CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Before the Burnished Gate

Har Kuron, Aqshy

Siva Rinkhsdottr practised cranking and reloading her crossbow once more, delighted at how swiftly and surely her hands obeyed her.

‘That’s enough now,’ Lady Cassilda Redthorn said. ‘You’ll jam the mechanism if you’re not careful.’ Her ladyship half sat on the edge of the roof coping, looking stiff and uncomfortable in her old, tarnished breastplate. Her long-barrelled wheel-lock handgun, along with powder and ammunition, stood in the lee of the low wall. Siva had hoped to receive a handgun of her own, but Lady Redthorn had insisted the girl be given a crossbow instead. For one thing, handguns were in short supply; for another, Siva had never practised with any other weapon but the crossbow.

Siva nodded and set the crossbow down gingerly against the wall. They were on the roof of one of the large buildings that ringed the square just inside the Burnished Gate. All around them, handgunners, crossbowmen and archers sat idly or reclined with the low wall at their backs. All preparations were complete, the squads stationed, orders given, ammunition, provisions and water on hand. Now, all they could do was wait.

The Khainite Harpy who commanded their ragtag army had met with senior unit commanders just a few hours ago to distribute orders to the many military companies that would aid in the city’s defence. Those senior commanders, Lady Redthorn among them, had then relayed the orders to their subordinates.

The remnants of Lady Redthorn’s old Freeguild company, the Griffon’s Brood, along with leftovers from several other long-inactive Freeguilds whose members called the Gullies home, had been placed on the rooftops surrounding the square just inside the Burnished Gate with guns, bows and as much ammunition as could be scrounged. Their sole purpose was to act as reserves for the gunners and archers upon the walls, or, should the worst occur, to rain arrows and gunfire down upon the enemy if they breached the gate.

‘What’s it like?’ Siva asked Lady Redthorn. ‘A battle?’

Lady Redthorn sighed. ‘First, there’s boredom – the long wait for something to happen. Sometimes, the boredom lingers so long that you grow anxious, even eager. Then, everything explodes at once. What was slow becomes swift, what was idle turns deadly. In the thick of it, you feel as though you might be fighting for long hours, when in fact most battles last only minutes before one side or the other gains advantage.’

Siva nodded as if she understood, though truly, deep down, she did not. Part of her rejoiced at the place she now found herself in, fighting alongside her long-time guardian and the men and women who had been her adopted family, putting her life on the line to defend theirs, or the lives of many thousands of others in the city whom she did not even know.

But a part of her knew that what was to come would not be like in the stories, all thunder and glory and courage. Truth be told, she was not afraid of dying, so long as the end came quickly in the heat and discord of battle. No, what worried her was something else – a gnawing suspicion, a creeping dread that coiled in her belly like a cold, clammy serpent.

‘What’s troubling you?’ Lady Redthorn asked, not raising her eyes from the flagstones at her booted feet.

‘Nothing, lady,’ Siva lied. ‘I only want to do my duty, to make you proud.’

Lady Redthorn’s head turned ever so slightly. Siva could now see the older woman’s left eye and proud, patrician profile beneath her short mop of hair.

‘Your parents both served under me in the guilds,’ Lady Redthorn said, smiling a little. ‘They were good soldiers, both – your mother a crack shot with a handgun, your father one of our best halberdiers. Both were capable, both were deadly – and both felt fear before the battles they fought began… just as you do now.’

‘I am not afraid,’ Siva said, hoping that saying as much aloud would make it true. It did not, and she was immediately ashamed of herself for telling such a bald-faced lie. Lady Redthorn’s knowing half-smile said that she knew the truth.

‘Very well, then,’ Siva said. ‘I am afraid. But not of facing the enemy, or even of dying. I am afraid of letting you down, lady – of my fear overwhelming me in an instant so that I break and run, or just curl into a ball and cry for mercy. I am afraid my fear will be stronger than my resolve.’

‘It may well be,’ Lady Redthorn said soberly. ‘I’ve seen seasoned champions suddenly lose their nerve in the midst of a melee, the cause barely discernible. You must remember, girl, there is nothing natural about what we do when we fight. There is nothing natural about knowing you might cease to exist in the next moment, about steeling your nerves to take another life – providing that life is mortal, more like your own, and not daemonic. Sometimes, all that unnaturalness is too much for our minds and souls to bear, and we are shattered before it.’

‘But how will I know–’ Siva began.

‘You will not,’ Lady Redthorn interrupted. ‘All you can do is prepare, know your standing orders and take each moment as it comes. And if the thing you fear most – the loss of control, the loss of your composure in the midst of murderous chaos – occurs, know that there are worse fates. I would rather see you frightened and cowering, a natural, ordinary thing to do, than see you trade your fear for the tainted power of Chaos – a power that kills your fear along with everything else human about you.’

Siva was about to speak. Lady Redthorn stopped her by carrying on.

‘If it makes you feel better, Siva, know that I do not doubt you. You’ve lived in a city occupied by suspicious enemies all your life. You’ve lived, more or less, as a soldier from the time you were a mere child. Your adaptability and bravery have amazed me every day you’ve been in my care. I know your heart, I know your mettle, and I have no doubts that, whatever may come, you will stand, and be true.’

Siva felt the sting of tears. Lady Redthorn, her kind words spoken, turned her eyes back to the flagstones at her feet. Siva wanted to say something in return, perhaps just a thank you, but even that seemed pointless. So she tore her eyes away from her commander – for all intents and purposes, her adopted mother – and let her gaze sweep down over the square below.

The great, open space between the taverns and temples was a hive of activity – thick knots of Witch Aelves, Sisters of Slaughter and Melusai praying to their foul god or moving through drills with their fearsome weapons or simply pacing, like caged sabre-cats. Black Ark Corsairs prepared their Scourgerunner chariots, the horses in their traces stamping and snorting, the drivers shouting and arguing about whose vehicle was too close to whose. Bristling phalanxes of Darkling Dreadspears, Bleakswords and Darkshards stood calmly at attention, as though nothing untoward or disorderly were unfolding around them. And her own folk, the old, long-idle Freeguilders and their descendants, massed in their loose formations, greatswords, halberdiers, and mounted pistoliers. All and more were visible below, crowded shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, into Burnished Gate Square, like some strange, martial festival under way.

Amid the press of bodies and glinting blades and shining helms, Siva caught sight of several hulking figures in night-black armour chased in gold lumbering through the massed ranks, making a crooked path towards the Burnished Gate and the barbican towers that guarded it.

The Stormcast Eternals, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Among them, she recognised Golghaar. It seemed odd, seeing him out in the world, under an open sky, his scarred face and dark eyes more troubling, more terrible, in the slowly rising light of the dawning day.

Golghaar lifted his face and scanned the rooftops, as though he could feel someone watching him. When his eyes met Siva’s he held her gaze, even as he carried on in the wake of his comrades, moving slowly through the mass of bodies towards whatever station he and his fellows had been assigned.

Siva raised a hand, both a greeting and a farewell.

Golghaar raised his own hand, perhaps the most casual gesture – the most human gesture – Siva had ever seen the Stormcast offer.

It instantly made her feel not like some frightened young woman, playing soldier, but like a seasoned cadre, a tried-and-true comrade of Freeguild veterans and Stormcast Eternals.

A true warrior.

I shall miss him if he falls, she thought idly. I wonder if he shall miss me?

She prayed Golghaar could not see the tears on her filthy cheeks.

Upon the Curtain Wall

Waiting is a curse, Tivrain thought as she mounted the last flight of stairs that would take her to the parapet above the Burnished Gate. Wars can be lost and won in idle hearts, in fear-stricken imaginations.

For a night, another full day and another night, they had frantically prepared, all while the Bloodbound battered the walls with artillery and threw themselves in waves against the city’s external defences. Each attack proved half-hearted and short-lived, as if the enemy were biding their time and simply wished to remind the defenders that they were still waiting, still eager to meet them in open battle. During the ebb and flow of these brief onslaughts, the defenders had mobilised every long-idle member of the Anvilgard Freeguilds, negotiated ad hoc chains of command and melded mixed forces into unified units, shuttling contraband weapons and scraps of armour from all over the city to the base camps along the western walls.

Belengir Kraeksson had ventured among the last vestiges of Dispossessed duardin still present in the city – most of them tradesmen or merchants, not seasoned fighters – to enlist as many of his people as good fortune might allow. He had managed to gather sixty-five, most of them very old or very young.

