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  ~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

  THE GATES OF AZYR

  An Age of Sigmar novella

  ~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

  WAR STORM

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  GHAL MARAZ

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  HAMMERS OF SIGMAR

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  CALL OF ARCHAON

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  ~ THE BLACK RIFT OF KLAXUS ~

  PART ONE: ASSAULT ON THE MANDRAKE BASTION

  PART TWO: IN THE WALLS OF URYX

  PART THREE: THE GNAWING GATE

  PART FOUR: SIX PILLARS

  From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

  Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

  But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

  Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.

  The Age of Sigmar had begun.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Crawling City

  Skuralanx the Scurrying Dark, the Cunning Shadow, servant of the Great Corruptor, verminlord and blessed child of the Horned Rat, crept on stealthy hooves through the dead temple towards its central chamber. The daemon’s massive frame was heavily muscled beneath his mangy hide, and his bifurcated tail lashed in equal parts annoyance and excitement as he ducked his many-horned, fleshless skull beneath a cracked archway.

  He crawled, skulked, scurried and slunk through the shadows cast by the eternal lightning-storm which swirled about the cracked domes and shattered towers. Writhing streaks of lightning cascaded down broken statues or struck the pockmarked plazas of the temple-complex. The sky above was a knot of painful, shimmering cobalt clouds, and the daemon avoided the sight of it as much as possible.

  The mortals who had built this place called it the Sahg’gohl – the Storm-Crown of the City-Worm. A fitting name, Skuralanx thought, for a place where the air stank of iron and the elemental heat of Azyr. Within the domed central chamber was a door to that realm, and it wept forever in fury. Perhaps that explained the lightning. Skuralanx didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. Such doorways could be twisted out of shape and off-path with ridiculous ease, if one knew the trick of it.

  But that was not his purpose here. Not yet at any rate. He was no brutish Warbringer or treacherous Warpseer, looking to conquer for conquest’s sake. No, he was a child of the Great Witherer, born of blessed foulness and blighted shadows, and his was a higher calling. The Eater of All Things was in turmoil, roiling with conflicting desires which could only be assuaged by that which Skuralanx sought – or rather, by that which his servants sought on his behalf.

  One of the Thirteen Great Plagues was here. He was certain of it. Hidden away from the eyes of mortals and daemons alike. Skuralanx had followed its trail from the Jade Kingdoms of Ghyran to the rime-encrusted tarnholds of the fallen duchies of Shyish, and now, at last, here, to the Ghurlands and a city built on the broad, ever-undulating back of a colossal worm.

  And he had not come alone, no-no. Skuralanx was a craftsman, and like all craftsmen, he possessed many tools. Two had come to the city-worm at his command, though neither knew that the other served him. The skaven of the Red Bubo Procession and the Congregation of Fumes, drawn from the Clans Pestilens, had risen at his order and drowned the inhabitants of the city in a foetid tide of pox and pestilence. Led by their quarrelsome plague priests, the two congregations had burst from the body of the worm, ringing their doom-gongs and spreading noxious death wherever they scurried.

  It had been a thing of beauty and horror in equal measure. A civilization, millennia old, ruined in a fortnight by the teeming, pestilent hordes that scurried forth at his behest. Even better, his chittering servants were now hard at work making this place fit for the children of the Horned Rat. Soon, this city, which had once belonged to the man-things, would instead be home to the Clans Pestilens. And Skuralanx would rule over them – whichever ones managed to survive, that is. He played no favourites and was content to allow them the freedom to murder one another with vicious abandon.

  As long as one or the other found that which he desired, he cared nothing for their fate. They were in competition, and every setback and victory spurred them on to greater heights of cunning, just as he’d planned. Live or die, his triumph was assured. One of them would find the Liber and bring it to him.

  Had he wished, he could easily have sought out the object of his desire himself. Indeed, there were some among his kin-rivals who would have done just that. But Skuralanx was patient. And besides, what was the point of having minions if one didn’t let them serve? Had not the Horned Rat spawned his children to serve him, after all?

  Snickering, the verminlord leapt onto the shoulder of Sigmar. Or his statue, at least. Stern, bearded, unforgiving, the massive sculpture of the man-thing god glared out over the chamber where once his followers had gathered in worship. The chamber glowed with an unpleasant radiance. The glow emanated from the vast iron hatch composed of intersecting plates and set into the base of the statue’s plinth. Lightning dripped from it, crawling across the walls and floor in crackling sheets. It filled the air and made his hide prickle.

  The interlocking plates had been designed to be opened only in the proper order. Skuralanx had no doubt that his cunning would prove equal to the task, when the need arose. At but a touch, he would wrench the realmgate open and twist it back upon itself, turning the way to the Jade Kingdoms and the maggot-infested warrens his minions called home. Plague congregations and clawbands without number awaited but the merest whisper of his voice, for his schemes and the tools with which he enacted them were infinite.

  Beyond the chamber, through the shattered walls, Skuralanx could see the wide, pillar-lined causeway which connected the ruined temple to the rest of the city.

