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  He would use that fury, harness it, draw strength from it. Makvar and his Anvils of the Heldenhammer had descended upon Nulahmia to the rear of the Chaos hordes, where the enemy was dispersed and distracted by their pillaging. The Slaaneshi forces would have no time to converge upon them before the Stormcasts brought the fight to the barbarians.

  ‘Form ranks!’ Makvar called out, his voice echoing from behind the mask of his helm. ‘Liberators to the fore! Judicators at the centre! Paladins to the rear!’ He tugged the reins of Gojin’s harness, urging the dracoth to one side as the Stormcasts spread out across the road, stretching across it in a solid wall of ebon sigmarite plate. At his signal, the knights began to march deeper into the city. Woe betide whatever stood in their path, be it depraved barbarian, prowling beast or capering daemon.

  From the midst of the marching Stormcasts, an officer with a golden halo about his stern helm and a shuttered lantern chained to his belt moved towards where Makvar sat astride his reptilian steed. Lord-Castellant Vogun dipped his halberd in salute to his commander before addressing him. ‘We have suffered no casualties from this skirmish,’ he reported, ‘but I fear we cannot depend on the enemy to throw themselves at us in so piecemeal and reckless a manner. Lord-Relictor Kreimnar is concerned that the stormstrike has put us too far from our objective.’

  Makvar shook his head. ‘Sigmar has placed us where we need to be,’ he stated. ‘From this position, we can strike at the enemy where he is weakest and slaughter him before he can bring his greater numbers to bear.’ He pointed between the burning towers and smoking rooftops, indicating the flat-topped Throne Mount and the immense palace spread across it. The ghostly spirit-beacons stabbed their light skyward from behind those walls. ‘Chaos has yet to complete its conquest. The one we seek will be behind those walls. Queen Neferata is too vain to suffer the despoiling of her palace while her forces have strength to defy the enemy. The grace and might of Sigmar has given us passage through the veils of illusion by which Nulahmia was hidden. Now it is left to us to carve a path through the disorder of the enemy and reach the Mortarch’s stronghold.’

  Vogun shifted uneasily as he heard Makvar’s speech. ‘Sigmar grant that we do not trade one evil for another,’ he said. He brought the butt of his halberd cracking down against the ground. Embedded in the roadway, frozen in a soundless scream, was a fleshless skull. One of many dispersed between the flagstones. ‘This city was beset by depravity long before Chaos breached the walls.’

  ‘These lands have been without the light of Sigmar for a long time,’ Makvar said. ‘They have been forced to find other sources of strength.’ He looked skyward once more, at the ghoulish spirit-beacons. ‘Sometimes to fight a monster, you must become a monster.’

  The hordes of Chaos were advancing upon the temple district once more. From scattered bands of ravaging sadists, they were regrouping into an army again, an enemy united in malignant purpose. Neferata watched them for a while, saw the fur-clad marauders and armoured Chaos warriors crashing against the legions of skeletal warriors Harkdron now led. The vampire’s defence was tenacious, but he couldn’t do more than hold back the tide. The forces of Chaos knew that victory was within their grasp. All they had to do was smash through the undead to claim it.

  The vampire queen watched as a file of grave guard was overwhelmed and the first invaders reached the Pathway of Punishment, the great road that climbed Throne Mount to end at the very gates of her palace. Neferata turned her back on the scene, withdrawing from the balcony into the shadows of her antechamber. Kismet and her other handmaidens were waiting for her, ready to attend their queen. Neferata unclasped the bloodstone broach that held her gown in place. The sable folds collapsed about her feet. A single step and she was free of them and gliding towards her attendants.

  ‘Quickly,’ Neferata snapped at her handmaidens. It was not modesty that provoked the demand that they redress her at once, but rather a sense of urgency. Neferata stamped her foot with impatience as the vampires slid a silken underdress up her naked body and drew a padded surcoat down her shoulders. Bit by bit, Kismet and the others strapped pieces of ornate armour to her, encasing her lithe frame in ancient plates of wightbone and steel. She could feel the protective enchantments woven into each piece growing, surrounding her in a shell of defensive magic. The golden war-crown of Lahmia dropped about her head, framing her face in the royal splendour of antiquity.

