The Black Rift of Klaxus - Six Pillars Read online

  ‘Enemies,’ Tarkus said, raising his battle-horn. He blew a single note, and two retinues of Liberators moved forward smoothly, taking up position across the width of the street, their shields raised. The sound grew louder and louder, and then a number of shapes, not all of them human, burst into sight. ‘Wait – those don’t look like Bloodbound,’ the Knight-Heraldor said.

  ‘They’re not,’ Moros said, as the street was suddenly filled with life and noise.

  In the lead were a pack of the grey, black-spotted scale-cats that prowled the upper branches of the Ashen Jungle. They screeched as they spotted the Stormcasts. One by one, the reptilian felines bounded from the ground, scrambling up onto the rooftops in an apparent effort to escape, leathery tails whipping about in fear. After them came serpents and vermin, of all shapes and sizes. Birds as well, damp-feathered and shrieking. Behind the animals came a group of fear-stricken Klaxians, clad in rags, carrying makeshift weapons or wailing children, or both. They stumbled to a halt as they realised what awaited them.

  ‘Stand aside – let them past,’ Moros bellowed. Sigmarite shields swung aside, and the Liberators made room for the Klaxians, who lurched forward as a path was opened. The mortals hurried through the silent ranks of the Stormcasts, glancing about in dull-eyed fear. They did not stop, or even slow, and no Stormcast sought to hinder them. Moros hoped Gorgus could take them in hand, or at least shepherd them to safety.

  He turned as lightning flashed. The Prosecutors swooped and dived, hurling their hammers at whatever pursued the Klaxians. He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Lock shields – Thunderhead Brotherhoods to the fore,’ he called out. The air trembled with a measureless roar of raw sound – innumerable voices, raised in a brutal song. The ground trembled beneath his feet. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t planning on stopping.

  A moment later, the first bloodreaver burst into sight, running flat out, an axe in either hand. More followed – dozens, fifty, a hundred – a savage tide of murderous fury. Moros could feel the hatred radiating outward from them, and the terrible hunger that drove them. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ he cried. Liberators braced themselves as the Judicators behind them began to fire, launching crackling bolts into the flood of flesh and crimson iron sweeping towards the Stormcasts.

  The howling tribesmen hurtled forward, through the barrage of skybolts and hammers hurled from on high by the Prosecutors. They filled the avenue and trampled the wounded in their haste to reach the sigmarite shield wall. Moros could see the bulky shapes of bloodstokers in the maddened crowd, lashing the barbarians cruelly, goading them on. The first of the bloodreavers reached the shield wall and the sheer fury of their charge nearly buckled it. The Liberators stiffened, driving warblades through the gaps between shields to gut and hamstring the foe, or crushing the hands and heads of those that sought to climb over the wall with warhammers.

  ‘We need room to manoeuvre – Galerius, we need to push them back,’ Moros said. The Knight-Vexillor nodded and strode to join the Liberators, battle-standard raised high. ‘Tarkus–’ he began, glancing at the Knight-Heraldor.

  ‘I’ll take one of these side-streets. We’ll hammer ourselves a path, and flank them,’ Tarkus said, before Moros could continue. At Tarkus’ signal, the Devastation Brotherhoods moved forward. Moros made to speak, but merely nodded instead. Tarkus, for all his exuberance, knew his business. The Lord-Relictor held out his hand, and Tarkus caught it. The two Stormcasts clasped forearms as the paladins moved to join them.

  ‘Be careful, my friend. And be quick,’ Moros said. He turned. The Liberators crashed against the bloodreaver ranks, forcing them back one bloody step at a time. He counted the moments, waiting until they had gained enough space, and then gestured. ‘Take out the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

  Retributors unleashed their hammers on the walls and doorways behind the shelter of the shield wall. The ancient stones cracked and fell, and where vines and roots held them suspended, the axes of the Decimators set them loose. As the paladins worked to open gaps, Judicators clambered through them and took up positions in the shattered ruins. Soon, skybolts were sizzling across the narrow avenue in a deadly crossfire, cutting down the enemy by the dozen. Galerius raised his hammer, and the Liberators halted their advance to wait, shields and weapons ready, holding the foe at bay. Judicators carrying skybolt bows and boltstorm crossbows moved forward, shielded behind the Liberators.