Malascyra sent emissaries to the Scourge Privateers haunting the docks and ale-sinks to promise precious realmstone and other riches in return for their support during the battle to come. Most welcomed the offer – specie and blood were their currencies, after all – but ‘most’ constituted a fairly paltry number – fewer than three hundred, boasting only about a dozen Scourgerunner chariots among them.

There were a few score Darkling Covenites in the city as well – half a dozen Blackguard Riders along with single platoons of Bleakswords, Darkshards and Dreadspears, all under the command of a single Darkling sorceress.

It would have to do.

Amidst their logistical preparations, the commanders of the various units – aelven, human, Stormcast and duardin – coordinated a defen­sive strategy with Malascyra Stormwrack and the two thousand four hundred Daughters of Khaine that she commanded in Har Kuron. That strategy required them to wait for the Khorne worshippers outside the city walls to make the first move and attack as a massed force. Once they did so, then the defenders of Har Kuron would meet them and engage them directly. But until the Bloodbound truly unleashed and made a play to breach the Burnished Gate, all the mixed forces within the walls would simply watch and wait, their posture purely defensive.

Shutting off the defoliant cannons surrounding the walls meant that the Crucible of Life had now restored itself, hastily creeping across the empty ground surrounding the city, already climbing the walls to the north and south. Only the approach to the Burnished Gate was still shrouded in the sickly green defoliant vapours, ­creating a broad, passable swathe just before the gate that funnelled the Bloodbound towards the city. They all knew that Khorne worshippers were not cunning adversaries but by nature direct. With only the path to the Burnished Gate passable, they would mass their forces there and, eventually, begin battering those defences until they broke through… or all of them perished in the attempt.

If they attacked en masse, Tivrain knew, their forces were ready to meet them on the field. Already the bulk of her Stormcast comrades, supported by dozens of Sigmarite Flagellants and scores of the Daughters of Khaine, gathered in narrow passages on either side of the Burnished Gate – narrow passages ending in sally ports through which they could meet the Khorne worshippers on open ground. It would be their job to pour forth and drive back the horde, creating space for the gates to be opened and the chariots and cavalry within to be unleashed.

The two Stormcasts chosen to command the field forces, Sequitor-Prime Aureleius and Retributor-Prime Vantella Sternsight, had conferred with their brethren just an hour ago, imparting the plan.

‘The Khainites’ intentions are to let the Bloodbound crowd the Burnished Gate and the walls on either side,’ Sequitor-Prime Aureleius explained. ‘To begin their assault, even let them raise scaling ladders, before we unleash a ground force to engage them, thin them and drive them back.’ He had looked to Tivrain and the other mages and priests then. ‘You with spellcraft will be stationed on the walls above, to provide cover and magical support. Both Judicators should be beside them.’

Tivrain, Ansonnir, Tarros and their Anvilgard-based companions Charunda, Davor and Gardaemon had nodded.

‘The fighting will be thickest on the ground, before the wall,’ Retributor-Prime Vantella said. ‘Make no mistake, those who are first to leave the safety of the wall to engage the Bloodbound have very little chance of returning alive – but you must buy the forces behind the gate as much time and space as you can. You must create a cordon that keeps the forward ranks of the Bloodbound from slipping inside the city when those gates are opened.’

Tivrain had studied all present. She knew well enough the feelings of those who had accompanied her to Har Kuron, but the distant stares and implacable faces of the Stormcasts that had spent the last twenty years hiding in Gully cellars betrayed no surface emotions. Nonetheless, she thought she knew what they were all thinking.

They were relieved that this crisis had presented itself. Relieved that their fate, individually and collectively, could now be reconciled in the heat of battle, rather than in the humiliation of captivity.

The Stormcasts trapped in Har Kuron for all these years may not have seen their brethren held captive in Imreth Daemanta’s accursed garden of tree-thick spiderwebs, but they yet had memories of their comrades being overwhelmed in battle, pin-cushioned with poisoned darts, immobilised and helpless as enemy forces overwhelmed them and dragged their still living yet unmoving bodies away.

Likewise, Tivrain and her own companions had seen the helplessness, the horror of it all. She had no doubts that if they could yet fight to achieve the goal of their mission, their reason for coming here in the first place, they would, but given an alternative, an opportunity to fall in battle instead of being added as a living specimen to a Witch Aelf’s private museum, they would happily take the former over the latter.

When their conclave had broken and each Stormcast withdrew to prepare themselves, Liberator-Prime Ibon spoke to Tivrain alone.

‘We would go with you to the end of this,’ he said quietly, ‘if you commanded it.’

‘I know,’ she said.

There was a long, expectant pause.

‘Command it,’ he whispered.

Tivrain met his sad-eyed gaze. She knew precisely what he meant – they should use the madness of defensive preparations to make their way back to Dauntless Hall, to gain access to the torture garden and attempt to free their fellow Stormcasts from Daemanta’s grasp.

‘We cannot,’ Tivrain said flatly.

‘We’ve come a long way,’ Ibon said, sounding neither forceful nor desperate, only reasonable, practical. ‘We’ve risked much. Should we surrender now–’

‘This is not surrender,’ Tivrain said. ‘I cannot believe that if I am to fulfil my oath and follow this through to its bitter end. This is fulfilling our duty, Ibon – living our purpose, even in the direst of circumstances. The fear that our personal mission may yet fail galls me – it tears at my heart and embitters my soul – but this city remains a city of Sigmar. Occupied or not, it remains holy ground that we must consecrate and protect, with our lives if necessary, even if it means our mission cannot be completed.’

Ibon studied her for a long, silent moment. She thought she saw something like admiration in his inscrutable expression.

‘We may yet survive,’ he said.

Tivrain managed a sad half-smile. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Yet the possibility remains,’ Ibon said, raising his eyebrows. ‘If we beat back the invaders, if we survive their blades and their bloodlust… what then?’

Tivrain sighed. ‘Then, and only then, we finish the mission. If fortune brings us out the other side of this, then we do what we came here to do, or we die trying.’

He only nodded to that.

Now, Tivrain reached the parapet after her long climb. Catapults, scorpions and ballistae lined the broad wall walk in either direction, every fifty feet or so, while Khainites and human Freeguilders bustled about in preparation, shuttling ammunition, weapons, pots of boiling pitch, and small caches of water and food to keep them nourished while they waited to begin the fight of their lives. Spread along the wall to her right and left, Tivrain saw duardin and Freeguilders lined up with a few portable Ironweld cannons and handguns, as well as her spellcasting comrades – Knights-Relictor Ansonnir and Charunda Marrowcaller, and Knights-Arcanum Tarros and Davor Heldenborn. Vornus Blackcrown stood near the formation of mages to her left, and Judicator Gardaemon to the right.

Malascyra Stormwrack stood a short distance from the place where Tivrain mounted the wall, gazing down upon the wedge of defoliated earth that lay between the Burnished Gate and the edge of the jungle in the distance. There were Bloodbound on the churned-up ground already – not an army, simply thick knots of them, strewn around the no man’s land. Some taunted and cursed those standing guard upon the wall. Others sang guttural, vile hymns to Khorne or paraded about with the heads of executed Khainite prisoners displayed upon standards and spears. The bulk of the forces remained massed at the very edge of the jungle, their crowded, helter-skelter camp resembling a refugee settlement in the shadow of the jungle’s vine-enshrouded trees.

Tivrain’s path to her station took her past Malascyra. It felt strange, moving about freely in this place, treating with the very Khainite commander who had captured and chained her just two days prior like a comrade-in-arms.

‘How go the preparations?’ Tivrain asked as she approached.

‘As smoothly as they might, considering,’ the Khinerai Harpy answered, sounding eager and weary all at once. She raised one hand, pointing to the loose knots of Bloodbound strewn over the field below. ‘They caper and they taunt, but they do not attack. I do not know what they might be planning. It is most unusual.’

‘Indeed,’ Tivrain agreed. ‘The worshippers of Khorne are not renowned for their patience, or their subtlety.’

Malascyra turned from the forward parapet. She strolled towards the leeward side of the wall and stared down at their own forces, massed just inside the Burnished Gate. The close-packed formations of mixed troops swirled and jostled below.

‘The Daughters of Khaine cannot stand idle long,’ Malascyra said. Tivrain was not sure if she spoke to her or only to herself. ‘Their blades are hungry – Khaine awaits their bloody sacrifices.’

‘Would you set them loose?’ Tivrain asked. ‘Perhaps to bait the Blood­bound? Draw them in?’

Malascyra shook her head.

‘No. It would be a waste. We must wait as long as we dare. Our plan depends upon our enemies making the opening move. But I do not exaggerate – my sisters can smell a battle in the offing. If they are not unleashed, and soon, I fear they may loose their fury on their allies in the streets below.’