  Kismet bowed before the queen, offering with outstretched hands the infamous Dagger of Jet. Countless innocents had perished upon that blade, the purity of their souls swelling the deadly magics bound into the dark dagger. Neferata nodded, raising her arms so that her servant might buckle the weapon belt about her waist. From another handmaiden, she received the potent Staff of Pain, each hieroglyph etched into its ancient haft laced with agonising sorceries and diabolical curses.

  Arrayed in the accoutrements of war, Neferata looked down at Kismet. ‘You will remain here and keep things in order,’ she said. Was it disappointment or relief she saw flicker through her handmaiden’s eyes? She couldn’t be certain and it would make no difference. There was no other she could trust to keep the escape route ready for her in the event this gambit failed.

  Neferata listened to the screams rising from Nulahmia. There was nothing that could be done to save her city now. It was lost, defiled and despoiled. Whatever the hordes of Chaos didn’t destroy would be too unclean to salvage. The very air would bear the taint of their triumph. No, her city was finished, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to be gained here.

  The strange lightning that had slammed down into the outskirts, the weird warriors she had discovered in her scrying stone – these were things that presented opportunity for Neferata. For some time now, her agents in other kingdoms in the realm had brought her stories of storm-knights who opposed the hordes of Chaos wherever they were to be found. From captives and converts of a hundred lands, she had heard tales that these knights had been seen in Shyish, seeking the Mortarchs, trying to reforge the ancient pacts that had once united the Realm of Death and the Realm of Heavens against the corruption of Chaos.

  Much might be gained by the one who received these emissaries of Azyr. They would be powerful allies if even part of the stories told about them were true. Neferata smiled to herself as she imagined the advantages she would enjoy. There was no man alive who could resist her charms and no mind clever enough to see through her intrigues. To wrap an alliance with Sigmar around her own ambitions was a prospect too enticing to jeopardise. She always considered the crudity of battle a last resort, but she couldn’t allow this opportunity to slip away.

  The storm-knights had found Nulahmia despite all her spells and illusions. Neferata wondered if they might do the same with the other Mortarchs. Though she didn’t know where they had hidden themselves, or even if they yet lived, the knights might. She couldn’t risk another Mortarch spoiling the chance to establish an alliance with these warriors. Worse, she couldn’t allow the likes of Mannfred to exploit the storm-knights before she could.

  Neferata stretched forth the Staff of Pain, letting the ancient relic add its own magic to her spell. Thrusting the gilded head of the staff towards the balcony, she drew upon the morbid essence of her palace, channelling it into the conjuration. Necromantic energies crackled and flashed through the archway, condensing into an expanding sphere of darkness.

  Gradually, something took shape within that sphere, a fleshless apparition that swelled in size with each crackle of arcane power. Huge blackened ribs, claws as long as swords, massive plates of bronze and gold, an immense eyeless mask – all of these flowed into existence around a clattering core of skulls. Gigantic jaws stretched out from beneath the mask, fangs snapping at the spectral shapes that rippled around the huge, leonine creature. A tail of fused bone stretched out from the beast’s hindquarters until it was a dozen feet and more in length, a wicked barb thrusting out from its tip.

 
Neferata walked back out onto the balcony as the energies of the summoning dissipated and left a huge, skeletal abomination standing beside the balustrade. The grisly horror was Nagadron the Adevore, a dread abyssal bound into the Mortarch’s service.The Mortarch of Blood mounted the undead beast. At her gesture, Nagadron rose into the air, carried upon the spirits of those who had died to give it shape and substance. Neferata could hear them wailing to her, despairing of their plight. A simple spell deafened her to the ghostly protests. She was in no mood for such distractions now. She had to see these storm-knights for herself, determine to her own satisfaction their strength and capabilities. Only then would she know if she should linger over the bones of Nulahmia or make good her escape through the realmgate.

