Conquest Unbound, page 12
Skeos ended the ghoul’s astonishment with a dagger to the eye. A pained screech from overhead caused him to glance up. Telamon engaged several of the batlike abominations, blade glittering as he darted among the murmuration of tattered wings. Skeos saw him hack a hissing beast from the air, then shear abruptly to slash the razored edge of his wings across the throat of another. The crack of handguns from atop the rise served as proof of the Stormcast’s skill, as Telamon single-handedly defended the firing position from above.
With an unearthly roar, a beast of bone and knotted muscle bulled through the snarling mass of ghouls. Although larger than an ogor, it was hunched almost double, its grey flesh pierced with rings and gilded spikes. A row of sharp spines ran along its back, and upon them were pierced a score of helms – some rusted and ancient, others still sporting the heads of their former owners.
‘Whoso stands against me doeth at his peril!’ The beast smashed a swordsman to the ground with a sweep of its jagged club.
Sergeant Wull drove his spear into the creature’s gnarled chest, but the monster only laughed, reaching down to snap the shaft like a mouldering twig. It kicked out with one clawed foot to send the sergeant tumbling back, then raised its club to crush the flailing man.
Skeos buried his dagger in the beast’s sinewy calf. It swatted at him with one clawed hand. Even delivered off balance, the blow dented Skeos’ breastplate. Wheezing, he gripped his sabre two-handed, hacking at the gnarled leg like a woodcutter felling a particularly stubborn tree.
At last, the beast crumpled with an outraged howl.
Before it could push up, Skeos stepped forward to deliver a heavy overhand blow. His sword bit deep, half-congealed gore spattering his cheek. Skeos did not relent, chopping down again and again until the abomination stopped its hideous thrashing.
Heart hammering in his ears, he pulled Wull to his feet.
The sergeant stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You saved my life.’
‘Return the favour.’ Skeos grinned. ‘But first, find another spear.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wull offered a sloppy, if heartfelt, salute, and hurried away.
Above, Telamon dispatched the last of the winged beasts, but the fight was going less well along the rest of the Sigmarite line. What started as a tight square had dissolved into a rough melee, Freeguilders pushed back by the seemingly endless tide of screeching, spitting horrors. Skeos saw Trask crush the skull of a flailing ghoul only to stumble as another leapt on his back.
Rubble shifting under his boots, Skeos sprinted over to slash at the back of the beast’s neck.
‘Your plan worked.’ With a snarl, Trask pushed free of the twitching ghoul. ‘Seems every nightmare in this vile city is howling for our blood.’
‘They come.’ Telamon landed next to them, sword extended to point into the distant shadows.
Skeos squinted into the gloom. He flinched, expecting some new horror to crawl from the shadows. Instead, the dim shapes resolved into a mass of bellowing tribesmen, swords and axes glinting in the murk as they fell upon the disorganised mass of flesh-eaters. Skeos saw Ydri knock a hissing ghoul to the ground, then open another wide with a chop of her heavy-bladed sword.
‘Forward, sons of Sigmar!’ Trask stomped off, hammer held overhead. ‘Crush them between us!’
The surviving Freeguilders renewed their assault, pushing back down the hill. For the first time, it was the ghouls who fell back, tearing at each other in a wild frenzy.
Skeos moved to follow Trask, but Telamon raised an arm to bar his path.
‘We are finally driving them back.’ Skeos waved his sword at the fight.
‘Arakhir awaits the proper moment, the proper place.’ Telamon scanned the battlefield, then nodded at a distant rise covered with struggling ghouls and Freeguilders. ‘There.’
Skeos opened his mouth to respond only to have his breath snatched away as the Stormcast gripped him by the shoulder and leapt into the air.
Cold wind knifed through the gaps in Skeos’ armour and brought tears to his eyes. Through the blur he saw the air above the rise pulse like a heat mirage, the shadows of the combatants below seeming to lengthen as if caught by an invisible source of light.
Arakhir exploded from the ground in a cloud of night-dark shadows. They swirled around the creature like flecks of razored obsidian, shredding flesh and bone. Freeguild and Prism Peak warriors fell back shrieking, sprays of arterial blood like cut rubies in the Hyshian half-light.