Tivrain could not resist.

‘It seems the Bloodbound are not the only strangers to patience in our midst,’ she said.

Malascyra looked at her askance. Her crooked half-smile suggested she appreciated the attempt at humour, however bleak or insulting.

‘I should get to my station,’ Tivrain said, and moved to leave her.

‘I must ask you a question, Tivrain,’ Malascyra said, her voice dropping to a more secretive register.

Tivrain stopped and edged nearer.

‘I would beg a direct and honest answer,’ Malascyra continued, ‘seeing as we’re about to stand and die, side by side.’

Tivrain met the Khainite’s fiery gaze. She nodded.

‘You truly came here, against the wishes of your Command, and Sigmar himself, to free your comrades?’ Malascyra asked.

‘We did,’ Tivrain said. ‘That was ever our intention – our only intention.’

‘And now,’ Malascyra said, ‘you would jeopardise that – jeopardise the mission you risked so much to undertake – just to defend this place against an enemy that may vanquish you? That may vanquish all of us?’

Tivrain shrugged slightly. She prayed that the Daughter of Khaine could not see the division inside her, how she still grieved for her true mission even as defending the city had become the exigency of the moment.

‘We are forged to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves,’ Tivrain said, trying to convince herself as much as the Khainite. ‘To defend the innocent against the corrupt. Faced with that choice here, now, could I do any less, even if it means my own mission fails?’

Malascyra studied her for a long time.

‘You will give all in this fight, even if it means your death? Your failure?’

Tivrain nodded again. ‘I know no other way.’

Malascyra sighed.

‘Very well, then,’ the Harpy said. ‘Let me speak plainly with you. Imreth Daemanta will not release your comrades. Even if we beat back the horde, even if every one of your Stormcasts lays down their lives and you alone survive to petition her, she will not relent, Tivrain. Not even for the sake of her honour, to bestow a gift in answer to another gift freely given. She is more likely, in fact, to add any of your number who survive this battle to her spider’s web.

‘I beg you, do not give her that opportunity.’

Tivrain studied Malascyra, noting the compassion in her blood-red eyes, the sadness and understanding visible upon her sharply sculpted face.

‘What do you suggest?’ she said. ‘In the unlikely event of my survival?’

‘Death releases you, does it not?’ Malascyra asked. ‘When you are struck down, your bodies and souls are borne back to Sigmar on bridges of lightning, to be remade?’

‘Yes,’ Tivrain said.

‘Then heed my words,’ Malascyra said. ‘If you survive this – if any of you survive this – your mission must be one of mercy. Speed to Dauntless Hall immediately, infiltrate the meeting chamber of the Grand Conclave and release your comrades. Let death be their deliverance.’Tivrain studied the Khinerai Harpy for a terrified moment.

‘Death…?’

‘It is the only way,’ Malascyra said gravely. ‘Imreth will not release them, and the magic that holds them is too powerful to undo in a short time. If you or any of your companions survive this, the moment the enemy retreats or the last Bloodbound falls, you must do this. That is your only path to victory.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Tivrain asked.

‘Because I respect you,’ the Harpy said, ‘and I despise Imreth Daemanta. You deserve my honesty – and my aid. She deserves only my contempt.’

Tivrain wanted to say thank you, to say that she understood, and she would do as Malascyra commanded. But she could summon no words. In the end, she could only lay a hand on Malascyra’s bone-white shoulder, give her a curt, stunned nod and carry on down the wall walk towards where Knight-Relictor Ansonnir waited between a catapult and a loaded scorpion, looking over the churned-up field far below.

‘Did you speak with Athelys?’ Tivrain asked quietly. ‘Was the missive delivered?’

Ansonnir’s eyes never left the jungle. ‘Athelys did as you bade. I know not whether Myrmourn reached his destination, nor whether he has returned.’

Tivrain nodded silently. It would have to do.

‘I must admit,’ Ansonnir said as Tivrain stood in silence beside him, ‘this was the last place I expected to find myself when we traversed that realmgate.’

He gave Tivrain a sad little half-smile. Tivrain managed to offer her own.

‘I have to believe it matters,’ she said, ‘what we do here. Even if we never… even if our comrades…’

‘I believe the same,’ Ansonnir said, the haste of his answer releasing her from the need to articulate her own. ‘Yet I see Sigmar’s hand in it, his spirit that seeks to balance all things – slaughter with mercy, despair with hope, wanton violence with compassion and courage. This state of affairs is so bizarre, so unexpected, I can only imagine that his will is behind it, even if he himself remains unconscious of it.’

Tivrain knew that he was, perhaps, the only member of their party in whom she could truly confide her deepest fears, her most heartbreaking sorrows.

‘It was not all for nothing, then?’ she asked. ‘All our risks? All that we’ve sacrificed to undertake this mission that seemed so vitally important to us?’

Ansonnir met her gaze. His eyes were sober and grave and without any pretence or mendacity.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You made a choice to set out. We made the choice to join you. Besides, we’re not slain yet. Our opportunity to see this through may still present itself.’

Only death could undo what Daemanta’s magic had wrought, Malascyra had said.

Is that really the only way? Tivrain thought, eyes downcast. Even if we survive what’s to come, can we really only deliver them by slaying them all?

A strange, keening sound reached Tivrain’s ears – a shrieking, terrified scream, rocketing closer at frightening speed.

Tivrain raised her eyes. Something huge and flaming, trailing sulphurous smoke, shot across the sky towards the wall where she and Knight-Relictor Ansonnir stood.

Ansonnir and Tivrain dived aside in unison.

They slammed into the flagstones just as the approaching scream reached its crescendo. The world around them exploded in a maelstrom of heat, flame and concussive force. Bone shrapnel sliced the space they had just vacated as stinking smoke engulfed them.

Tivrain opened her eyes, tears stinging them from the foul fumes. Though her ears rang and her senses were scrambled, she heard muffled screams hurtling nearer, followed by a number of wall-shaking, ­sub­sonic impacts as enemy ordnance pummelled the curtain wall.

Ansonnir lay beside her – dazed, covered in dust and soot, but unharmed.

‘Come on!’ Tivrain shouted, her own voice sounding distant in her ringing ears.

‘What was that?’ the Knight-Relictor shouted back as more explosions shook the air around them.

‘Skull cannons!’ Tivrain answered. ‘They must have opened fire from the cover of the trees!’

Before that moment, the only siege engines utilised by their besiegers had been the sort they could fashion themselves – hastily engineered catapults and trebuchets, rickety siege towers and scaling ladders. The realisation that they now possessed skull cannons – far more lethal, more powerful, than anything the Bloodbound of Khorne could build in the field – was frightening.

Tivrain struggled to her feet, helped Ansonnir to his and assessed the damage. The section of the parapet where they’d been standing moments before had been blasted to scarred stone and dust, a gaping hole yawning before them. Had Tivrain taken three steps forward, she would have plunged a hundred feet to the hard ground at the foot of the curtain wall.

Already, the ballistae, scorpions and catapults on the wall were returning fire, heaving flaming projectiles and storms of massive blade-tipped projectiles into the air. A volley of Ironweld gunfire thundered almost in unison, and the gunners hastily bent to reload. Those Khainites not specifically manning active siege engines rushed to their fallen and wounded sisters, dragging them to safety or removing their corpses from the line of fire.

Keeping their heads low, Tivrain and Ansonnir moved swiftly along the wall. They passed through clinging clouds of sulphurous smoke and debris, past a few small, crackling fires and the unmoving bodies of half a dozen city defenders – Khainite, duardin and human alike. Farther on, they found a small squad of Freeguilders hastily positioning a Helstorm rocket battery before unleashing its swift munitions over the crenels. All around them, handguns and Helblasters and organ guns barked at random intervals as the screams of incoming flame-skulls from the Khornate cannons split the humid air. Beneath them, the wall buckled and shook with each explosive impact.

Through the flames and smoke, Tivrain saw Knight-Arcanum Tarros, hands in the air, holding a scintillating magical shield in place against the incoming missile attacks. A clutch of Freeguilders and Khainites were huddled close beneath the shield’s dome, protected from the bombardment. Even as another impact rocked the wall and a glut of smoke blasted across Tivrain’s vision, she saw Tarros’ shield hold fast, rippling and shining.

She turned to Ansonnir. ‘Find more wounded! Protect them until the bombardment passes!’

Ansonnir nodded. ‘And then?’

‘The moment the artillery pauses, bring the skies down upon them.’

