto and prime the grenades at the same time.  Gritting his teeth, he somehow managed to do it and paused for a second to gather himself.  There was a soft hiss as the first grenade activated and with a prayer to the God-Emperor, he swung the bag up and over the lip of the shaft, arcing it so that the grenades would scatter.

From up above came the shouts of several people as the defence teams that were waiting in ambush were surprised by the sudden appearance of the grenades.  As gas began to billow down into the shaft, Holtz could hear the distinct sound of weapons fire as the Chaos scum unloaded into the fog in the vein hope of taking down the invaders they expected to follow the grenades.  From the screams it sounded like this would work in the guardsmen’s favour.

Presently the cacophony of battle died down, and Holtz decided he couldn’t stall any longer.  Taking a deep breath, he clambered up the last rungs and up onto the deck of the room above.  All around him, wreathed in settling gas lay the corpses of the warriors charged with defending the shaft.  Miraculously, they were dead to a man.  As he waited for the rest of the strike team to climb up, he surveyed the chamber he’d found himself in.

The walls were bare rockcrete and the floor was covered in heavy metal sheeting.  Over the shaft hung the half built skeletal form of a winch, and set into one wall was a set of heavy iron blast doors.  When everyone had climbed the shaft, they advanced on the blast doors cautiously.

“Any idea how to open them?” asked Cele.

“Melta bomb?” shrugged Varren.

“Nay,” replied Gruber, shaking his head, “Those blast doors are probably designed to contain warhead detonations.  A melta bomb won’t even chip the paintwork.”

“Then wha-” began Cele but paused.  As they approached the blast doors they noticed that the doors had begun to grin open.

“Throne-on-Terra!” swore the Commissar.  “Quick, find cover!”

“What cover?” asked Holtz, hefting his shotgun and preparing to meet whatever came through the doors.  All around, the troops did likewise.  A collective sigh was let out when the doors ground open to reveal no one waiting to come through.

“Techno-sorcery,” snarled Gruber, “The doors must be automated.”  Disconcerted, they advanced on.  Beyond the doors lay the munitions storehouse.  Firelight bathed the chamber through acrid smoke; machinery and ammo racks casting hellish shadows on the walls.  Slaves scurried around under the watchful eye of whip-wielding enforcers and heretical tech-priests ran hither and thither blessing and re-blessing the machinery.  The clamour and din of the daily workings of the storehouse covered the grinding of the door opening, and the men of Krieg did not hesitate to take advantage of this.

The Grenadiers rushed forwards and took up position behind an abandoned cart that was planned for transferring explosives to the shaft room they’d just left, while the Engineers split into fire teams and spread out onto the flanks.  Holtz’s team scurried over to the right and took up position behind a stack of crates daubed in vile runes that the guardsmen dared not look at for too long.  A door in the far wall opened and a line of carts clattered down it; while a loaded set abruptly shot off, up to the artillery berths or to resupply the trenches.  Holtz watched patiently, looking for any weaknesses to exploit.

He watched as a large shell was winched up and swung out towards the carts.  Halfway across the room, some of the chains gave, and the shell jerked downwards, the few remaining chains preventing it from falling to the ground.  All around the chamber, the heretics came to a standstill, holding their breaths and staring up at the precariously balanced explosive.  Without waiting, and without thought for his own safety, Cele broke cover and snapped off a few shots from his boltpistol.  The remaining chains snapped, torn apart by the exploding bolts, and the shell fell.

Slaves screamed, scurrying for cover, and tech-priests wailed out of fear for the damage that could be wrought on the equipment around the room if the shell detonated.  Following the Commissar’s lead, the Grenadiers popped out of cover and unleashed a hail of las-bolts into the heretics, forcing them away from the Imperials’ positions.  The shell struck the side of one of the carts and rebounded into the floor, but didn’t detonate.

Holtz cursed the impetuosity of the young Commissar – surely he had thrown their advantage away by acting so rashly?  Holtz stood up, and came face to face with one of the fleeing tech-priests and without hesitating, whipping up his shotgun, rammed it into the confused once-man’s face and pulled the trigger.  Metal scraps and brain matter spewed out and the heretic’s body crumpled into a heap.  Holtz’s men leapt up, their own weapons at the ready.

The Grenadiers continued to pour fire into the panicking heretics, and stray bolts frequently struck the loads that they’d been carrying, some discarded, some still clutched in mutated hands, claws and other appendages.  Gouts of flame erupted as these explosives were detonated, driving the slaves into further hysteria.  Only the enforcers showed any signs of calm, hurrying to the nearest piece of cover and trying to regroup, taking the odd pot-shot with their miscellaneous sidearms, but they were no match for the methodical and experienced attacks of the Grenadiers.