Telamon hit the ground at a run, lantern raised. Corrupted bodies twisted and writhed, pierced through by the brilliant spear of light.
‘Stay close.’ Telamon set Skeos down almost gently before drawing his blade. The Stormcast moved through the press like he was hacking through thick brush. Pallid flesh parted with every sweep of his azure wings and every slash of his blade cleaved rotten bone. Skeos trailed in his wake, his sabre dispatching any ghouls stubborn enough to rise.
Arakhir cackled and clapped its taloned hands. Its gore-streaked muzzle twisted in a rictus of mad glee, the ghoul king twirled through the battle, moving in horrifying parody of a courtly dance.
Two clansmen attacked the beast, only to have the ghoul king weave between their swinging blades, then reach out, almost lovingly, as it slipped by. Its talons traced crimson lines down their necks, carving through throat and spine.
Spinning, Arakhir caught the severed heads. The monster lifted the grisly trophies to its cracked lips, drinking deep of the arterial flow.
Tossing both aside, the ghoul king offered Telamon a mocking bow. ‘Won’t you join the dance?’
Telamon charged, his sword a glittering blur as it sped towards Arakhir’s neck. The ghoul king fell to all fours like a beast of prey, and the blade cut the air over its scabrous head.
Arakhir leapt for Telamon, slapping the lantern from his grip. Claws struck sparks from holy sigmarite, etching jagged lines into the Stormcast’s pauldron and breastplate. Telamon recovered quickly and brought a sharp wing slashing around. Arakhir brushed the blow aside like a swatch of bothersome drapery, reaching up to drag its claws through the Stormcast’s crystalline feathers.
Telamon grunted, snapping his jagged wings from the ghoul king’s taloned grip.
Skeos leapt back to avoid the rain of shattered gems, then lunged at the beast’s leg, only to have it sidestep his slash. Bonelessly, it twisted to cup his chin, and for a moment they were face to face.
‘Such a bright boy,’ the ghoul king crooned. ‘Soon you shall sup at my table. What a feast it shall be.’
Telamon’s blade came arcing down, and Arakhir spun away, laughing.
‘That monster is toying with us,’ Skeos said as Telamon stepped to his side. The Stormcast’s broken wing hung loose and limp, crackles of cobalt lightning bleeding from broken feathers.
‘Then we must see he takes this seriously.’ Telamon reached up to remove his helmet.
‘You!’ The jagged grin fell from Arakhir’s face. ‘Even from beyond the grave, you would deny me my birthright?’
Eyes blazing like twin pyres, Arakhir leapt for Telamon, snarling like a frenzied beast.
The Stormcast whipped his blade up. Its edge slid along Arakhir’s arm to pierce the leathery flesh just below the creature’s shoulder. Ignoring the wound, the ghoul king caught Telamon in a horrible embrace.
The Stormcast’s blade burst from Arakhir’s back even as the ghoul king’s talons pierced the backplate of Telamon’s armour.
Telamon twisted his blade, sawing through tainted flesh. Howling, Arakhir snapped its head forward to bite deep into the Stormcast’s cheek. They fell to the ground, still locked together.
Legs trembling, Skeos edged closer, looking for an opening as the two titans strained for position.
With a triumphant shriek, Arakhir clambered atop the Stormcast. The creature threw its monstrous head back, broken bottle jaws stretched wide as it called to the darkling sky.
‘For Eldingar!’
The ghoul king lunged.
The edge of Skeos’ sabre cut deep into the side of Arakhir’s throat. The ghoul king gave a burbling hiss, turning to claw at Skeos.
One of Telamon’s gauntleted fists shot up to catch Arakhir’s wrist, his other locking tight around the ghoul king’s free arm.
Knowing he had not the time for another swing, Skeos leapt upon Arakhir’s back. He reached around, bare-handed, to grab the blade of his sabre. The ghoul king bucked and twisted, but Telamon held the creature fast while Skeos gritted his teeth and sawed the edge of his sword across its knotted throat.
The sharp forward edge of the blade cut into Skeos’ fingers, his hand slick with blood. But he hung on grimly, eyes shut against the pain as he worked the blade through muscle and bone.
At last, the ghoul king’s hideous head fell free.