  Behind the vampire queen, the skeletal morghasts flew after her, their phantom wings carrying them through the sky. Loyal beyond the limitations of mere flesh, her bodyguard would follow Neferata into the very Realm of Chaos should she demand it of them. For now, it was enough that they kept close to her. She had no intention of leading the defenders on the Pathway of Punishment or the other undead legions that yet struggled to protect the temple district. That task was Harkdron’s, and the fool was welcome to it.

  No, Neferata was after much bigger things.

  Mouldering armour and bleached bone crashed to the ground as Lascilion brought his glaive shearing through the advancing rank of skeletons. Around him, the warriors of his Amethyst Guard shattered limbs and smashed skulls with each swing of their axes and thrust of their swords. The fighters who followed behind those in front were careful to visit further destruction upon the bones of the fallen, smashing and scattering the vanquished foes. Too often during their slow slog up the Pathway of Punishment, some deathmage or vampire had infused the vanquished skeletons with a new store of unnatural vitality. Many marauders, and even a few of his Amethyst Guard, had been killed by such treacherous sorcery. It was the delay such tactics caused rather than the casualties inflicted that wore on the warlord’s temper.

  Since spurring his steed onto the Pathway of Punishment, Lascilion’s obsession with conquering Neferata had swollen beyond measure. Everywhere he turned, he was confronted by the gruesome evidence of the Mortarch’s depravity. He felt humbled to behold such a blend of savagery and artistry. It was an effort to compose himself as he gazed upon the sadistic displays. Rows of iron spikes lined the road, a severed head gracing each stake. Gibbets cast their morbid shadows across the way, withered bodies contorted inside each cage, mummified faces stretched in expressions of incredible misery. At each turn of the switchback avenue, torture wheels waited to greet the invaders, the corpses strapped to each instrument betraying almost unimaginable brutality in their broken bones. Pillories with shards of glass lining each opening were interspersed along each approach, rusty stains flowing down their sides in mute testament to the fate of their prisoners when endurance at last deserted them.

  Had the cavalcade of horrors been merely an ornament of past tyranny, Lascilion would have been impressed. Instead he was fascinated, captivated by the outrages of the vampire queen. Neferata had employed her dark arts to instil in the exposed corpses of her victims a heinous echo of life, compelling them to languish in their death agonies. Bodiless heads moaned from atop their spikes, withered skeletons begged for food from behind the bars of gibbets, bloodless corpses struggled in the grip of glass-edged stocks, vainly trying to keep their slashed veins away from the wicked shards.

  Yes, Neferata was indeed a fellow artist, a connoisseur of agony. It was small wonder that her soul-scent had called to Lascilion, had allowed him to pierce the arcane veils that hid her city. Never had he experienced a mind so in harmony with his own. Once she was subjugated, once she was exposed to the glories of Slaanesh, she would be a fitting consort for him. Together they would rebuild the wonders and obscenities of the lost god.

  Lascilion stabbed his spurs into the sides of his daemonic steed, forcing the creature to raise its sinuous body upwards. His forked tongue flickered in irritation at the seemingly endless ranks of fleshless warriors who filled the road before him. Beyond them, he could see the vampire general from the Jackal Gate using his magic to invigorate the undead legion. The vampire had secured the decayed carcass of a dragon to act as his mount, scaly strips of rotten meat dripping from its yellowed bones. Knowing that such a monster was ahead of them might have blunted the zeal of his warriors as they fought their way up the path, so Lascilion was careful to keep the presence of the dragon to himself. When the time came, he would employ his sorcerers and daemons to overcome the beast.

  The roar of conflict from far below drew Lascilion’s attention away from the skeletal defenders ahead of him. Peering down the slopes of the Throne Mount, he could see the despoiled streets of the city below. Clutches of beasts and barbarians yet ravaged the outlying districts, and at first he thought it was infighting among these warbands that he had heard. He was swiftly disabused of such misconceptions.