Holtz and his Engineers advanced, their shotguns reaping the frantic heretics like wheat before a thresher and containing them in the fire lanes of the Grenadiers.

More munitions began to explode, and now the detonations of some were tossing the others across the room into the stacks that had so far escaped the growing conflagration and setting them off too.  Screeching and weeping the remaining heretics rushed the carts, the first ones there calling out the litany of activation and setting them in motion, forcing the slower and more distant ones to run to keep up and try to board while the carts were still in motion.  Predictably, many slipped and fell, getting crushed under wheel.

“Throne!” snarled Cele, switching his target to the escaping carts, “We can’t let them escape.”  Spying his chance, one of the last remaining enforcers leapt from cover, his stub pistol barking as he emptied the clip into the Commissar.  Cele cried in pain, a lucky shot penetrating his carapace armour in the right shoulder and dropping him to the floor.  The Grenadiers scythed down the enforcer with one volley in retaliation for his actions, but a large explosion behind them drew their attention away from rescuing their downed comrade.

Seeing this, Holtz cursed under his breath and rushed forwards, his squad at his heels.  The explosions were growing more intense now, and a blizzard of shrapnel and debris whipped around the chamber in the scorching air.  Reaching Cele, Holtz crouched down beside him and reached down to check his pulse.  He was pale and his breathing was heavy, but he still lived, and had yet to surrender to unconsciousness.

“Holtz,” he gasped, blood flecking his lips, “You must follow that cart – this could be our only chance to strike into the enemy’s HQ.”  Holtz remained silent, dragging the Commissar into cover; the Engineer’s forming up around him.  A titanic explosion ripped through the storehouse, causing a large chunk of the roof to cave in, crushing three of the Grenadiers, including Gruber.  Grimly, Holtz took stock of the situation.

Of the twenty one men who had entered the chamber only seven remained, one of which was severely wounded; of Varren and his men, there was no sign.  All around the chamber was coming down and only two routes of escape presented themselves to the Imperials – back into the shaft room, or up the tunnel and further into the enemy base.  Knowing that the Commissar was right, Holtz sighed.

“With me,” he instructed the remaining Grenadiers and Engineers.  “You, carry the Commissar.”

“Sir?” questioned one of the Engineers, “What do you intend to do?”

“We’re advancing,” stated Holtz firmly.

“But that’s suicide!” protested the Engineer, “This whole place is coming down – if we don’t fall back to the tunnel, we’re done for!”

“Coward,” spat Holtz, “We are of the Death Korps of Krieg!  We live only to serve the God-Emperor.  We live for nought but Death in Duty!”  With that, Holtz spun on his heel and marched towards the tunnel.  Spurred on by his rhetoric, less than stunning though it was, they all followed.

“Duty in Death!”  cried Holtz, as the tunnel swallowed him up, “Death through Duty!”

“Duty in Death!” echoed the Men of Krieg as they two were swallowed, “Death through Duty!”

The two horsemen sat atop the hill waiting.  Above them a soft wind blew wisps of cloud towards the east, revealing the stars shining bright in the heavens.  They watched as a lone rider made his way up the gentle slope towards them, his white mantle glowing silver in the grey moonlight.

“Hail Curumo,” said one as he approached, “Wherefore have you come seeking our council?”

“It is not to seek but to give I have come,” replied the rider, raising his black staff in greeting.  “I bare ill news from the mountains.”  The two horsemen, both blue-clad turned and gazed across the plain behind the white rider at the distant mountains.

“Then the Children of Aulë are no more in these lands?” asked the second horseman.

“Nay, Pallando” answered Curumo, “They still live, though few walk the true path.  Greed has ever been their weakness and I deem that it has become their undoing.  The Ironfists and the Stiffbeards quarrel amongst themselves, paying no heed to anything else, not even I, the messenger and greatest servant of the Father of their Fathers.  Graver still, the Dark Lord has bought the allegiance of the Blacklocks, and though the Stonefoots do not serve Him directly, neither do they openly oppose Him.  The glisten of gold blinds them, and willingly do they forge and mine for any who pay them what they deem a just price.”

“The Men of these realms are no better,” scowled the first “All across these lands, darkness holds sway.”

“Peace Alatar, my friend,” soothed Pallando, “All is not lost.  There are still open minds if we but look hard enough.”

“Aye,” replied Alatar, “But they are few and far between.  Guidance is needed to set them on the right path.”