Ansonnir clapped her shoulder and retreated, hurrying back towards the knots of wounded they had passed. Tivrain pressed on towards a group of Freeguild gunners ducking behind the parapets, racing to reload their guns with shaking hands. Reaching them, she lifted her Incantor’s staff, summoned the power of the storm and raised a shield around the huddled gunners and herself.

She was just in time. In the next instant, a flaming skull screamed out of the sky, exploding against the outer parapet before them. Yellow-grey smoke and a momentary burst of flame engulfed them, but beneath the shield, Tivrain and her charges were safe.

The smoke enveloping them on all sides began to roil and drift, a hard wind blowing in from the Searing Sea. The world before Tivrain was yet choked in a diaphanous haze, visibility limited in every direction, but she could just see the long, broad wedge of no man’s land before the Burnished Gate, as well as the rippling canopy of the jungle a quarter of a mile distant.

No skull ordnance screamed across the skies. Save for the driven clouds of dispersed smoke, the defenders had won a brief reprieve while the enemy hastily reloaded.

Tivrain took advantage of the lull. The shield she had raised disappeared, the stench of sulphur and char and blood immediately filling her nostrils. Without hesitation, Tivrain clambered up onto a crenel of the curtain wall, lifted her Incantor’s staff and raised her face to the sky.

Almost at once, the clouds began to coalesce, rolling nearer and darkening in answer to Tivrain’s summons. As they swirled overhead, the wind grew more strident and powerful. Then Tivrain saw the first flaring ripples of lightning flashing in the belly of the darkening storm.

She set her gaze upon the place in the jungle below where she imagined the enemy cannons might be amassed – the place from which most of the smoking contrails from the skull cannons yet lingered in the air, like fast-dissipating threads from some great spider’s web.

There, just outside the treeline.

She had them.

Above, the storm had gathered, growing denser and darker. Far to her right, Knight-Relictor Ansonnir summoned a storm of his own. Far to her left, Tarros hurled bolts of murderous magical energies down upon the Bloodbound scrambling around no man’s land.

Tivrain felt the fury of the storm coursing through her – its power, its cruelty, its purity. Like a conductor preparing her choir, she manipulated and modulated each fine strand of force rippling through the clouds, compelling thunderheads to clash, urging the energy expended to increase and enlarge itself.

And then, when the lightning raked through the heavens with barely bottled fury and the clouds grew pregnant and dark and the sound of the thunder was deafening in her ears, Tivrain Greymantle unleashed it all.

In one apocalyptic instant, scores of lightning strands speared down from the gathering clouds, brilliant and blinding. They blasted the jungle, incinerating trees, burrowing hard, smoking fulgurites into the loamy soil, seeking living bodies as their ideal conductors and boiling blood in pulsing veins.

Tivrain could not see the results of the mayhem she unleashed – not up close. But she knew the onslaught found ample targets. She felt the lightning’s animal delight as it located living bodies and destroyed them, imagined the shocked screams of the Khornate Bloodbound unlucky enough to draw the storm’s ire, pictured the skeins of lightning targeting large, muscled warriors, blasting outward from those targets to destroy any and all nearby.

When the lightning was expended, the span of forest where Tivrain had concentrated her energies smoked and burned, as though flaming pitch had rained down upon it from above.

Tivrain fell to her knees, powers expended, as exhausted as if she had hewn her way through enemy ranks with a lightning hammer. She would recover soon, she knew, but at present, she could not even move.

Down the line, Ansonnir, Charunda and Davor each unleashed their own lightning storms, the bolts they summoned pummelling the ground that Tivrain had already immolated. Yet, even as Tivrain watched the fury of the storm expend itself upon the helpless Bloodbound massed within and before the blazing treeline, she also heard another sound – the sound of a different sort of storm gathering and rushing to meet them.

Within moments, the vanguard appeared below – a long, ragged line of muscular bodies smeared in ochre, mud and viscera, exploding out of the flaming jungle and charging over the churned ground towards the Burnished Gate. They streamed from the trees in a mad scramble, first scores, then hundreds, now thousands. Scattered among the foot soldiers were hulking Khorgoraths, low, snarling Flesh Hounds and armoured Bloodcrushers mounted on grunting Juggernauts.

They flooded the field, a tide of flesh and muscle and steel rolling towards the Burnished Gate.

The day’s killing had only just begun.

Liberator-Prime Ibon watched as Retributor-Prime Vantella Sternsight turned to him and the rest of their comrades in the narrow, low-ceilinged passage of the right-hand sally port beside the Burnished Gate.

‘The enemy charges!’ Sternsight shouted, voice echoing through the dank passage. ‘The time has come, brothers and sisters!’

The space was so small, the seven Stormcasts therein were forced to stand single file, some of them even ducking lest their helms scrape the roof. Behind them, lining the passage for another twenty yards, were a dozen Sigmarite Flagellants, with their castigating flails and clubs, twenty Sisters of Slaughter and twenty Witch Aelves. The only illumination was the small, strangled square of daylight stabbing in through the wicket in the sunsteel-reinforced door that barred the sally port. Beyond that door, over the Retributor-Prime’s shoulders and through that palm-sized wicket, Ibon could just make out the Bloodbound horde thundering across the empty wasteland that separated the city from the Crucible of Life.

‘Here they come!’ Sternsight barked, turning to address those behind her. ‘Prepare to take the field!’

It was a daring gambit, marching out to meet the enemy in the open, but their commanders had deemed it a chance worth taking – by drawing the enemy in before the gates, by engaging them directly, perhaps their numbers could be thinned and their massed forces more readily bombarded from above.

The aim was to allow the Bloodbound no more surprises, to deplete all their reserves. If they had any hope of defeating them, they had to draw them into open, full-force conflict.

Ordys Stormwall, Pharena Ashforged and Saran Doomsmaul all stood immediately behind Ibon. The stony-voiced Liberator-Prime spoke low to them, and them alone.

‘Stay on me. When the Retributor-Prime sounds the retreat, we fall back to this gate. Saran.’

Saran raised his helmed head, thunderaxe in his gauntleted fists.

‘You’re to hold the port,’ Ibon said. ‘Our enemies cannot pass this way. Am I understood? If they overwhelm you, your only choice is to seal the passage – even if it means we cannot retreat.’

The big brawler nodded.

Ibon tightened his grip on his stormblade and fixed Pharena with a baleful stare from beneath his helm.

‘Stay beside me, young one,’ he said. ‘We shall quench the thirsty earth with the blood of Khorne’s disciples this day.’

Pharena, blue eyes glinting beneath her helm, nodded emphatically and tightened her grip on her sword and shield.

‘For Sigmar!’ Retributor-Prime Sternsight cried. ‘For Anvilgard!’

Then she drew back the six heavy bolts on the sally port door and threw her weight against it. The long-unused door groaned open and the Retributor-Prime led them out into the morning light. Ibon charged out in Sternsight’s wake, eager to meet the enemies fast approaching. Behind him came the rest of their company – Ordys, Pharena, Saran Doomsmaul and the Black Nexus Stormcasts, Knight-Heraldor Raelendra and Castigator Eltymion. As the Stormcasts lumbered down the short incline at the foot of the curtain wall to meet the level ground, the remainder of their forces, human and Khainite, poured out behind them.

The defenders collided with the first wave of Bloodbound. Almost instantaneously, the air filled with the sound of curses and screams and the smell of fresh-spilt blood and entrails.

With the assurance of his faith in Reforging and the ire of a father fighting for the lives of his children, Liberator-Prime Ibon lumbered towards the nearest Khorne-worshipper, a towering Exalted Deathbringer wielding a massive spear in one hand, a pair of curving skullgouger blades extending from the other.

The spear thrust. Ibon threw up his shield and deflected the strike, then swept his own blade towards the barbarian’s blood-smeared gut. The skullgouger blades caught his stormblade’s edge and turned it aside. Refusing to be outdone, Ibon threw his entire weight against the Deathbringer. As the big champion of Khorne reeled, Ibon sliced the fiend’s right leg out from beneath him. The Deathbringer toppled. Ibon stamped on his chest, shield knocking aside the swiping skullgouger blades, then drove his sword through the eye slits of the Deathbringer’s helm.

Ordys Stormwall, meanwhile, defended a small band of murderous Khainites. As her stormglaive thrust and slashed, masked Sisters of Slaughter lashed out at Skulltakers and Bloodreavers with their barbed whips and Witch Aelves hurled themselves bodily into the fray, sciansa daggers flashing in the overcast sunlight. Heads were sliced from thick necks, hearts were skewered and stilled, limbs were hacked free and fell to the loam and mud beneath them.