‘For Eldingar, indeed.’ Panting, Skeos pushed free of the twitching corpse. He tore a strip from his doublet to wrap about his wounded hand.
Telamon pushed to his feet, then bent to drag his starblade from the ghoul king’s chest. The Stormcast’s cheek was a mess of blood and torn flesh, but he seemed hardly to notice.
All around, the surviving flesh-eaters fled, the death of their king sending them scuttling back to their filthy holes and shadowed crypts.
Flushed from exertion, Ydri came hurrying up the rise, stopping short when she caught sight of the headless corpse.
‘By the sacred slopes, you’ve actually done it.’
‘It was Skeos’ blade that took the beast’s head,’ Telamon said.
Skeos looked at the Stormcast, wide-eyed.
Ydri knelt to retrieve a broken spear and, with a grunt, rammed it through the ghoul king’s head.
‘Here.’ She held the spear out to Skeos. ‘The lads will want to see this.’
Numbly, Skeos took it in his unwounded hand and stumbled down the hill. Ragged cheers rose from around him, tired at first but gradually gaining in strength until they seemed to bear him forward like a strong wind. He saw Wull and Trask among the lines, eyes bright, weapons thrust towards the gleaming sky as they shouted Skeos’ name.
He stole a glance back to see Telamon still on the rise. Unmoving as a marble column, the Stormcast watched him, gaze distant, a lopsided smile on his bloodied face.
Skeos was tired. The relief of Arakhir’s death was tempered by the knowledge that many flesh-eaters yet survived – scattered, but dangerous nonetheless.
That was a problem for tomorrow night. At the moment, Skeos wanted only to roll himself in a blanket and sleep until the next age. But first, he needed answers.
He found Telamon in the remains of Indira’s ruined palace. Head bowed, the Stormcast knelt in what might have once been the throne room.
‘Trask tells me you are departing.’
‘The enemies of Sigmar are many,’ Telamon replied. ‘I am needed elsewhere.’
‘And yet you remain.’
Telamon lifted his head. It was a testament to the Stormcast’s inhuman vigour that the wound on his face was already scabbed over, the cut-gem feathers of his broken wing almost completely restored.
‘You have something to say, prince?’
Skeos drew in a slow breath. ‘Why did you tell Ydri I killed Arakhir?’
‘Was it not the truth?’
‘You know as well as I that without you, I would have been the ghoul king’s plaything.’
‘I am Stormcast – glory matters little.’ Telamon stood, brushing dust from his armour. ‘You, however…’
‘So this was all just a part of your plan?’
‘I could not defeat Arakhir and his followers alone,’ Telamon replied. ‘And you still have a kingdom to forge.’
‘But why me?’ Skeos asked. ‘Trask is twice the fighter, and his faith in Sigmar is unshakeable.’
Telamon gave a thin smile. ‘Trask is not a prince of Eldingar.’
‘Is that it, then?’ Skeos asked. ‘Is my blood the only reason?’
‘Your blood called to Arakhir, but it was not the reason I chose you.’
‘So I was merely part of your plan to lure out the ghoul king?’
Telamon inclined his head. ‘A part, yes.’
‘Then why not my father? My grandmother? Any of my thrice-damned line?’
‘They were not ready.’
Skeos reddened. ‘And I am?’
‘Not yet, but perhaps soon.’
Skeos waited, but the Stormcast did not appear willing to elaborate. Skeos chewed his lip, the question he had been meaning to ask burning in his chest.
‘At the battle, Arakhir recognised your face.’ Skeos looked up at the Stormcast. ‘What was the ghoul king to you?’
‘The same as it was to you – a thing best forgotten.’
Skeos sighed. Had he truly expected Telamon to speak plainly for once?
‘Be that as it may, you saved my life,’ Skeos continued. ‘I am but a man, but if there is ever anything I can do to repay you…’
The Stormcast’s expression turned strange. ‘The Riven Collar, do you still have it?’
‘I do.’ Skeos drew the heavy chain from his pouch.
‘See that it is reforged.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Good.’ Telamon drew something from within his breastplate, threaded on a cord around the Stormcast’s neck. With a jerk, he snapped the leather thong and dropped the whole into Skeos’ hands.