“But is that not why we were sent here?” smiled Curumo in his silk-soft voice.  “Is not our mission to shepherd the Free Peoples?  To rally them in defiance of Sauron.”

Alatar shook his head.  “These people need more than wise words and platitudes.  They need leadership, and that is against our mandate.”

“We are only forbidden from matching Sauron might for might,” countered the white wizard, “But if the guidance these people need is leadership, is it not our prerogative, nay, our duty to offer it?  I talk not of seizing crowns and claiming oaths, but of teaching these poor fools the wisdom granted to us.  Can we be held accountable if they abuse our trust and use our gifts to free themselves from their shackles?”

“You speak of dangerous things Curumo,” sneered Alatar.  “One would almost think you sought the Dark Lord’s throne for yourself.”

“I did not speak of me but of us,” snapped Curumo, then regaining his composure persisted.  “My duties lie back west – I can do little good here, and what secrets and knowledge remains free of Sauron is hoarded in the libraries of Gondor, Lothlorien and Rivendell.  Besides, my energies will be better spent in the defence of the west than in the emancipation of the east; you two are accomplished lore masters and this task, while difficult is not beyond you, but of our brethren in the west…Aiwendil is a fool; ere I departed for these lands he was becoming enamoured of the wilderness of Eriador and Rhovanion and it will not be long before he gives mind only to their preservation.  As for the esteemed Olórin…I fear his compassion will be his undoing.  He will seek to nurture and coddle; he will spare the rod and spoil the child to use a mannish idiom.”

The three riders fell silent pondering this.  Presently, Curumo spoke.

“The night draws to a close; I must be off ere the sun rises.  Think about what I have said, my council seldom goes amiss.”

“Farewell friend,” replied Pallando, “You have given us much to think about.  By the Grace of the Valar, may your journey be swift and without event.”  He bowed his head in respect.  Alatar remind silent and looked Curumo in the eye.  The white wizard raised his staff in farewell, and with a click of his tongue sped off.  The Blue Wizards watched him go, remaining seated on their horses atop the hill until he had dwindled to a speck of dust racing across the plain.  In the east, the sky burned as the sun crept up over the mountains.

Shortly, Pallando turned to his friend and opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it when he saw Alatar’s stern gaze.  The wizard huddled in his cloak as he waited for Alatar’s mood to lighten.  Though they were days away from any substantial settlement, they were not far from one of the great roads built in the old days that ran towards Mordor, and it would not do to be caught by a force of men traversing it.  He shuddered at the thought of entering that land and glanced about; it was unlikely that any army of sufficient size to capture them could sneak up unnoticed, but who knew the extent of Sauron’s power?  Not to mention the Dark Lord had other servants he could call upon.

A howl echoed across the land, and Pallando twisted in his saddle to see where it had come from.  A wolf-like creature lopped up the slope towards them and he smiled as he recognised it as one of the wolfhounds bequeathed to him by Oromë.  Alatar still did not move, so deep in thought was he.  Pallando sighed.

“I must go now.  Will you be alright my friend?” he asked.

Alatar’s horse snorted as he kicked its flanks and it began to trot off.  Pallando sighed again – Curumo’s words had thrust deeply into Alatar’s mind and there would be no reaching him until he had thought it through.  Pallando pulled on the reigns of his horse and followed the hound as it padded off northwards.  He gave one last glance back, worried about his friend, then turned back with a shake of his head.  Alatar did not look back; instead his horse trotted off south.  Curumo had a point – men were weak; they needed an iron rod not kindness to save them.  Plans formed in his mind as he rode.  The East was all but lost; it was in the West that Hope lay, but perhaps there were other ways.  Why attempt the impossible task of freeing the East wholesale from the iron heel of Sauron, when the more manageable task of distraction could be undertaken?  If the Free Peoples of the West could unite, they’d have little hope against Sauron’s full might, but if some of that might could be bled away, then victory might just be possible.  Sometimes to control the board you had to sacrifice your pieces, and perhaps that is what was needed?  A smile crossed his face for the first time in years.  He knew now what he had to do…

Blaiddyn crouched low, waiting, watching.  Down below in the valley sat the small hamlet, the burnt remains of its outer huts still smouldering, sending wisps of black smoke lazily into the air.  The palisade encircling the settlement was still mostly intact, though in many places great rents had been hewn into its planks and the gates at both ends had been splintered open.  A little stream cascaded down the cliff at the hamlet’s rear, collecting at a small pool near the Headman’s hut, then running through the settlement via a capped gully it emerged into the valley near the East Gate, whence it followed the road out of the valley and thence onwards to meet the Isen.  To the north of the walls was a broad shallow slope, a spur of the hill that made the valley’s northern side.  Along this hill’s southern flank, that which was in the valley, were steep slopes, many covered in scree, though none shear enough to form a cliff; these slopes were shallow enough that a man could scramble down them or up them without injury, but too steep for horses to traverse and thus were a barrier to cavalry.