  ‘Tarkus – go,’ Moros said, motioning sharply to the Knight-Heraldor. Tarkus saluted and led his warriors through one of the newly-gutted structures. A moment later, Moros heard the sound of lightning hammers shattering stone. ‘Keep pace, whatever else. Do not let your bows grow cold for an instant, brothers,’ the Lord-Relictor said to the Judicators as he passed through their ranks. ‘Show them the storm in all its fury, and do not falter. Protectors, with me!’

  Moros moved towards the enemy, his Protectors close beside him, their stormstrike glaives extended. He signalled to Galerius as he moved past. ‘Galerius – lead them forward on my command. We will be the point of the spear, and you the haft,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We cannot stop for anything.’

  ‘Even death shall not slow me, Lord-Relictor,’ Galerius said. ‘Not while I bear our standard. Where you lead, we shall follow, even unto the fire.’

  ‘Hardly the fire, Galerius. Just to the next plaza, I think,’ Moros said. He could hear the winding blast of Tarkus’ battle-horn, somewhere beyond the sagging structures and splayed branches of the trees that grew amongst them. The Knight-Heraldor was on the move, and Moros was determined to keep the enemy unaware of that fact for as long as possible. He took a breath and cleared his mind of all save the sacred lightning. It was no simple feat. It required concentration to stir the divine tempest. And only those possessed of faith undying could direct the thundering aetheric energies that Sigmar had bestowed upon them. Only those like Moros Calverius.

  He concentrated, focusing on the soft sound of the rain, the distant growl of the thunder, and heard the voice of Sigmar, speaking to him through the storm. The air swirled and the rain hissed as it felt the touch of lightning. He expelled the breath he’d been holding and swung his reliquary forward, unleashing the elemental fury that boiled within him. ‘Forward – for Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial!’ Moros roared, as his lightning scythed through the ranks of the tribesmen. ‘Press forward, sons of Sigmar, and let no foe stay thy path.’

  A bloodreaver, skin charred and smoking, staggered towards him, laughing wildly. Moros crushed the dying warrior’s skull and cursed as more bloodreavers charged towards him. They fell, struck down by the glaives of his bodyguards. Galerius shouted an order, and the shield wall began to move forward once more in the Lord-Relictor’s wake.

  Soon, the stones of the street and buildings were slick with gore. The Bloodbound did not slow their assault, even as they died in droves. It was as if every cursed tribe in the city were trying to get at them. Warriors leapt from the rooftops, trying to bypass the shield wall. They fell, plucked from the air by the bolts of the Judicators or the hammers of the Prosecutors.

  Moros drove the enemy before him, scouring them with lightning, and reducing many to ashes. He crushed skulls and shattered limbs with every strike of his hammer. His Protectors fought alongside him, and with them he carved a bleeding wedge in the enemy, blunting their momentum. Galerius kept the shield wall steady, so that those foemen who got past the Lord-Relictor found no refuge. The Stormcasts stamped over the bodies of the fallen, grinding them into the stones as they moved forward with relentless precision.

  Soon, the avenue widened into an enormous plaza, lined with shattered pillars and toppled statues. The barbaric standards of at least five tribes of bloodreavers rose above the seething mass of tribesmen as they stampeded over rubble and around fallen walls. They flooded the plaza, coming from all directions, driven beyond reason.

  Neither lightning nor sigmarite deterred the foe, but the
Stormcasts continued to advance. To stop was to risk being overwhelmed. As the shield wall forced its way into the plaza, the retinues behind fought their way forward. The shield wall stretched further out, until almost every Liberator retinue had taken his place in the battle-line. Behind them, Decimators and Retributors fought to keep the flanks free of enemies. Prosecutors swooped overhead, trying to shatter the entrances to the plaza and cut off the flow of tribesmen.

  Moros snarled in fury as a nearby Liberator fell, his skull split by an axe, and his body dissolving in a burst of lightning. The weapon’s wielder was a giant of a warrior, long of limb and heavy with muscle. Slaughterpriest, Moros thought. The slaughterpriest was covered in scars, his flesh branded with the rune of Khorne. Great horns of bone stretched from the back of his head, curling over his broad shoulders. As the Lord-Relictor watched, the giant drove his axe into a Liberator’s shield hard enough to crumple it. The Liberator staggered, and the warrior caught his head in one big hand. Veins bulged and muscles swelled in the giant’s arm as, impossibly, the sigmarite war-helm began to buckle and crack. Then Galerius was there, his hammer smashing down on the giant’s arm with bone-crunching force.

