Warbeast, page 25
‘Where are you going?’ said Glavius.
‘To fight,’ Theuderis replied.
‘You cannot, my lord.’ The Lord-Relictor removed his hand. ‘It is more important that you lead the army.’
The Lord-Celestant looked at the skaven horde spilling from the undercity, and at the line of white and blue arranged against the dark mass.
‘I will lead the defence,’ Glavius continued. ‘But you are needed to muster what force you can with the rest of the host.’
‘No,’ said Theuderis, stepping past the Lord-Relictor. ‘My place is here. I am a commander, but a warrior first. The others will know what to do and will await my return.’
He would listen to no further argument and ran for the steps, heading down to ground level as swiftly as possible. Tyrathrax awaited him beside a broken-down gatehouse, padding back and forth as the sounds of battle increased.
‘You cheated death once, but it comes again,’ he told his steed, swinging into the saddle. ‘I will be reborn. Lessened, but alive. Your spirit will return to the great flux of Azyr.’
The dracoth did not seem the least perturbed by this and threw herself into a sprint, heading down the street directly for the Stormcast line. Prosecutors and Judicators did their best with volleys of fire, and had driven the verminlord back into the pit for the time being. Against the numberless horde their celestial bolts and arrows had little impact.
Over the heads of his warriors, Theuderis spied the skaven leaders – a cabal of staff-wielding priests directing the attack from the rim of the slave-pit.
‘If we do nothing but slay their commanders we will have struck a vital blow,’ he bellowed to his warriors as Tyrathrax bounded through a gap between two brotherhoods of Decimators. ‘Attack is the surest defence!’
Skaven bodies were flung aside by the rampage of the dracoth, while bolts of celestial energy forked from her maw to strike down even more. Theuderis’ blade moved constantly, every whip-fast sweep and precise thrust finding a throat, skull or heart amongst the tightly packed skaven monks.
He could see his goal less than fifty paces away. One of the plague priests was larger than the others, swollen with warp-touch, eyes gleaming green, its staff crackling with the same power. Perhaps it was coincidence or perhaps the priest sensed Theuderis’ approach. It turned its eyes towards the Lord-Celestant. He thought to see concern, knowing skaven were a fearful breed in their hearts. He was met with a stare of hatred so intense he almost felt it like a blow.
Screeching, the priest pointed its staff at Theuderis, waving a fresh mob of priests towards the Knight Excelsior. Dozens more furred and robed creatures scampered into the space ahead of Theuderis.
Tyrathrax stumbled. A skaven corpse was tangled around her front leg by a frayed rope belt. It was almost nothing, and she quickly recovered, but the loss of momentum proved consequential. The plague monks pressed in harder still, swamping the dracoth and her rider, battering and hacking from every direction. No matter how quickly Theuderis struck, or how viciously Tyrathrax bit and clawed, their progress was slowed to a halt.
Skinny fingers with broken claws grasped and scraped at Theuderis and plucked at the armour of his steed. Rusted blades found the saddle-cinch and moments later the Lord-Celestant felt himself slipping sideways, dragged down by dozens of scabbed, blistered hands.
Tyrathrax howled as she too was overwhelmed, buried beneath a living, snarling avalanche of frenzied rat-beasts. Theuderis managed to twist to his feet as the dracoth pitched sideways and the saddle fell free. He could barely see anything, tatters of cloth across his face, gore and blood clotting the joints of his armour. He struck out with blade and fist, but could not fight his way free.
His mask was ripped away and he caught a glimpse of vermin faces, drooling and manic. He tasted rusted metal. It was confusing, until he realised the blade had entered his mouth from beneath his chin.
He rolled over, crushing the plague monk beneath his bulk, but half a dozen leapt onto his back, using the edges of his armour plates as handholds, hammering and stabbing with delirious intensity.
Pushing himself to one knee, the Lord-Celestant swept his sword in a broad arc, severing the legs of a handful of foes. Something pierced his cheek from behind and he reached back to pluck the offending attacker from his shoulder. With a grunt he smashed the squealing skaven into another robed foe, breaking the spines of both.