A bank of fog lay across the valley to the west, obscuring what little of the road could be seen beyond a dyke there, though Blaiddyn knew that it was from there that his prey would come.  He was not disappointed, for presently he heard the whiney of horses as a troop of horsemen came up the road.  Signalling for his men to remain still and quiet, Blaiddyn grinned.  The Forgoil had fallen for his trap.  All that was required now was for them to pass the Dunlendings’ position and head towards the hamlet.  The East Gate had been blocked by logs the Dunlendings had felled after they’d sacked the settlement and on the spur, the only way around the walls of the hamlet for mounted men, the Dunlendings had erected a ghost fence.  Blaiddyn shuddered as his thoughts turned to the ghost fence – spears staked in the ground with skulls impaled upon them and weeds and sprigs of strong smelling flowers bound about the brows on which the Wiseman had cast charms and weaved enchantments.

Presently, the horsemen emerged from the fog and trotted towards the hamlet, their pace slowing with caution as they approached.  Blaiddyn held up an arm ringed with torcs taken from fallen foes to still his men.  He waited and when the rearmost rider had passed brought his arm down swiftly and rose to his feet.  Roaring a battle cry he lunged forwards, scrambling down the slope, followed closely by his men.  Cries of surprise went up from the riders as they turned to meet the new threat and their horses snorted, frightened by the noise.

Blaiddyn slid to a halt at the bottom of the slope and ran forwards, spear in hand.  Snarling with anger, he thrust it at a rider.  The rider raised his shield, but too slowly, and the iron spearhead glanced off the rim and struck the man in his shoulder, the force of the blow knocking him off balance and causing him to fall.  Distressed at the death of its master, his horse bolted, turning hither and thither as it wove its way through the battle.

A second rider charged towards the Dunlending chieftain, and Blaiddyn braced himself, thrusting his spear forwards.  The horse baulked at the spike of iron and wood and veered to one side.  Twisting his grip, Blaiddyn swung the spear around and with a roar of anger put all his strength into a thrusting blow that pierced the rider’s side through his leather corslet.  The spear was wrenched from Blaiddyn’s hands and the dark haired Dunlending drew his swords.  Blaiddyn favoured fighting with a blade in each hand, and to compensate for his lack of shield, he wore all his victory torcs on his left arm and on his left hand he wore a sturdy leather glove with iron bands encasing the fingers.

A dismounted rider ran towards Blaiddyn, axe held high and the Dunlending chieftain turned to face him.  He block the first blow with the shortsword held in his left hand and lashed out with the longer broadsword held in his right, carving a chunk of wood from the Forgoil’s shield.  Snarling, the straw-haired warrior sung his shield, battering aside Blaiddyn’s main weapon.  The man grinned in joy, thinking his foe defeated, but he did not know that the Dunlending had trained himself to be as deadly with his offhand as with his strong hand, and the shortsword shot out at the man’s exposed body.  The blade struck true, slicing into the rider’s bare neck and spilling his blood on the ground.  Shocked, the man dropped his shield and axe and clutched his throat as he fell to his knees, his lifeblood ebbing away.

The low sonorous blow of a horn echoed through the valley, and the captain leading the riders cried out to his men, calling for the retreat and regrouping.  Tugging on their reins, the riders turned and dashed towards the hamlet, hoping to take refuge within its walls, but the Dunlendings had another trick awaiting them.  As the first rider galloped across the beaten earth before the gate his horse gave a cry of pain and toppled over.  The following riders drew up short and gazed at the ground in amazement.  Scattered around the gates were caltrops, insidious devices that Blaiddyn’s smiths had been taught to make by a stranger who had come to them in secret.  The old man, clad in a grey cloak and hood had instructed the smiths on how to fashion four iron nails together in such a way that one point always faced up before he had departed back into the wilderness of Dunland.  The Dunlendings knew not who he was, or from whence he came, but they were glad of his help all the same – anything that would bring victory against the hated Forgoil was welcome in their eyes.