  ‘Blind, so blind, yes-yes,’ the daemon hissed, carving filthy runes into the statue’s cheek. He had come here every day for weeks to do so, because it amused him, and the statue’s face was all but swallowed up by the daemonic graffiti. ‘Can’t see what’s right in front of him, oh no. Blind god, broken god, dead god.’

  He looked up past the lightning to the amber skies of the Ghurlands, where strange birds flew and worse things besides. ‘Soon, all of the gods will be dead, yes. Only one left, only the
strongest, the stealthiest, the most brilliant of gods, yes-yes… all dead, and we will ascend in their place.’

  They would rise and flourish, spreading decay across the Eight Realms. Yes, and more besides. All realms, all worlds, all peoples would fall. All would rot, never to be renewed. From out of this glorious corruption, new life would swell, but not mortal life, not man-thing life or hated duardin, no-no – only skaven life. Only the faithful skaven-life – no place for the unbelievers. All things would die.

  And Shu’gohl, the Crawling City, would be the first.

  The air smelled of worm. Not an unpleasant smell, by the standards of Vretch of the Red Bubo, but not altogether pleasing either. It was a coarse, acrid odour which clung tenaciously to everything here, living or otherwise. It filled the sprawling city of looming towers and swaying bridges which the skaven of the Clans Pestilens had, for the most part, occupied. It was even, regrettably, in his fur. It overlaid his natural pungency, subsuming the unique tang of his many and varied blessings, drowning them in worm-stink.

  Chittering in annoyance, he scratched at a ripe blister until it burst, briefly releasing a revivifying aroma of pus and blood into the air. The plague priest’s thin nose twitched as the sickly-sweet smell faded, and was once more replaced by the dry stench of the monstrous enormity known as Shu’gohl, the Crawling City.

  The great worm crawled ceaselessly across the Amber Steppes of the Ghurlands. Its segmented form stretched across the grasslands from sunrise to sunset, carrying the city and its people along with it. Shu’gohl crept slowly from horizon to horizon, day after day, devouring all in its path with remorseless hunger. It was not alone in this – to Vretch’s knowledge, there were at least ten of the immense worms remaining in the grasslands, driven to the surface in aeons past by great rains. Someday they might once more descend into the cavernous depths beneath the Amber Steppes, but for now they seemed content to squirm mindlessly across its surface, cracking the earth with their weight.

  That suited Vretch just fine. The thought of all that amber-hued sky stretching far above was nothing less than terrifying to most skaven, but Vretch was not most skaven. And in any event, the Setaen Palisades were cramped enough to make any child of the Horned Rat feel at home. The great, bristle-like hairs which rose from the worm’s hide were as hard as stone, and thousands had been hollowed out in ages past to make the tiered towers which rose throughout the city.

  Those hairs closest to the eternal lightning storm which wreathed Shu’gohl’s head had been made over into veritable citadels. They rose higher than any other structure in the city, and were connected by a vast network of bridges, nets and heavy palisades made from quarried worm-scale and frayed hairs culled from the worm’s dorsal forests. From the uppermost tiers, which Vretch had claimed for his own, one could see the entirety of the Crawling City. Not that there was much to look at. The man-things knew little of artisanry, preferring to stack stone rather than burrow through it.

  His chambers were in the highest tiers of the Setaen Palisades, where the city’s noblest families had once resided. The former inhabitants now swung from makeshift gibbets and iron cages outside his windows, where they could be retrieved at any time he deemed necessary. Sometimes he rattled the chains, just to hear them moan. It had a soothing quality which he had come to appreciate in the weeks since his arrival.

  The chamber at the heart of his domain was circular, and mostly open to the elements. The domed roof was supported by intricately carved pillars, and the floor was covered now by the tools of Vretch’s trade – ever-seething pox-cauldrons and bubbling alembics, piles of grimoires and heaps of parchment, and tottering stacks of cages, in which plague-rats and moaning man-things waited for his ministrations. Flayed hides, still dripping and streaked with rot, hung like curtains from the roof, and the signs most sacred to the Horned Rat had been carved onto every available surface. Plague monks clad in ragged robes moved back and forth through the chamber, their scrawny limbs bound in filthy bandages. They worked at various tasks, stirring his cauldrons and refining the battle-plagues they would inflict on the dwindling kernels of resistance within those areas of the Crawling City they controlled.

  And then, and only then, it would be Kruk’s turn. Vretch’s claws tightened unconsciously as he thought of his brutal and foolish rival. Kruk, plague priest of Clan Festerlingus, had pursued Vretch to Shu’gohl like a bad smell. Then, that had always been Kruk’s way. Indeed, Vretch could almost admire such single-minded determination, were it not for Kruk’s blasphemous inclinations. Every skaven knows proper buboes are red, Vretch thought, grinding his teeth as the old anger surged through him. Red!

  Both plague priests had followed a trail of stories whispered about the campfires of the savages who populated the Amber Steppes, racing to be the first to find their quarry. Vretch’s agents had spied upon the tribes of wild riders and nomads who fled before the approach of Shu’gohl. The worm-city crawled endlessly across the steppes and brought with it a strange plague, which afflicted all those caught in its shadow.