He was almost upright when his knee gave way, tendons severed by the sawing of jagged knives. A serrated sword entered his eye, not quite deep enough to pierce the brain. Roaring from the pain he punched the head from the monk trying to drag the weapon free.
And then Theuderis fell, toppled to his back by the weight of his foes. He saw a last glimpse of grey clouds, the snow falling heavily.
Through swimming vision he saw the priest, the one with the jade eyes. There was something in its chest, revealed through the tatters of its robe, smoking and bubbling in a patch of scorched fur. It raised its staff, the skull at its tip chattering wildly, though the sound was distorted, muffled, masked by the drumming of the Lord-Celestant’s heart and the lessening throb of fleeing blood.
The pain stopped.
Furnace heat. Searing. Melting. Reforming.
Hammers crash. A forge, not battle. Anvils ring. Thunder rumbles.
Sparks, bright. Forks of lightning. The glow of forges. Starlight above.
Sulphur and hot steel. Charcoal. Boiling blood and charred flesh.
Chapter Forty-Five
He heard chanting – his name – and Ermenberga waved him towards the parapet.
‘Your subjects await you,’ she said, eyes moist with joy. She patted her stomach meaningfully, ‘and soon you will have other news to brighten their spirits further. I think it is a boy…’
Theuderic was struck dumb, his thoughts whirling. He pulled himself up onto the rampart edge. His army, led by princes and dukes and war leaders of many other castles and citadels, erupted into even greater noise, such that Theuderic almost didn’t hear the rumbling of thunder above.
He looked up and saw that the darkening sky was filling with ominous clouds. Fearing some last treachery of the alter-folk, Theuderic glanced back at his family.
With his name still ringing in his ears, and the loving, upturned faces of his wife and children etched into his mind, Theuderic juddered as a bolt scythed through his body without warning.
In a moment, all that he knew, the wide plains and jagged hills of the Glittering Breaches, dropped down beneath him. The great keeps and fortresses of his lands became specks of gold and silver before they too were lost, and in a moment the blur of the Auric Shield of Lyonaster disappeared from view.
He thought for a moment that he had been swallowed by a star, suffused with light and heat.
Pain returned.
He retreated, letting it consume his body, protecting his mind from its ravages.
In time the agony became a dull ache.
Theuderic was consumed by the storm, reforged into the Silverhand. But he was not yet Stormcast again, merely a mote of power hanging in the firmament of the quenching chamber. An idea bound into a miniature star. Celestial energy awaiting form.
He rebuilt himself without thought. Mind, body, armour.
Re-clad, Theuderis Silverhand waited for the last of the pain to wash away. The walls of the quenching chamber fell away with a last crackle of lightning, leaving the Lord-Celestant standing upon white marble floors, the high crystal-paned vaults of Sigmaron above him.
He was not alone.
Like shades from the past, the dead Knights Excelsior stood in ranks close at hand, waiting patiently for the return of their commander. There were fewer than he had feared.
Were the rest still in Ursungorod, or yet to be remade? Was the battle already lost?
A single note rang across the chamber, resonating inside his mind. A summons he could not ignore.
With swift strides he made his way to the grand hall of the God-King. Through great arches and windows he saw scores of other Strike Chambers from half a dozen Stormhosts gathered about their commanders, awaiting the Tempest of the God-King to send them on their missions. There was motion everywhere, columns and flights of Stormcasts ready to add their strength to the ongoing campaign to seize back the realmgates.
Entering the hall of his lord, the Silverhand found Sigmar sitting statue-like upon his throne, a giant that dwarfed even the Stormcasts of his armies. He was clad in golden armour, and his hair and beard flowed in the celestial gale that surrounded him.
The Warbeast was already present, some distance from his lord, bent to one knee, head bowed.
Theuderis tried to avert his gaze but the moment before he did so, the God-King looked directly at him. He expected anger, perhaps disappointment. He felt nothing but understanding, even admiration.
‘We failed, Lord Sigmar,’ Theuderis whispered, taking position next to Arkas. ‘Ursungorod is lost.’