  Marching out from the burning city was a phalanx of armoured warriors unlike anything Lascilion had seen before. From head to toe, they were arrayed in ebon plates and the mighty hammers they bore crackled with dark flashes of lightning. These were the foes Amala had spotted, the enemies she had warned the warlord about. Now, as he watched them stalk towards the temple district, Lascilion appreciated the reason the mutant had been so alarmed. The rearguard he had left at the base of the mountain wasn’t half as strong as it needed to be. These lightning-men would plough through the tribes and herds at the rear in short order unless he reinforced them swiftly.

  Lascilion glanced up in the direction of the Mortarch’s palace. He resented anything that would delay his conquest, felt the tugging of depression at his heart as he contemplated the frustration of his desires. There was no other choice to be made. He had to deal with the threat posed by these lightning-men, had to annihilate their menace before his army was trapped between two enemy forces.

  ‘Mendeziron!’ the warlord shouted, thrusting his glaive at the ranks of lightning-men advancing towards the mountain. He wasn’t certain where the great daemon was, what diversion he had found to amuse himself in the defiled city. Wherever he was, the Keeper of Secrets would hear his command. He would hear, and obey.

  Lascilion hoped Neferata was watching. When Mendeziron was roused, there was no limit to his cruelty. The daemon might even teach her a thing or two about torment.

  Chapter Four

  Howling reavers crumpled before the onslaught of the advancing Stormcasts. Marching in formation, shields foremost, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were like a moving wall of sigmarite as they marched through the temple district and towards the slopes of the Throne Mount. Such enemies as refused to give ground before the black-armoured knights were smashed by the crackling heads of mighty warhammers or chopped down by flashing swords. The Judicators following behind the protection of the shield-bearing Liberators raised their bows and sent volleys of lightning searing down into their brutish foemen.

  Yard by yard, Lord-Celestant Makvar could see their objective drawing nearer. At the same time, he watched the Chaos forces upon the Pathway of Punishment with dismay. As rapidly as the Stormcasts were gaining ground, the vanguard of the Slaaneshi horde was cutting their own route through the undead.

  ‘We must draw their attention from the summit,’ Makvar declared, addressing his words to Lord-Relictor Kreimnar. Among the grim Anvils of the Heldenhammer, Kreimnar presented a sinister figure. His skull-shaped helm and the macabre ornamentation of his ancient hammer were trappings that wouldn’t have looked out of place adorning a wight king or Soulblight vampire. Kreimnar had a greater affinity for spirits and sorcery than any of his comrades, often experiencing eerie premonitions and uncanny twists of fortune.

  The Lord-Relictor looked up towards the pinnacle of Throne Mount and the ghostly spirit-beacons blazing into the sky. ‘Neferata calls for help. Even if no other purpose drives them
onward, the enemy will want to smother those fires before anyone hearkens to that call.’

  ‘Then we will offer them a menace greater than the one they fear lies ahead of them,’ Makvar said. He urged Gojin forwards, the files of Stormcasts parting as the dracoth lumbered out from behind their ranks. Kreimnar fell into position beside him, guarding his flank. Makvar only advanced a few yards before he directed his steed to attack. A stream of blue lightning erupted from Gojin’s maw, blasting into the Slaaneshi forces clustered at the base of the hill. A dozen of the enemy were reduced to smouldering husks in a heartbeat; others ran screaming through their own forces, their hair and rags set alight by the dracoth’s attack.

  Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon to the sky, invoking the divine fury of the God-King. From the angry heavens, a shower of lightning bolts came crashing earthward, slamming into the barbarians with devastating force. Charred bodies were sent flying through the air, crashing through the roofs of abandoned temples and shrines. Smoking craters pitted the street, shreds of armour and bone the only reminder of those caught in the elemental barrage.

  Makvar urged his steed onwards, sending another blast of lightning streaking above the rearguard to crackle into the armoured file of Chaos warriors climbing the path behind them. Only a handful of the Slaaneshi warriors were killed by Gojin’s assault, but it was enough to surprise them and make them forget their ascent while they sought cover among the nearby buildings. To ensure the Chaos warriors would stay where they were, the Judicators sent a volley of arrows crackling down into the rooftops.