  Vretch and his congregation had ascended on the worm, burrowing through its hard flesh and soft tissue to attack the city and its unprepared defenders from within.

  Or so they had planned. Vretch ground his teeth in frustration. They had erupted from Shu’gohl’s flesh to find the defenders already occupied with Kruk and his heretical Congregation of Fumes. Now, Kruk held the tailwards section of the city, past the Dorsal Barbicans, though how long he would remain there only the Horned Rat knew.

  He and Kruk were both looking for the same thing – the source of the mysterious plague which stalked in Shu’gohl’s wake. It rose from the worm’s ichors and stained the land black. The afflicted man-things grew hollow and rotted away, eaten inside out by burrowing black worms. He’d tested it numerous times since, and found it to be a thing of great beauty. Perhaps it was even one of the Thirteen Great Plagues…

  The floor beneath his claws shuddered unexpectedly, and he tensed, clutching at a support pillar. He scuttled to the window and peered out over the expanse of the Crawling City, which sprawled like an unsightly encrustation across Shu’gohl’s broad segments. Its towers and tiers rose and fell with the segments and furrows of the great worm upon whose back it had been erected in millennia past.

  Smoke still rose from beyond the distant walls of the Dorsal Barbicans. Kruk’s congregation hard at work, no doubt. Or perhaps something else… Only a few days ago, the skies overhead had grown dark and thunderous, and a harsh rain had fallen. Lightning had struck the great worm, causing it to shudder in agony. The storm clouds had dispersed somewhat as the worm continued its eternal crawl, but they were still there. His whiskers twitched.

  The Setaen Palisades themselves rose in staggered levels, starting from a segment of the worm. The upper levels were built around the tops of setae, so that they moved when the worm moved. They had been crafted with care and skill, raised by the hands of eager artisans to house the mighty and wealthy of Shu’gohl. Now, they were steadily being transformed into fields of rot and plague by the hands of their former inhabitants.

  How they wept, these weak man-things. How they shrieked and cried, as if they did not understand that all things rotted, all things died. Even the great worms of the Amber Steppes.

  He looked down, eyes drawn by the clangour of industry. Far below, his followers oversaw the excavation of the Gut-shafts. Hordes of man-thing slaves, chained with iron and disease, cleared the great pores of flesh and solidified mucus, opening a path into Shu’gohl’s interior. As he watched, a geyser of the worm’s viscous blood spurted up, drowning a dozen slaves, as the Crawling City shuddered again. From somewhere far beyond the storm which wreathed the worm’s head, a throbbing, dolorous groan sounded. Birds rose from the tops of the towers and fled shrieking into the sky.

  Soon, Vretch thought, the worm would die and its great hide would slough into bubbling ruin. A great stink would rise
from it, choking the sky. It would be beautiful, Vretch thought. Especially if Kruk perished in the meantime.

  A garbled moan caused him to turn. His assistants cowered back from the source of the sound, and he could smell the whiff of fear musk rising from them. Vretch chuckled and waved them back. The monks huddled away as Vretch stepped towards the crude plinth which had been built around the largest of his pox-cauldrons.

  The Conglomeration was his finest work. A dozen slaves had gone into its creation, their tormented bodies merged through a combination of a hundred different plagues and poxes. Bile, pus and blood from weeping sores and raw wounds had flowed together to harden into stony scabs. The twitching mass of flesh, bone and infection sat astride its plinth and gazed down at Vretch with dull eyes.

  ‘Vrrretch,’ the thing said, with many mouths.

  ‘I am here, my most verminous of masters,’ Vretch said. The Conglomeration was an oracle, of sorts. On the rare occasions when it spoke, it did so with the voice of the Great Witherer. Other plague priests looked for their omens in the froth of cauldrons or the guts of boil-afflicted rats, but Vretch had provided the god and his servants a suitable receptacle for their mighty will.

  ‘You are too slow, Vretch,’ the Conglomeration hissed. The various heads spoke all at once, their individual voices merging into a familiar baritone snarl that shook Vretch to his bones. It was ever thus; his patron spoke with the voice of the Destroyer, the Crawling Entropy, the Eater of All Things… Skuralanx, the Scurrying Dark. One of the mightiest of those verminlords blessed to serve the Horned Rat in his truest aspect – that of the Corruptor. ‘Too slow, too slow. That heretical fool Kruk is ahead of you. Where is my pox, Vretch? Where are my blisters, my buboes, my worm-plagues?’

  Vretch thrust a claw beneath his robes and scratched furiously at his greasy fur. Mention of his rival always made him itch. Red buboes, red! he thought. ‘Coming, coming, O mighty Skuralanx,’ he said. ‘I read-study quick-quick, yes? I must learn-know all there is, yes-yes?’ He scanned his chambers – the piles of scrolls, the bubbling cauldrons, the dismembered prisoners. Then, more firmly, he said, ‘Yes.’