The God-King rose from his throne and approached. As he neared them he seemed to grow smaller. His presence did not diminish in any way, but his form shifted, so that when he was standing almost within reach he was just a little taller than the Lord-Celestants.
‘Rise,’ the God-King commanded. They obeyed. ‘You have not yet failed. There is still time.’
Theuderis thought he would have been more moved by this revelation, but his mood was level, his spirit placid. Cold, even.
The Warbeast had not looked at him, but out of the corner of his eye Theuderis could see the Celestial Vindicator. His hands were fists, shoulders hunched. There was a palpable aura of anger emanating from him.
‘The division of our enemies has granted us opportunity,’ Sigmar continued. ‘The skaven and the Chaos tribes war with each other. Lord Silverhand, half of your force survived and awaits your return not far from the city.’
Theuderis nodded, accepting this fact without comment. Sigmar turned his attention to Arkas.
‘The Warbeasts were not so fortunate, but they have been reforged.’ The God-King crossed his arms. ‘You have one chance more to seize the realmgate. Lord-Castellant Durathos stands ready still. You will take the realmgate and summon Durathos to bring forth his Knights Excelsior.’
‘I will lead the attack,’ growled Arkas. Now he looked at Theuderis and there was a sullen rage behind his gaze. ‘This time there will be no hesitation.’
Sigmar raised a hand to silence Theuderis’ protest before it was voiced.
‘The assault on the All-gates is fast-approaching. I can spare no other Strike Chambers for the attack on Ursungorod.’ Sigmar looked from Arkas to Theuderis and back again. ‘Arkas, return to your Strike Chamber and prepare for the Tempest. Your hour of vengeance has not yet passed.’
Arkas hurriedly raised a fist in salute and stalked away. Theuderis watched him depart, already calculating a strategy that would take into account the Warbeast’s increased fury.
‘I do not understand why you approve of such ill-discipline, Lord Sigmar,’ he said when Arkas was out of sight. ‘These Warbeasts are barely controllable. Unfit to be Stormcasts.’
Sigmar’s expression soured.
‘It is not your place to question my judgement.’ He relented as Theuderis again sank to one knee in silent apology. ‘But I will indulge you on this occasion. My Celestial Vindicators are rough gems, that is certain. They are unpredictable, often barbaric. Not every great hero of the Mortal Realms is a prince or knight, Lord Theuderis. The Warbeasts are savage, relentless and meteoric. Let them be free and they will take you to the realmgate.’
‘Arkas seems possessed by an even greater wrath than before.’
‘Aye,’ said Sigmar. His gaze moved away, as though looking at the departed Warbeast. ‘His Reforging was costly.’
‘Angry commanders make poor decisions, my lord,’ Theuderis said.
‘But they make decisions,’ Sigmar said, and Theuderis flinched at the words. ‘They take risks which can achieve great reward. Not all problems can be solved before a blade has been raised. Have you ever considered that I might want Arkas to be angry?’
The thought had never occurred to the Silverhand and his silence was admission of the fact.
‘Go,’ said the God-King. ‘The tempest of war calls you. Strike with the speed and fury of my wrath.’
‘Your wrath, my blade,’ Theuderis replied.
Chapter Forty-Six
‘A sight that pleases me greatly.’
Felk shuddered as the verminlord’s words scuttled into his ears, sending tiny shockwaves through his system. Whiskers and tail twitching like disturbed serpents, the Poxmaster looked out across the city. He could see everything from the vandalised faces carved from the mountain rock. The snow fell thick in places over the masses of the dead, freezing the dying. Fires raged elsewhere, their glow lighting broken buildings and ruin-cluttered streets.
Here and there bands of skaven and the human tribes still clashed. The noise of their skirmishes carried far in the quiet aftermath of the skaven attack.
‘Late-late,’ mused Felk, swallowing hard. ‘Long time needed.’
‘Yes,’ said Skixakoth. ‘Vermalanx throws war at the sylvaneth queen, but is blind to other routes to victory. His fall shall be my rise.’