“Shieldwall!” cried Blaiddyn, sheathing his swords and unslinging the shield he’d been carrying on his back.  His men drew up around him, the front rank locking their shields together and hefting their spears.  Crouching low they advanced.  The second rank also locked shields and raised them above the men in front to protect them from blows from on high.  The riders wheeled to face their attackers again, and those with bows notched arrows.

The Dunlendings advanced slowly, ducking behind their shields as a few pitiful arrows rained down on them.  Though the archers were few, they were not whole ineffective and some found their mark.  Blaiddyn winced as Llyn and Morgan ap Morgan fell with arrows in their neck or in an eye.  But those few casualties were not enough to stop the Dunlending advance.  Spooked by the advancing thicket of spears, the Rohirim’s horses shied away, refusing to advance.  One back stepped into the field of caltrops and gave a scream of pain as it trod on one of the spikes.  Already jittery, some of the horses bolted at the sound of the scream, either throwing their riders or carrying them away.  Knowing that they could not fight like this, the riders’ captain called for his men to dismount and form a shieldwall of their own.

The two shieldwalls advanced, one bearing the white horse and green field of the Eorlingas, the other the snarling wolf and red field of Blaiddyn’s household.  With a clash, the two sides met, both shoving against the other.  Insults and curses were hurled across the scrum, and shield clattered as over and over they struck against each other.  The Dunlendings had discarded their spears in favour of shortswords and long knives and similarly the Forgoil had dropped their spears for their own blades.  So close was the press that Blaiddyn could smell the breath of the man in front of him and he lashed out with his sword, thrusting the blade into the Forgoil’s screaming mouth.  The man went down, biting down hard on the sword in his death throws and Blaiddyn let the sword be drawn from his hand, unsheathing his spare.

Though they fought valiantly, the Forgoil were doomed, the greater numbers of the Dunlendings overwhelming them.  Abruptly the Rohirim’s shieldwall broke, and the Dunlendings surged forwards in a tide of steel and leather, forcing their way amongst their hated foes.  Blaiddyn saw Gwyn the Gaunt take down two foes with one blow from his longsword, plundered from some barrow in the far north, and he chuckled and Daffydd the Grim cast off his shield and swung his two handed axe in a flurry of blows that brought red ruin to his foes;  Rhyddion the nimble darted into the wavering mass, his sword glinting in the dim sunlight as it weaved a tapestry of death through the wavering Forgoil and Bran the Bull battered men down with his shield and stamped down on the necks of the fallen to break them.

Blaiddyn stepped forwards, his sword adding to the tally of the dead, searching for a worthy foe.  All around Forgoil broke and fled, only to find cold steel biting into their backs.  Some stood their ground or backed off gradually, but all were of broken moral.  All save one.  Their captain, Eoghan the Tall stepped forwards, blowing his horn and around him his men took heart.  He carried no shield and instead he wielded a sword of quality workmanship, a gift from far off Gondor of which the Dunlendings knew only as story.  The blade was nearly the height of a short man and its grip was long enough to be held with both hands with room to spare.  Spying Blaiddyn, and recognising him as chieftain, Eoghan advanced, sword held high ready to strike.  Blaiddyn raised his sword in salute and called his men to back off.  Both sides drew back as their leaders advanced to meet.

Eoghan brought his sword down quick as lightning and Blaiddyn barely had time to raise his shield.  The sword bit deeply, splinting the shield.  As the Forgoil drew back for another blow, Blaiddyn darted forwards and barrelled into him.  Of balanced, Eoghan fell to his knees and rolled aside, Blaiddyn’s sword biting deeply into the trampled ground.  The Forgoil leapt to his feet and swung low.  Once more, Blaiddyn was able to parry with his shield, though this time the blow broke it asunder.  Growling with anger, the Dunlending gripped his sword with both hands and lunged at his foe, dealing a flurry of blows.  Eoghan’s left hand gripped his sword by the blade while his right remained at the hilt and he parried the Dunlending’s attacks, using the longsword as a quarterstaff to deflect each blow.  The onslaught of Blaiddyn’s flurries drove Eoghan back and he slipped in a pool of blood, landing hard on his back and dropping his sword.

Seizing the opportunity, Blaiddyn lashed out with his left foot, planting it on Eoghan’s stomach as he leant forwards to deal the deathblow.  Reversing his grip, Blaiddyn thrust downwards with the sword.  The blade arced down and clove through the shirt of iron rings that the Forgoil captain wore, piercing the man’s breast and spilling crimson blood down his front.  Blaiddyn stared down at his foe, but instead of seeing fear in his eyes he saw grim determination and spite.  The Dunlending looked down and let out a gasp of outrage.  Though he had lost his prized position, the captain had not been disarmed.  He’d drawn a long knife from his belt and as Blaiddyn had dealt the deathblow, the Forgoil had thrust up, under Blaiddyn’s own mail shirt, mortally wounding him.