Knight-Heraldor Raelendra rushed out in the fore of their phalanx, putting herself bodily between her comrades and the oncoming hordes. Planting her feet, she blew her massive battle horn, and the air shook with its thunderous blare. The sound swept forward, an invisible wall of concussive magical force, blasting Bloodbound off their feet, ploughing up the churned earth and, in a few cases, causing Bloodbound eardrums to rupture and bleed. As the horn’s cry yet echoed and the enemy fell before it, Raelendra and her comrades surged forward. Her broadsword slew a handful of Bloodreavers and lopped the head from the shoulders of a towering Slaughterpriest.

Pharena hewed close to her Liberator-Prime, backing him and protecting him from flank or rear attacks, her smooth face lost to all her opponents behind the implacable, grim visage cast into her great-helm. Ibon heard a strange, rhythmic sound amid the clang and clamour of battle and realised that Pharena was singing one of the mournful battle dirges favoured by their Stormhost. Delighted by the young Stormcast’s reverence, he joined in, singing in a low, steady voice as the two of them hacked and slashed their way through the enemy ranks.

A great black shape, Prosecutor Sargyst Baleborn, swept out of the sky, cutting through the air above the enemy ranks on ebony wings, lobbing lightning-energised javelins down upon the charging Bloodbound. In the Prosecutor’s wake came a storm of cackling Khainite Harpies on black, leathery wings, diving without formation or coordination, ripping and tearing savage swathes through the enemy with barbed javelins and fierce sickles.

Castigator Eltymion moved swiftly and surely behind his sword- and glaive-wielding comrades, loosing lightning bolts from his great­bow that bit deep into the bodies of their targets and unleashed storms of celestial energy upon any Bloodbound unlucky enough to stand nearby on impact.

Far off to their left, from the opposite side of the Burnished Gate, Ibon caught sight of their counterparts from the south sally port taking the field against Khorne’s disciples. Led by Sequitor-Prime Aureleius, that band consisted of a Protector-Prime, a Retributor, a Liberator and a mace-wielding Sequitor, in addition to Hunter-Prime Athelys Grimscar, Barastus Battleborn and another greatbow-wielding Castigator. They, too, ploughed into the enemy ranks, the Witch Aelves, Flagellants and Sisters of Slaughter backing them flooding in to engage the enemy.

Beside Ibon and Pharena, Ordys began singing their dirge, the sound of their voices grim and forlorn even as they bent to their bloody work and cast enemy after enemy down to the blood-soaked earth.

All around them, the Sisters of Slaughter, Witch Aelves and Flagellants fanned out, blades bared, pale faces masks of fury and murderous delight. As the Stormcasts created a hard, ragged line to act as an immovable bulwark against the charging Bloodbound, the Khainites leapt forward and tore into their enemies with sciansa daggers and bladed bucklers and barbed whips. They threw themselves against the Khornate line with reckless abandon, slashing and dancing, sending gouts of blood and fresh gobbets of viscera flying this way and that as they cried out to Khaine in their ecstasy, dedicating each and every life taken to his unholy and bottomless hunger.

Suddenly, off to Ibon’s right, Raelendra was beset by a trio of snarling Flesh Hounds. As the Knight-Heraldor fought to disengage the beasts’ toothsome jaws from her armour, a cadre of Bloodreavers swarmed her and tore into her with their blades and cleavers. Before Ibon could move to Raelendra’s aid, celestial lightning blasted upwards from where the Knight-Heraldor had fallen, obliterating her body and yanking her soul back to the Sigmarabulum.

Ibon’s attentions were drawn from Raelendra’s death by the sound of a Sister of Slaughter screaming furiously as she was impaled on the blade of a daemon mounted upon a great Juggernaut, then trampled under the mount’s foul hooves.

Suddenly there came a thunderous metallic groan. Suspecting just what that sound portended, Ibon dared a glance back over his shoulder.

The Burnished Gate swung open on its hinges, its movements impossibly, painfully slow. Before it was even open entirely there came the blare of war-horns, the thunder of hooves and the sound of steel-banded wheels rattling over packed earth. In the next instant, a line of Scourgerunner chariots burst forth from the barely opened gate, rocketing through the gap and barrelling with all speed towards the massed disciples of Khorne a short distance away.

The Stormcasts and Daughters of Khaine holding the line just before the Burnished Gate heard the horns, heard the hooves, and withdrew to either side in haste. The moment they had cleared the path, the Scourgerunner chariots fanned out, moving from a single-file pattern to a wide battle line, and plunged full speed into the Khornate ranks. Scythes mounted on the spinning wheels tore Bloodbound to pieces as they passed, while the fearsome dark steeds pulling the chariots raised their hooves and beat at the enemy where they blocked their path, and the armed crews rained crossbow bolts, hook spears and a fusillade of ravager harpoons into the heaving ranks.

Just as Ibon was about to give the order for their line to close again, to seal the breach behind the chariots, more hoofbeats filled his ears and new cavalry beat a path out from the Burnished Gate to join the fray – Doomfire Warlocks and Black Guard Riders. Each cavalry unit sped from the open gate, one after another, but quickly coalesced into flying wedge formations that slammed mercilessly into the Khornate vanguard and broke their ranks in an instant.

From the far side of the gate, Sequitor-Prime Aureleius gave the order, and the defenders before the city walls sealed their lines again, creating a barrier of blades and spears in the wake of the charging cavalry and charioteers.

Their world was chaos and cacophony, snarling faces and deafening war cries. Ibon fought on, determined to take as many foes with him as he could before he, too, was borne back to Azyr.

Khalath Helthorn emerged from the jungle’s edge, his screaming, scrambling forces flowing around him as though they were a river and he an immovable stone amidst the current. Before him, from where he stood to the Burnished Gate, the ground was churned and beaten with the passage of thousands of feet and talons, and the forward ranks of his horde already battered at the city gate, racing to lift the enormous siege ladders they’d prepared for their attack. The ladders could not reach the highest part of the hundred-foot wall – no mere ladder could – but there were cracks, crevices and narrow ledges visible upon its face. If enough of his Bloodbound scaled the ladders and found purchase upon the wall itself, some of them could climb the rest of the way to the parapet – he was certain of it. If a few hundred fell to their deaths in the attempt? A minor consideration. They died seeking glory, with malice in their hearts.

At intervals, lobbed incendiaries and man-sized ballista bolts sprang from the high crown of the curtain wall, describing arcs across the sky before crashing down among his minions, obliterating or impaling those unlucky enough to meet them. Supporting the steady, irregular bombardments from the artillery were spells cast by wizards on the curtain wall, their destructive energy bolts and lightning storms raining down upon his serried ranks with merciless, destructive force.

Praise them all. In death, there was glory – especially if the sacrifice of one opened the way for two or three others.

Striding out across the no man’s land separating the jungle from the Burnished Gate, Khalath caught sight of a number of hulking Stormcasts at the foot of the wall, beating back his devout followers with their blades and hammers, but there were so few of them as to be almost absurd. Either they were holding a great many more in reserve, or the city was more undermanned than he had first assumed.

No matter. Khalath knew victory was his to seize. He had the numbers. He could spend hundreds of lives, even thousands, just to scramble over the battlements or batter through the gate. All he had to do was keep the defenders busy repelling attacks.

Khorne had assured him in the dreams that haunted his sleep, time and again, that if Khalath besieged the city, allies he had no know­ledge of would come to his aid. They simply awaited an opportune moment to reveal themselves and clear the way.

Khalath knew not who these secret allies might be – he only knew that he trusted Khorne. The Blood God would not mislead him or abuse his trust. Khalath need only do his own part, and Khorne would provide.

Already, his skull cannons rolled forward. In short order they would be in position, well within their maximum effective range. Once dug in and loaded, his daemon gunners could unleash barrage after barrage against the Burnished Gate, battering it to oblivion until some narrow crack or fissure showed itself.

Or until his infiltrators unbarred the way for him.

First, however, he must feed Khorne, and draw the Blood God’s red and wrathful eye. Only with Khorne’s favour could Khalath hope to take Har Kuron once and for all.

He broke into a run, lumbering across the field with his forces all around him.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he cried. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

When Tivrain first heard the blasphemous battle cry she thought it had been shouted from outside the city walls, down on the field. A moment later, when she heard it a second time, now raised by a chorus of voices, she realised she’d had it wrong.

It had been sounded from beneath her, inside the city walls.

Others heard as well. Many rushed from the forward crenellations to those guarding the inner curve of the curtain wall. Tivrain reached the inner parapet just in time to see a number of the infantry forces gathered in the square below surge ahead, all swarming around a tight knot of warriors standing just inside the Burnished Gate.