  Moros lost sight of the Knight-Vexillor as a barbed lash hissed out and caught him around the wrist. Surprised, he dropped his warhammer. A burly bloodstoker chortled as he stabbed at Moros with his rusty blade. The blade shattered as it struck Moros’ armour, and the Lord-Relictor allowed himself a moment to relish the look on the brute’s face, just before he punched him. The bloodstoker staggered back. Moros whirled his reliquary staff about and slammed the weighted haft into the Bloodbound’s stomach. As his opponent stumbled back, Moros snatched up his fallen hammer and swept it across the bloodstoker’s head, crushing it.

  He heard a cry and spun to see Galerius stagger, one hand clamped to his shoulder. The slaughterpriest reared back and kicked the Knight-Vexillor in the chest, knocking him back against the shield wall. ‘Is that it,’ the slaughterpriest roared, as he avoided an off-balance blow from Galerius. ‘Is that the best you can do, lightning-rider?’

  Moros slammed his staff down and a bolt of crackling lightning punched the slaughterpriest backwards to bowl over a group of bloodreavers. For a moment, the clamour of battle faded, as Moros and his warriors moved towards the downed warrior. The slaughterpriest heaved himself to his feet, in a cloud of smoke. ‘Who dares strike Apademak?’ he screamed. His flesh was raw and puckered where the lightning had struck him, and smoke rose from his body. He lashed out in a frenzy, killing tribesmen as they raced past him. ‘You,’ he snarled, pointing at Moros. ‘I’ll eat your heart,’ the slaughterpriest roared, bounding through the press of battle, his axe raised. The wicked blade swept out, and caught a Protector in the shoulder.

  The Stormcast staggered, and tried to bring his glaive about, but he was too slow. The axe bit down again and again, until even sturdy sigmarite was forced to give way. The Protector fell, body evaporating in a haze of blue lightning. The slaughterpriest howled in fury, and whirled, backhanding another of Moros’ bodyguards off his feet.

  Moros lunged forward, and drove the haft of his reliquary staff into the Bloodbound’s unarmoured torso. Bones cracked, and the slaughterpriest staggered back a half-step, his howl choked off in a strangled grunt. His eyes bulged and he stomped forward, axe whirling. Moros backed away, watching his opponent warily. The slaughterpriest was larger, with a longer reach, but like most Bloodbound he was a sloppy fighter. A brawler, rather than a trained warrior.

  They came together again, trading blows. Then, perhaps one as strong as this doesn’t need training, Moros thought, as they circled one another. The slaughterpriest’s energy was inexhaustible. He fought as if his foul god were whispering in his ear, spurring him on. The battle flowed around them. Moros could spare little attention for anything save his duel.

  The slaughterpriest surged forward suddenly, and slammed into Moros, knocking him from his feet. The Lord-Relictor rolled aside as the axe slammed down, nearly chopping into his chest. He shoved himself upright, narrowly catching a second blow on his staff. For a moment, the tableau held. But inch by inch, he felt himself being pushed back.

  Then the air was split by the monsoon roar of a sigmarite battle-horn, crying out like the voice of the God-King himself. The booming wall of sound reverberated through the plaza, drowning out the clangour of battle. It was so powerful that several of the broken walls that lined the plaza exploded outwards, filling the air with shards of stone and a billowing cloud of dust. A chunk of wall, as large as three men, slammed into the slaughterpriest, tearing him away from Moros and burying him beneath an avalanche of rubble.

  Moros turned from his fallen foe. Most of the bloodreavers closest to the explosion were ripped from their feet by the tumbling stones. Those who remained standing were cut down moments later by the axes of the Decimators who charged out of the breach. Tarkus led the charge, his sigmarite broadsword bisecting an unlucky bloodreaver who tried to bar his path. The Knight-Heraldor raised his horn in greeting, as he and his warriors swept towards the rest of the chamber. ‘I see you started without us, Lord-Relictor. For shame,’ Tarkus called.

  ‘You are here now. And there are foes aplenty,’ Moros shouted back. He looked around for Galerius, and caught sight of the wounded Knight-Vexillor being helped behind the shield wall by a Liberator. Relieved, Moros turned back to the battle. With his Protectors following close behind, he began to fight his way towards the newcomers.