His vision growing dark, Blaiddyn tossed back his head and cried “Victory!”  The cry was taken up by his men and at last the Forgoil’s resolve broke.  They scattered, the Dunlendings in hot pursuit and all were cut down.

“Victory,” Blaiddyn mumbled once more, then fell, face down next to his foe, their blood staining the earth beneath them.

Hrothgar stirred, groaning in pain.  He had lost all sensation in his legs, his left arm was crushed, a mangled mess by his side, and his right arm was missing, torn out at the socket, the chill of the afternoon air blowing in through the rent in his armour.  Cautiously he took a breath through bruised lips and immediately coughed up blood – his second and third lungs clearly torn to shreds.  Turning his inspection inwards he could feel the steady beat of his heart in his pulped chest.  To any other man this would have been a small comfort, but to the space marine it was a worry – why was only one of his hearts working?  The wind picked up, and an icy blast told him there was a puncture in his armour over where the second heart was – had been he corrected himself.  How he was still alive baffled him.  Even with his advanced physiology and the state-of-the-art armour he wore, he should have been closer to death than he was.  Not even an Astartes could experience the trauma he obviously had and survive without entering a healing coma.

A shadow fell across his face and Hrothgar squinted up at the figure that loomed over him.  A hand pressed into the puncture where his second hear had been, pushing a warm object deep into the flesh.  Though it was not that hot, in the flesh cooled by the arctic breeze, it felt like a tank of flaming promethean, and the Space Wolf growled in pain, gritting his teeth.

“Good,” cooed the figure in a soft voice, “You’re awake.  This will make things all the more enjoyable.”  Hrothgar could only gurgle blood in response.  The figure clucked in disapproval and said, “Do not struggle if you wish to live.”  The Space Wolf lay back and concentrated on slowing his breathing.  He wondered if this was a friend, but it troubled him that the voice was soft spoken and well enunciated, rather than the gruff and forthright tones of his battle brothers.  Could another Chapter have come to the aid of the packs garrisoning this world?  He dismissed the thought – only the Wolves of Fenris had any business on this world, and no distress call had been sent, so no-one else could be here, only….

Hrothgar rolled his head to the side and squinted at his ‘saviour’ who squatted over a casket inscribed with runes that were painful to look at.  The ‘man’ was indeed a space marine – the sheer size of him and noble air he bore could belong to none other than one of the Adaptus Astartes – but the heraldry of his armour sent waves of alarm through Hrothgar.  The Marine wore crimson armour, edged in golds, silvers and ivory.  At his feet were a high crested helm, and a tall ebony staff rested against the casket.  On his left pauldron was an eye, wreathed in flames that formed an eight-pointed star which morphed into an ouroboros as the pauldron shifted position.

Hrothgar’s eyes widened in horror and he tried to rise, but his body failed him.  The Thousand Son glanced up and shook his head.  Pulling a coronet from the casket, he stepped back to Hrothgar’s side, and, placed the artefact on the dying marine’s brow.  Hrothgar felt his body go numb, and he could only watch helplessly as the ‘witch’ continued whatever vile ritual it had planned.

His preparations complete, Jormungand the Thousand Son hefted the remains of Hrothgar effortlessly.  He smiled; sure he could see a gleam of fear in the Wolf’s bright eyes.  Ten yards from where the Wolf had lain squatted an empty dreadnought, its shoulders slumped and it’s weapons hanging limply, resting on flurries of snow that had built up around the immobile vehicle.   In front of it rested an open sarcophagus, the life support system that kept a dreadnought’s pilot alive.  Steam rose from its open top and green fluids bubbled within.  Jormungand gently turned Hrothgar’s head so that the Wolf could see the fate that awaited him.

To a marine, being enshrined within a dreadnought’s sarcophagus was a usually a great honour, but it could also be a burden.  When not in battle, the sarcophagus was disconnected from the main chassis, and the pilot was little more than trapped in a tight coffin, devoid of sensory input, unable to move, smothered by the life sustaining nutrient bath within.  In such a state you could scream for an eternity without being heard.  The only release was the joy of battle, but even then, not all were suited to the task.  For one not prepared, the shock of their new body could fractured their mind.  To those used to speed and agility beyond that a normal human could dream of, the sluggish movements of a dreadnought could feel just as confining as the sarcophagus itself, forever trapped in an adamantine box on stubby legs.