The small group of warriors who’d taken the gate had torn off their clothes and armour to reveal muscular bodies covered in Khornate tattoos and runes. There were not many of them – ten, perhaps a dozen – but they had somehow managed to position themselves just before the gate, behind a barricade that had been erected to keep invaders out should they breach the gate itself.

They had the look of acolytes – still untouched by Chaotic magic, still natural in their hulking proportions and bullish physical strength. The tattoos upon them, likewise, looked sloppy and hand-drawn, not the well-etched, flesh-deep inks favoured by true, transformed disciples of Khorne.

And yet, however ordinary they might be – however far removed from true servants of the Blood God – they had managed to place themselves strategically, and now appeared ready to fight to the death to hold off the defenders amassed behind them.

Already, forces on the wall were joining the fight, Melusai archers raining arrows down upon the infiltrators as Tivrain called out for one of their wall-stationed Judicators to hurry and join the barrage. Growing impatient, she lowered her Incantor’s staff and showered the Khorne worshippers below with a fusillade of destructive energy bolts.

One fell. Another followed him. The other half a dozen remaining seemed blessed by the Blood God himself, however. They slew all who dared charge them, bristled with arrows and bled from a hundred wounds – but still, they would not fall, and they would not relent in their defence of their position.

One among them, the largest and strongest, heaved up a fat barrel near the barricade and came tottering out towards those trying to dislodge them from their position.

‘Khorne! Look upon me and smile!’ he cried as he marched forward, the barrel held over his head. ‘I give all I have to serve and aggrandise you, my dread lord!’

Arrows thunked into his torso. He hesitated, dragged his feet, yet pressed on, still keeping the barrel high.

Then Tivrain saw one of his fellows behind the barricade nock and draw a flaming arrow.

‘Stop him!’ she cried, and had to resist the urge to hurl another bolt of arcane energy down upon him, for it would only do what he desired.

His companion loosed his arrow. It hit the barrel above his head, the barrel caught fire, and in the next instant, barrel and man both exploded in a massive white-red cloud.

The shockwave sent defenders sprawling – some dead, others merely dazed, those farther back simply taking cover.

From her high vantage, Tivrain saw a quartet of Khornate warriors break from those defending their position and dash under the barbican, towards the Burnished Gate itself.

‘Stop them!’ she shouted at no one in particular. ‘They’re going for the gate, to hold it for their comrades!’

Barastus Battleborn downed his eighth Bloodletter, the daemon’s blood-streaked face crumbling under the weight of his lightning hammer.

Behind him, the Burnished Gate groaned once more. He dared a glance to see if it was, at last, being closed again, as the battle plan dictated. To his horror, the gate was not closing but slowly opening wider.

Four muscular warriors used all their combined strength and mass to push the gate wider and wider on its hinges. When the gate met the inner wall of the barbican, the way was clear, and the ragged line of Stormcasts, plus their allies, were all that stood between the Khornate army and the gateway.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ one of the warriors who’d opened the gate cried. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

Barastus felt a terrible dread – the disciples of Khorne had been inside the city all along, waiting for this moment.

The Retributor was about to break formation and charge the turncoat holding the gate when he heard something huge and clanking lumbering towards him out of the press of bodies and limbs. He turned just in time to espy a monstrous Lord of Khorne striding through the mayhem, the champion’s armour bronze and blood red under the fast-climbing Aqshian sun. Barastus was tall, even by Stormcast standards, but this abomination had at least a head on him, and moved with a speed wholly incongruous with his mass and girth.

He was coming straight for Barastus.

Barastus threw up the haft of his lightning hammer just in time to arrest the Khornate lord’s blow and keep the fearsome axe he wielded from cleaving his helm. For an interminable moment, the two huge, armoured champions grappled and struggled, strength against strength, each trying to unbalance or overcome the other. Finally, Barastus managed to slip his hammer out of the deadly embrace while redirecting the down-rushing axe. The blade bit the earth beside him, and Barastus brought his hammer sweeping backwards with blinding speed.

The hammer-head slammed hard into the Khornate lord’s crested helm. There was a ringing clang, like a great bell, and the helm went flying.

The Chaos lord needed only a moment to regain himself. He’d lost his helm but not his fury or his senses.

Barastus had only an instant to study the brute’s face – his bald pate, painted with strange runes in what he imagined to be blood, tiny knuckle-bones braided into the blood-caked strands of his matted beard, the many rings and chains trailing from his ears to hooks and rings set into the flesh at the back of his head.

And his eyes – eyes burning and malign, like two enormous meteorites hurling down from the heavens, trailing fire and promising ruin.

The Khornate lord yanked up his axe in a sloppy but powerful backhand arc. He managed to parry a hammer strike from Barastus and sent the huge Retributor wheeling.

‘You stand against Khalath Helthorn!’ the Khornate lord snarled. ‘Your nightmare! Your death!’

Barastus wasted no breath in reply. He simply hove up his lightning hammer and brought its mighty square head crashing down towards Khalath’s blood-painted skull.

But Khalath met the blow with his axe blade. The impact was so fierce that Barastus’ hammer was thrown back and nearly sent him sprawling.

A charging Bloodreaver slammed into Barastus from the right. The berserker all but climbed onto the Stormcast, slamming the butt of his meatripper axe into Barastus’ pauldron and helm. The world around him was all ringing sigmarite and concussive force, as though he were inside a huge, knelling bell.

Khalath came again, axe high.

Barastus spun and bent, his quick movement throwing the attacking Bloodreaver off him and sending Barastus himself reeling backwards. The barbarian hit the ground, his face already promising another attack – and an instant later, his master’s axe bit through him, cleaving him in two at the waist.

Nearby, Barastus heard a great clamour as something large and heavy drove through the massed ranks, speeding towards the opened gate. He caught sight of a quartet of thundering Khornate Juggernauts, ploughing a rough path right through the city’s defenders, opening a breach that led directly to the half-open gate beneath the barbican.

Khorne’s disciples poured through the breach, like water flooding through a shattered dam. Their advancing column split the line of defenders in two, separating those on the right side of the gate from those on the left.

It all happened quickly, in a trio of breaths, perhaps half a dozen.

Barastus righted himself, preparing for another onslaught, knowing that he had more pressing concerns than the defence of the gate.

Khalath Helthorn kicked the cloven corpse of his minion aside and strode forward. As he advanced, a ravening Skullreaper darted into its master’s path. Khalath did not hesitate – the Mighty Lord of Khorne grasped the Skullreaper in one hand, hove back and cast the daemon forward.

The Skullreaper collided hard with Barastus, throwing him to the ground. As he tried to sit up, it snarled and snapped in his face, already raising its spinecleaver for a killing blow.

Barastus used the haft of his lightning hammer to cast the daemon off him. Where it landed, he did not know, for in the next instant, Khalath Helthorn filled his vision. His axe sang as it sped down.

Barastus tried to raise his hammer, but it was too late – he felt the Khornate lord’s enormous blade split his armoured breastplate in two, biting deep into his chest.

The Retributor had only a moment to understand and accept what was happening – that the wound was deadly, if not mortal.

Khalath Helthorn raised his axe for a second blow.

Down came the blade.

Sigmar’s lightning bore Barastus homeward.

From her place on the parapet, Tivrain heard the peal of thunder and saw the scintillating pillar of lightning that flashed up into the sky to claim one of her Stormcast comrades below. She could not see who it had been – one of the dear companions who’d accompanied her to this place or one of those who’d been hiding here, waiting so long for their arrival – but knowing that even one of them had been lost filled her heart with sadness and determination.

Below, a new cacophony portended a terrible reversal in fortune.

The Bloodbound had breached the gate and poured into the square, overrunning the forward barricades and nearly overtaking the second before the forces arrayed there surged forward to stop them.

Tivrain was divided – should she help to repel the Khornate forces that had just flooded into the city, or should she return to the outer parapet and continue to help her companions below hold the line and perhaps cut off the attackers that had pushed through?

The defenders below were doing their work – Tivrain needed to see to her own.

She once more dashed across the wall walk, clambered up onto the forward crenels and began casting sizzling bolts of energy down into the heaving ranks of Khornate reavers. Again and again, she saw muscular, tattooed bodies thrown into the air by the concussive force of her magical attacks, others struck dead in an instant, or lying helpless, their bones shattered by the spent force of each blast. Yet no matter how many fell to her arcane firestorm, it never seemed to be enough. Still the enemy swarmed over the empty ground before the Burnished Gate, their numbers so great that they became a single, heaving mass.