With a sweep of elegantly pinioned wings, Telamon swept up into the sky, feathers splintering the light of Hysh into shards of azure brightness.
Skeos looked down at his hands. In them was a link of silvery chain, broken at one end. Seeing the name etched upon the metal, Skeos drew in a quick breath. Tears prickled in his eyes as he searched the brilliant sky for Telamon.
But the Stormcast was gone – nothing more than a memory, and a promise.
MONSTERS
Noah Van Nguyen
Yndrasta was coming in too fast.
Through gusts of wind and gouts of rain, the Shyishan hill swelled beneath her. She could make out a tor of dusk-grey stone, a baleful realmgate perched atop it. A midnight-black battle line of Stormcast Eternals held back the horrors pouring from the portal’s dismal spell-light. Watching them was like watching a dark fist grip wine from a spilt cask. The gibbering tide leaked through the battle line’s fingers, running over its hands.
Yndrasta grimaced. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer needed her. They needed her now.
She tucked her wings, tightened her approach, ignoring her speed. Wind buffeted her. Rain pelted her sigmarite warplate like barbarian arrows. Off her flank, the Knight-Venator and his flight of Prosecutors chased to keep up. They were Anvils of the Heldenhammer, too, dark-hearted and sombre. Stormcast like Yndrasta but only half-willing allies, pulled into her hunt by the force of her will, by the terrible gravity of her legend. They did not fear Yndrasta. For Stormcasts never feared.
But they were wary.
Before the realmgate, through slashes of rain, a Lord of Change leered. The capricious greater daemon had never been christened in mortal syllables. The shamans called it only the Anomia, the nameless one. Even the Anvils had been reluctant to face the soul-eater’s tricks.
To Yndrasta, it was only prey. She was the slayer.
She dived. Her allies soared behind her and their fusillade picked up. Thrice-blessed arrows and stormcall javelins cracked like lightning into the crag-crowded hilltop, hammering back the daemonic tide. Gabbling Pink Horrors split asunder. Each ruined half morphed into a more diminutive blue daemon, weeping and morose. Then those were obliterated, and then again the things which their deaths spawned.
Ungiving, the Anvils held the hill’s brow. They chanted Yndrasta’s name, awaiting her arrival. She wondered if they relished the kill as she did. She wondered if it made their hearts pulse and their blood race.
Shyish bulged closer. Behind the Anomia, the baleful realmgate’s components floated in eerie patterns. Soon it would activate. Unless Yndrasta killed the Anomia first, the creature would escape.
A bolt of sorcerous flame streamed just past her shoulder, scorching her pinions. An ice-white flash and the crack of thunder told her one of the Prosecutors had not made it. Yndrasta hardly noticed. The kill. There was only the kill.
The Anomia screeched. Its clawed arms began unfolding in concentric shapes. Its vulture-features hardened into scabrous corners, then swirled into a storm of kaleidoscopic light. Rain-soaked plumage and mottled flesh inflated into recursive bubbles. What emerged from the mutative storm was sickening and imponderable. Wings, upon wings. Eyes, upon eyes. Discs of bronze and purposeless flame. The sight was ineffable, profound…
And pathetic. The Anomia was afraid. To protect itself, the daemon had abandoned its physical form. Now it was harmless and invulnerable.
But invulnerability wouldn’t stop Yndrasta. She clenched her jaw, sheered left, barely controlling her descent. This gale reeked of malign magic, a cheap and clever defence. She wouldn’t get another pass. She wouldn’t make it–
She landed, hard. The maddening visage of the Anomia glared down at her from its place on the tor. Yndrasta didn’t stop to admire the abomination. Elegant, efficient, she hefted her holy spear, Thengavar, to her shoulder. She transferred the momentum from her reckless landing into a run up, recruiting every muscle in her body into the coming throw. Force passed up the axis of her, from her big toes through her spine to the tips of her fingers. Yndrasta heard the sound of her breath, felt the wind whip it from her lungs; she smelled the Shyishan petrichor in the rain, reeking of death, and relished its taste on her lips.
From the Stormcast battle line, orders were given to withdraw. The warriors pounded back, step by step, making way, but not for the daemons. They chanted Yndrasta’s many epithets, awaited her killing blow.