Blood frothed on Hrothgar’s lips as he desperately tried to cry out.  Jormungand laughed, enjoying his foe’s fear.  He now stood over the open sarcophagus, and with a smiled, reverently placed the near-corpse into the nutrient bath.  Slowly the Space Wolf slipped beneath the surface, his head resting on an iron cradle, only his broken nose and bloodshot eyes were above the liquid which lapped around his face, burning his tear ducts.  Gently, Jormungand began to connect cables to Hrothgar’s body.  More blood frothed on the Space Wolf’s lips as each connection lance pain throughout his very being.  Eventually, everything was connected, and Jormungand began to draw the lid into place.  Hrothgar could only watch in terror as inch by inch, darkness enveloped him.  Part of his mind told him that the Thousand Son was toying with him – if he wished, the witch could have shut the lid quicker with ease.

With one last clang darkness and with it silence and isolation enveloped him.  Now it was just him and a box for eternity….

Chal Thike bowed his head as the sonorous chanting filled the bridge, amplified by the acoustics inherent in its cathedral-like design.  High above the main deck a priest stood at a control lectern delivered the morning’s sermon, his voice delivered all across the Judgement via a horde of patrolling servo-skulls, and set in perfect counter-point with the background chanting of the choir lining one of the galleries the lined the sides of the bridge.  Below the gantry on which the priest stood, servitors toiled on in crowded crew pits, heedless of the holy event going on above their heads.   All across the bridge, the living members of the crew, save for the various tech-priests and tech-adepts of the Mechanicum, had stopped their routines to pay respect to Him-on-Terra.  The ringing of a bell resonated throughout the command deck, signalling that the sermon had drawn to a close, and Thrike and his colleagues who were crammed into a sensor alcove turned back to their work.

His hands turning brass knobs and brazen levers worn smooth by centuries of use, Thrike watched the flickering sensor screen before him.  For the most part, it displayed a field of green static, fading in and out, and what could be discerned was grainy at best.  Frustrated, he thumped the side of the ancient hololith desk, eliciting a tutting of disapproval from his team’s resident tech-adept.  Brom, a void-born like Thrike, mock-glared at him, his still organic eyes twinkling under the shadow of the white hood he wore.  The tech-adept shook his head as he drew a vial of blessed oil from the recesses of his robe and incanted a catechism of activation and smooth operating.  Jall, the third member of the sensor alcove’s occupants rolled his eyes, sceptical that the rites of the Mechanicum were efficient means of keeping the various technologies employed by the Imperium running, but whatever Brom had done appeared to work as the display was now more grainy returns that static.

An electric coughing drew Thrike’s attention from his screen as ‘Smilie’, the servitor hardwired into the seat between Brom and Malc, the other member of Thrike’s shift working in the alcove, printed out a parchment inscribed with various readings that none of them really understood, from a device fitted where ‘his’ mouth should have been.  As Thrike turned back to his display screen he noticed Brom reach out and read the printout; that should have been his first clue that something was wrong, but instead he didn’t pay heed to it.  Suddenly, the screen flared with static as the sensors were overloaded with data.  Frantically, Thrike and his fellow crewmen pulled on levers, switches, knobs and dials to try and compensate, and were rewarded with a rare example of crystal clear output.  The static resolved into an image of a ship, centred in the display screen, various numbers, codes and status data haloing it.

“Incoming Unidentified Vessel,” snapped Thrike pulling a vox horn from the tangle of cables above their heads, “Location – 10,000-mark-37-mark-2.”  He waited for a response from one of the command-crew, but only silence answered him.  Confused, he tugged on the vox horn, and the thick flexi-plastic cable connecting it to the internal comms fell down into his lap.  The snap of an autopistol drew his attention away from the serpentine coil sitting in his lap, and looking up he saw Brom levelling the smoking weapon at him; Malc was already slumped across the desk, a rapidly spreading pool of blood blotting out the holoscreens, and Jall was sitting staring down at the mechandrite buried in his sternum.

“Why?” asked Thrike.

Gunfire was the response.