To either side of Tivrain, more Khinerai Harpies stepped up onto the crenels and dived into the empty air, scudding along the thermals on bat-like wings above the battlefield or circling down to bring the fight to the enemy. Melusai archers and Tivrain’s own Stormcast Judicators continued to rain lightning arrows down upon the Bloodbound.

And still the Bloodbound came. They pressed forward like a falling avalanche, their hundreds and thousands too numerous for the brave lines of defenders to hold back. Though Harpies dipped and soared over­head, though chariots and cavalry thinned the flanks and scattered the outliers, the central mass of forward-moving ­invaders was too massive, too wild, to be arrested.

Tivrain paused, surveying the damage she’d done, allowing her energies to replenish themselves. As she studied the battlefield, peering through the smoke and haze and press of huge bodies smeared in blood and ochre, she saw something near the rear of the enemy formations. For a moment, she had a terrible time focusing upon what she thought she saw, so dense was the smoke and the clouds of dust rising off the field. A gust of wind cleared her view, however, and her initial fears were verified.

The battery of daemon-crewed skull cannons from which the day’s opening salvo had been launched were now being rolled into place just behind the rear of the Khornate ranks, edging closer to the Burnished Gate and the city walls, moment by moment. Tivrain counted six of the magically powered guns. The muzzles were being trained not upwards, towards the wall and its defenders scurrying to and fro along its parapets, but lower – directly towards the Burnished Gate.

‘Take cover!’ Tivrain cried, and leapt back from the forward parapet, throwing up a magical shield and bracing herself.

The cannons thundered – three at once, sending their screaming ordnance rocketing across the distance between them and their enormous target.

The flaming skulls slammed into the closed half of the city gate, buckling the whole of it and sending a tremendous shockwave up through the wall and barbican.

Tivrain’s world erupted, all smoke and dust, the stones buckling beneath her feet.

As the second volley battered the city gate above and behind them, Ibon bent to take cover, raising his shield over his helmed head. Massive chunks of masonry sheared away from the curtain wall and came crashing down upon those in the Burnished Gate’s shadow, crushing ally and enemy alike. Castigator Eltymion, reeling towards safety, was slain by a falling shard the size of a gargant. Azyrite lightning lashed upwards into the sky, snatching the slain Stormcast’s soul from beneath the enormous fragment of shattered stone.

The Khornate horde continued to surge forward, seemingly indifferent to the dangers implicit in pressing their advance while the gate was being pummelled by their foul, magical artillery.

Ibon rose, finding his fellows upon the field. They were spread to either side of him, fore and aft, left and right.

‘Retreat!’ he cried. ‘Fall back!’

The word travelled up and down the line. Little by little, the Stormcasts and Khainites who heard his orders obeyed. Keeping their eyes upon the enemy, their weapons at the ready, they began to retreat towards the small doorway set into the wall – the sally port from which they’d emerged at the battle’s opening.

Ibon hacked and slashed at the Bloodbound pressing forward, cleaving skulls, hacking off limbs, opening massive, bleeding chest wounds and stilling poisoned hearts with well-placed thrusts of his blade. Still they came, each new adversary indifferent to how many had been struck down before them. On Ibon’s left, Pharena Ashforged matched his determination and ferocity, blow for blow.

Ordys Stormwall fell in beside Ibon on the right, her stormstrike glaive flashing as it whipped this way and that, thrusting outward at the oncoming reavers, parrying weapon blows and skewering hapless Khorne worshippers upon its long blade.

As a small gap opened in the Khornate ranks, Ordys rushed forward, lowering her glaive before her to create a sharp cordon that could not easily be passed. As the Khorne worshippers charged, racing to surround and overwhelm her, Ordys let the glaive whirl and dance before her, its long shaft and deadly blade doing the work of a dozen ordinary human pikemen. Ibon watched, amazed, as the Khornate reavers threw themselves against the Protector-Prime and found their faces smashed, their bones broken, hearts run through and limbs sliced away with surgical precision. Some fell before her, while others hastily retreated and new challengers struggled to break through.

‘I can’t hold them long,’ Ordys said. ‘Fall back with the others!’

‘I cannot leave you here!’ Ibon shouted above the din. ‘Follow me, I can cover you as–’

‘Fall back, Ibon!’ Ordys commanded, her voice strangely amplified by her great-helm. ‘There is no time to argue.’

Ibon did as he was bade, hastily retreating towards the gap in the wall where the sally port lay open. Saran Doomsmaul still stood before the entrance, guarding it as ordered, striking down any Bloodbound daring to try and charge his position. As Ibon approached, he saw others – Stormcasts, Flagellants and Khainites alike – streaming back through the small gap, disappearing into the dark passage within. As Ibon reached the bulkhead, he urged others along, clapping them on their backs as they passed, driving them into the passage like cattle down a stockman’s chute.

Saran continued to strike down those Bloodbound who tried to breach the sally port. Beyond where he held ground, Ibon saw Ordys, still holding back a massive contingent of the Bloodbound with only her stormstrike glaive and her deadly skill.

For a moment, Ibon held out hope that she might fend them off long enough to make her own escape. Then, quickly and suddenly, like water flowing past a just-burst dam, they surrounded Ordys and closed in on her from all sides.

Ibon lunged forward.

‘Ordys, no!’

He felt a strong hand grip his backplate and spun round. There stood Saran Doomsmaul, blocking his way, thunderaxe held ready.

Ibon pleaded with Saran to let him go, to hurry to Ordys’ aid.

Saran shoved him back into the passage and slammed the sally port door shut.

For a moment, Ibon stared through the small wicket in the reinforced door at the Decimator on the other side. Ibon tried to reach through, as though he could plead for Saran to join him… but Saran had made up his mind.

An instant later, he spoke.

‘She cannot die alone,’ he rasped.

The Decimator turned from the sally port and waded back into the oncoming enemy horde. His enormous thunderaxe rose and fell, hewing right and left, cleaving skulls and rending fragile, mortal bodies as he trudged in among them.

The reavers flowed in around Saran Doomsmaul, filling the empty spaces between him and the sally port. Many threw themselves against the door, clambering at its locks, struggling with the wicket through which Ibon could see their hideous, deformed faces.

Ibon caught a last glimpse of Saran and Ordys, Blood Warriors, Bloodreavers and Skullreapers surrounding them.

More Khorne worshippers threw themselves bodily against the barred, immovable door, their fearsome faces filling the small wicket.

Beyond them, there was a blinding flash and a peal of thunder. Though Ibon could not see where it struck, he somehow knew that there were two lightning bridges, not one.

Saran Doomsmaul and Ordys Stormwall were no more.

Siva fell behind the wall coping, hunkering as low as she could while her shaking hands struggled to reload her crossbow. Beside her, Lady Redthorn barked orders at the gunners and archers to either side of them, as well as to those on adjacent rooftops, even as she took aim, fired and dropped to reload.

Gunfire and a storm of arrows whizzed over their heads and cracked the brick-and-plaster walls of the building whose roof they occupied. Siva cursed, sliding lower, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Soon after the Khorne worshippers at the gate barricades had revealed themselves and opened the way for their comrades, a contingent of gunners and archers on a rooftop across the square had opened fire on their fellow snipers.

Bloodbound betrayers, positioned perfectly to cover their vile allies and force the defenders on the rooftops to keep their heads down. The deadly race to reload and fire down into the oncoming horde – and not waste one’s shot – was fierce with snipers ready to pick them off, one by one.

Already one bow-woman and one gunman on their own rooftop redoubt had been slain by the turncoats.

Siva was determined not to be one of them.

‘How’s your ammunition?’ Lady Redthorn asked, her hands working quickly and competently to pour black powder down the barrel of her long gun and ram a round in after it.

Siva glanced at the quiver beside her.

‘Four left,’ she said. The bolt she was trying to couch on the crossbow’s frame kept falling clear. Her hands – her whole body – shook uncontrollably.

‘Crawl to the dead woman,’ Lady Redthorn said. The gunner on her far side loosed a volley from a wheelgun at the snipers across the square. ‘She’s got a nearly full quiver.’

Siva turned her head. The woman who’d fallen to the Khornate snipers lay in a bloody heap far to her left. But as Lady Redthorn had said, her quiver was full.

Siva did as she was told, shimmying across the roof, snatching the quiver and yanking it back to her position. Above her, gunfire raked the coping and sent chips of brick and plaster flying.

A chaotic din roared beneath them as the forces amassed in the square – Khainites, Darkling Covenites, Freeguilders and duardin – fought to hold back the massive wave of Bloodbound invaders that had poured in through the half-open gate. Siva barely had time to keep up with what was happening down there, so intent was she on returning fire with the snipers across the way, but the few times she’d got an eyeful, it was a terrifying, astonishing spectacle – thousands of bodies pressed together in the square, one contingent holding the other in place, blades flashing, pikes thrusting and swaying, aelven lashes snapping and prayers to strange gods rising on the wind, shouted from hoarse throats.