Felk said nothing. He had known he tampered with the schemes of beings far greater than him, but it had seemed a distant, abstract danger. Now there were warriors of Sigmar – Stormcasts they were called – bringing battle against him, and verminlord Corruptors taking an interest in his schemes.
Yet not for a heartbeat did he regret any action or decision. If not to be the greatest, if not to be seen by the eyes of the Great Corruptor, what was the point of existence? Though by nature his body was weak and cowardly, his ideals held him to a greater standard. He was driven by ambition, not courage, but would, when tested, prefer death to failure and slavery.
‘We will kill-kill storm warriors and nothing will stop us,’ said Felk. He could see the azure glow from the host of the giant warriors. They had taken up position on the mountainside between the city and the fire peaks.
‘No.’ The single word made Felk flinch. ‘The Whiteworld Above is of no consequence. The realmgate is open, our forces united. Vermalanx will fail and I will rise.’
Skixakoth strode away, tail lashing back and forth. Felk hissed at his back, emboldened again by the verminlord’s departure. He waited until the daemon of the Horned Rat had descended into the passages behind the duardin kings’ memorial.
‘I smell you,’ he said quietly. ‘Strong fear, yes?’
Thriss emerged from the shadows to the left.
‘I am Eshin,’ said the gutter runner. ‘No friend to Corruptors of the Horned One.’
‘But serve me?’
‘For payment.’ Thriss flashed fangs in the gloom. ‘For more payment?’
Felk fought back a threat. He had little bargaining power left since the arrival of the verminlord. He sighed.
‘Yes-yes. Double warpstone. Triple slaves. Yes-yes?’
Head cocked to one side, Thriss considered the offer and then nodded.
‘Good-good.’ Felk scratched at the open wound containing Skixakoth’s fang. His eyes strayed back to the Stormcasts upon the hill. They had not fled, but were waiting for something. He had heard the verminlord taunting one of the giant’s commanders, the one that had tried to seize the realmgate directly. Its words had implied that death was no barrier to Sigmar’s chosen. They could return. The wheels of his mind turned and he looked at Thriss. ‘Fetch Skarth. Have missions for two of you.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Even the storm that had heralded the arrival of the Warbeasts paled in comparison to the Tempest of Sigmar’s power that boiled through the sky over Kurzengor. The stars turned blue and then were swallowed by the thunderheads of celestial energy blanketing the heavens from horizon to horizon.
In the city skaven and human alike looked up at the immense magical conflagration and knew that war was not yet finished in Ursungorod. The boom of a single thunderclap was like the bellows of the God-King himself, toppling decrepit buildings, bringing avalanches of snow and rock tumbling down the mountainside onto the outskirts of the ancient city.
The flare of lightning started an instant later. It peaked in just a few heartbeats, hundreds of strikes lashing the mountain around the perimeter of the Stormcast position. So fierce was the return of the Warbeasts and fallen Silverhands that the snow was turned to rivers of meltwater cascading down over rocks and down gullies to flood into the contested city below.
A corona of power still crackling around him, Arkas Warbeast sucked in a deep lungful of air. Almost immediately he could feel the wash of Ghurite energy, the spirit of Ursungorod welcoming him back with a feral snarl in the back of his mind.
The Reforging had awakened the spirit of the Bear-clad again, but this time it had not dissipated. Arkas and Arka existed as one and the same. There was no more doubt, no inner conflict, just a rage, pure and focussed, an animal instinct to slay his foes without thought of the consequence. It felt good. He felt stronger. Stronger than he had been before.
Released. Freed.
His gaze found Theuderis, who, sitting astride his dracoth, was surrounded by a growing cadre of Silverhands officers. Knights-Heraldor and Knights-Vexillor dashed from the Stormcast encampment to greet their returned brethren and receive their commands, while the ranks of the Knights Excelsior stood silent guard.
Dolmetis and Doridun approached, several Primes a few steps behind them.
‘My lord,’ the Knight-Vexillor began, but Arkas cut him off with a snarl. It was hard to form words, to bring some coherent thought from the swirl of anger that embroiled his mind.