  ‘Ha! Truly, I was forged for moments such as this,’ Tarkus roared, as Moros joined him. His broadsword swept out in a wide arc and chopped through a bloodreaver’s midsection. Flesh and bone parted and Tarkus reversed the arc of the swing with a speed that Moros found almost impossible to follow. The hilt of the blade rolled in the Knight-Heraldor’s grip as he pivoted and brought the wide blade down on a second bloodreaver, removing the savage warrior’s arm at the shoulder-joint. Tarkus stepped aside as the bloodreaver toppled, and interposed his sword between Moros’ head and the axe of another burly warrior.

  ‘Any time you’d like to step back, Lord-Relictor,’ Tarkus said, as the bloodreaver strained against him. The berserker snarled in frustration and made to drive his blade into Tarkus’ side. Moros whipped his staff up and thrust it past Tarkus. He drove the weighted ferrule into the Bloodbound’s chest, cracking bone. As the warrior staggered, Tarkus jerked his sword free and brought it down on the berserker’s helm, splitting both it and the skull beneath.

  ‘The day I step back is the day I am bound for reforging, Knight-Heraldor,’ Moros said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Though you have my thanks for your timely arrival.’

  The bloodreavers were falling back, streaming away from their foes, their will to fight momentarily broken. The shock of Tarkus’ arrival had shattered whatever spell had gripped them, replacing frenzy with fear. They’ll regroup soon enough, Moros thought, as he signalled for his retinue to reform, but we will be ready for them.

  ‘Where howl the enemies of Sigmar, so too shall I be, to silence them,’ Tarkus said. He planted his sword point-first in the broken ground and leaned on the hilt. He raised his battle-horn and blew a single, powerful note. It hung on the air for a moment, causing the very stones to vibrate. Soon, the tramp of marching feet reached Moros’ ears, and more Stormcasts streamed into the square, reinforcing the shield wall. ‘Galerius?’ Tarkus asked, as he lowered his horn.

  ‘Hurt, but unbroken,’ Moros said. He would tend to the Knight-Vexillor as soon as he was able, and any other wounded as well. He looked around, searching for the slaughterpriest. The brute needed finishing off, if possible. He was too dangerous to leave running loose. But it was a futile effort – the plaza was covered in a shroud of broken bodies and rubble. If the creature still lived, he was buried beneath stone and corpses. ‘We need to keep moving. Gorgus will have to deal with the remnants of our foes, when they regroup. We...’ he trailed off, as something c
aught his eye.

  Strange shapes rose from among the heaps and mounds of dead bodies, twisting and stretching like living smoke. Grotesque faces leered and gibbered silently at him, as intangible limbs swiped uselessly at the Stormcasts as they moved through the battlefield. ‘By the celestial hammer,’ Tarkus said, as something lean and foul clawed at him with ghostly talons. It thinned and faded as he whirled to confront it, vanishing like the morning mist.

  ‘Daemons,’ Moros said, a sick feeling rising in him. ‘They press at the world’s threshold, seeking entrance.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Stay close – they cannot harm us, not yet.’ Not until whatever is in the air has come to a boil, he thought. Was that Anhur’s plan, then? To summon a daemontide to drown his enemies? A chill swept through him at the thought.

  ‘Let them come,’ Tarkus said, as he chopped through another fading daemonic shape. It twisted in on itself and vanished as his sword pierced it. ‘They will meet the same fate as their mortal servants.’

  ‘Boldly spoken,’ Moros said. ‘And Sigmar-willing, prophetic. But leave them be. They are vermin, and we should ignore them as such, until it is time to spill their ichor upon the ground.’ Despite his words, he felt uncertain. He shook his head. ‘Come. Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. We must press on. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. We must not fail him.’

  Hroth Shieldbreaker strode through the rain, across the cracked and stinking plaza. Slaves toiled despite the storm, heaving heavy blocks into place to form barricades or else erecting dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles were embedded in the stone, their fleshless bounty staring sightlessly out over the lake which separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Standards and banner poles bearing the rune of Khorne pierced the plaza, like arrows in the hide of some great beast. Bands of scuttling skaven dragged weeping prisoners past him, towards the Bridge of Smoke. More grist for Pazak’s mill. Hroth growled softly. Sorcerers were not to be trusted. Especially ones who had once been enemies.