***************************

The Judgment, a millennia old Retribution-class warship – one of the finest in the Imperial Navy – carried on it course, creeping along at a fraction of its maximum cruising speed, heedless of the warp portal that had opened in front of it, and of the ship that had been spat out by hell that is the Warp.  It too was a Retribution-class warship, but where the Judgement bore proudly the Blue and Purple of its home fleet, the newcomer’s hull was pitted and scored by micro-meteor impacts and the paint had long since peeled away, leaving bare adamantium exposed to the void.  Awareness of the other ship was impeded by the execution of the sensor crews by traitors in their midst; men tempted from the path of the faithful by promises of wealth, power and darker things; and by the tripping of the emergency blast doors on the bridge.  The Judgement’s captain, floating in a nutrient suspension tank, was unaware as the enemy vessel charged its main weapons and fired its forward lance batteries at his ship, pulverising the bridge.  The momentum of the newcomer was increased as its engines flared to life and it accelerated directly towards the Judgement.

With no one to direct it, the Imperial vessel was a sitting duck, and the attackers hit it right in the smouldering ruins of the bridge.  The impact nearly tore both vessels apart, and large sections of the hull of both were ruptured, exposing several decks to vacuum.  The attacker’s engines continued to flared, pushing the ship deeper into the hull of its victim until the two ships finally wedged together, neither able to get free.

Explosions rippled along the attacker’s flanks as false plating was blown off, and a swarm of armoured figures drifted ‘down’ into the mass of masts and defence turrets studding the topside of the Judgement.   No one within the crippled ship knew that they were under attack, and upon breaching the hull, the boarders met little initial resistance.

***********************************************

Valk Trimpsam clutched his lasrifle to his chest.  It had been three hours since the ship had began to shake violently, and garbled reports broadcast between various crewmen over that time had made it clear that they were under attack.  Having been stationed in one of the cargo holds in the belly of the Judgement, he had yet to encounter any of the boarders, but it was clear from the handful of voxcasts that had got through the jamming that the defenders were being herded back towards his position and he’d set about organising defences for his security station.

Another hour passed before the first signs of combat entered his vicinity.  The echoes of weapons fire and the screams of the dying resonated down the labyrinthine corridors.  Valk could hear the snap-hiss of the defending ratings’ lasguns, and the answering barks of the invaders’ boltguns.  Glowglobes flickered in wall sconces and one by one died; a wave of darkness flew up the corridor in their wake, blotting out anything beyond a few feet.  As if guided by a malign intelligence, only the globes beyond his position died, and a small patch of light was cast back up the corridor from the illuminators strapped under the muzzles of his fellow ratings’ weapons; a few rays glinted off the sculptures lining the walls, giving the impression that they were looking into the jaws of hell.

Far in the distance, red las flashes and indigo explosions flared into life as the sounds of combat grew louder.  Squinting into the darkness, the defenders readied themselves to fire on any foe to head down the corridor.  More screams chilled them to the bone, and the beat of footsteps overlapped with their echoes as someone, or something, ran towards them.  Blue lightening sparked at the end of the corridor and arced to the glowglobe sconces there.  The crystal balls erupted in a shower of multicoloured sparks, and the lightening leapt to the next pair.  The fantastical light display surged towards them, haloing a group of ratings who were fleeing from the unseen menace.

Silently Valk urged them to run faster – the lightening was swiftly catching up with them – but it wasn’t enough.  The lightening arced out from the walls and into the group of frightened men, flash boiling their blood and charring their bones to ash.  A red mist filled the corridor, and Valk and his men gasped in horror at what they’d just witnessed and the magikal charge detonated the smoke grenades carried by their late fellow crewmen.

Valk squinted into gloom, unable to see through the wall of smoke.  The barrel of his lasgun tracked back and fore, searching for something to shoot.  Heavy impacts rang out as something large paced towards them.  A massive shadow, far greater than a man should ever be able to reach, loomed out of the darkness and panicking Valk opened fire.  The lasbolt splashed on the armour, no more effective than the light on the illuminator strapped below.  The grey smoke wreathed the giant as it strode out of the cloud towards him, giving it an even more daemonic visage than it possessed anyway.

The daemonic warrior stood nigh on ten feet tall including horns, and its gold, high-crested helm almost scrapped the high, vaulted ceiling of the corridor.  Twice as broad as a man, the blue and gold shoulder pads gave it a relatively squat appearance compared to its height; an attribute enhanced by the flowing robes.  In one hand it held an ebony staff, twisted beyond sane description, its very existence seeming wrong to the rational eye.  As he looked into the ruby eye set in its forehead, Valk fell to his knees, weeping in horror at the presence of the ancient sorcerer.  The daemonic man hefted his staff, and the defenders knew no more.

****************************

Ahriman shook his head.  Pathetic.  The followers of the Corpse-God were weak and their attempts at resistance futile.  Nothing could stop him from achieving his goal here – the Runes of Ulthwael would be his!