Neither side had moved more than a few feet in either direction. Already, the dead mounted up beneath their struggling feet, fleshy flagstones trampled into the churned-up mud.

At last, the crossbow bolt slid into place, nocking in the wound bowstring. Siva swung the weapon round in her grip, couched its butt against her shoulder and levered herself up over the coping.

Across the way, she saw a single gunner taking aim – though not at her – his face a mask of hatred, one eye shut tight as he sighted down the barrel.

His gun thundered, smoke belching from the barrel.

Almost simultaneously, Siva loosed her bolt. It leapt across the space separating them and lodged deep in the gunner’s left eye. He pitched over backwards and disappeared behind his own wall coping, never again to rise.

Siva cried out, delighted at her bullseye – her first confirmed hit of the day!

She dived just as a new rain of arrows sliced overhead, some thunking into the wall behind her. As she turned, eager to seek Lady Red­thorn’s praise, she realised who the gunner had been aiming at.

Lady Cassilda Redthorn lay sprawled on her back, twitching, chest heaving.

Siva threw down her crossbow and scrambled to her.

She’d been hit in the shoulder, the slug punching right through a thin spot in her breastplate. Blood flowed freely from the wound, staining the tarnished steel and the heavy cotton cuirass that Lady Redthorn wore beneath it.

The lady’s mouth was moving, as though drawing breath or trying to speak. Blood burbled out with saliva, foaming and pink.

Siva knew what that meant. She’d seen such a wound before.

Lady Cassilda’s lung was punctured.

‘Someone help!’ Siva shouted. ‘She’s choking! She’s dying.’

She pressed her hands against the wound, but the breastplate was in the way. The blood continued to pour forth, spreading in a widening pool beneath them.

Siva raised her head and screamed, ‘I need a surgeon! She’s bleeding out! Hurry or–’

Lady Redthorn suddenly grabbed a handful of Siva’s hair and yanked her down, pressing her against her breastplate and shielding her head with her bloodied hands. A new fusillade of gunfire and whizzing arrows sliced the air just above them.

Siva, lying close to Lady Redthorn’s blood-covered face, stared into her eyes.

If the dying woman had not pulled her down, she would have died in the volley.

‘No,’ Siva said, shaking her. ‘Don’t go, please. We need you. We’ll win the day, I know it!’

Lady Cassilda Redthorn coughed, sputtered, something like words choking out of her mouth as more blood and foam were ejected. Then, with a shudder and a last exhalation, she was still.

Above and around Siva Rinkhsdottr, the guns thundered and the screams and shouts of the dying rang like bells.

Tivrain and Knight-Arcanum Tarros waited at the sally port exit as the retreating warriors poured out, instantly gravitating towards their own tribes and allies to regroup. Pharena was among those who emerged. The last to stagger out was Ibon, the Liberator-Prime’s aggrieved frown and downcast eyes telling Tivrain what had become of their comrades outside the gate.

‘What now?’ Pharena asked, eyes fiery beneath her helm, voice sharp as the edge of her sword.

‘We need to get to the square,’ Tivrain said. ‘They’ve held the tide, but it’s about to overwhelm them. We’ll need every hand.’

Ibon staggered towards her. He yanked off his helm and drank in the humid air as though he’d been drowning.

Tivrain gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, ‘The others?’

Ibon sighed. ‘Ordys and Saran gone,’ he said, voice a dry croak. ‘The Retributor-Prime, Knight-Heraldor and Castigator as well… all gone. All fought bravely, all were overwhelmed. What of those in the second sortie?’

Tivrain shook her head. ‘I haven’t been on the far side. I don’t know.’

‘We lost Knight-Relictor Ansonnir,’ Tarros said, ‘in the second bombardment of the skull cannons. He had raised a shield over himself and a clutch of Melusai archers. A skull incendiary blasted the wall out from beneath them and they all fell into the breach – crushed.’

War-horns blared and a new din filled the air. Though the sounds now rising in their ears were muddy and indistinct – the sounds of a thousand bodies in bloody collision, the sounds of a thousand blades and cudgels splitting and shattering bone, the sounds of boots digging deep into the mud and desperate soldiers gone mad with bloodlust and wanton slaughter – the intensification of the cacophony made it clear that something had changed.

‘They’re forcing their way in,’ Tivrain said. ‘Hear me, now. Malascyra’s pulling back specific forces – her fiercest, her deadliest – to withdraw and build another living cordon a short distance back from where the battle now rages, a bulwark against a deeper advance. I say we speed to her side and do what we can to aid them.’

Ibon hesitated for a moment.

‘There will never be a better time,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re engaged. They might scramble and scrape all day and into the night to hold a horse-length of ground.’

For just a moment, Tivrain considered the wisdom in the Liberator-Prime’s words. What more did they owe the Daughters of Khaine? Or the people of Anvilgard? Had they not already lost a great many of their companions? For all they knew, they might be the last of their company remaining.

There will never be a better time, Tivrain thought. I cannot deny it.

‘No,’ she said, hard and firm.

Ibon said nothing. Pharena’s blue eyes flashed beneath her black helm. Tarros’ piercing gaze told Tivrain that he understood what a terrible choice she had before her.

‘It pains me terribly,’ Tivrain said. ‘It tears me apart within. But we gave our word. The good folk of this city depend upon us to see another sunrise. The needs of those innocents must take precedence over our personal desires, or even the suffering of our comrades. We must see this through. Our oaths must count for something. Surely you both see that?’

Ibon gave a single, curt nod.

‘I only sought your orders, Knight-Incantor.’ He placed his masked helm back upon his head. ‘Lead the way.’

Guns thundered. Arrows flew. Spells were unleashed. Scores of Bloodbound fell in a volley, charging right into the lines of spellcasters or artillerymen arrayed to repel them. And yet, hundreds more kept charging up behind them, crushing their fallen comrades’ bodies under their heels as they advanced, meeting the forward ranks of the massed defenders and leaping into the fray, ready to fight to the death.

If there was a regrouped, orderly defence in the offing, it was not here, in the Burnished Gate Square. Here, Tivrain only saw chaos and slaughter, the defenders of the city holding back the fast-incoming invaders by sole virtue of great numbers, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the streets, their mass and closeness making passage impossible.

As Ibon, Pharena and Tarros stood, ready to join the fight, Tivrain searched the empty street behind the score-deep line of defenders before her, seeking signs of the secondary defence that Malascyra had been determined to build. Just a short distance behind them, where the wide square funnelled down to a broad avenue, she saw Sigmarite Flagellants and Freeguilders hastily building a barricade of anything they could find – barrels, furniture, sheared-away pieces of brick or stone walls, smashed wagons – as Khainite murderesses swirled in loose formations, their eyes alight with bloodlust, many of their pale faces already stained with gore and viscera.

Tivrain recognised the forces gathering – the elite Scáthborn, Melusai Blood Sisters and Blood Stalkers, as well as a troupe of Sisters of Slaughter and Witch Aelves. Even several Doomfire Warlocks had joined the hastily gathering mob, having eschewed their mounts to fight on foot. At the wings of the massing forces stood Darkling Bleakswords, Darkshards and Dreadspears, their ranks more formally arranged and disciplined than the eager Khainites, who looked like hunting hounds straining against their leashes.

Down opposing side streets, Tivrain could just make out the squat, steaming forms of a Bloodwrack Shrine and a Khainite Cauldron of Blood, the charnel smells emanating from them precursors of the havoc their blood magic could wreak upon the enemy.

Above, on the rooftops along either side of the street, Khinerai Harpies were already lining up, preparing for an aerial assault when the invaders charged. Among them, Tivrain saw Malascyra Stormwrack barking orders, using thrusts and sweeps of her barbed javelin to punctuate her commands.

‘Where to?’ Pharena pressed. ‘The front ranks or the secondary lines behind us?’

‘They’re breaking,’ Tarros said, pointing to the press of bodies ahead. His stave already crackled with energies eager to be loosed.

‘I thought we might find you here,’ a voice said.

All three turned in time to see Hunter-Prime Athelys Grimscar, Judicator Vornus Blackcrown and the Sequitor, Golghaar the Scarred, emerging from a side alley. Athelys and Golghaar were caked in dried blood and mud, their armour scraped and dented. Vornus, by contrast, looked like he had dashed through a furnace, the gold chasings of his armour and his angular, tan-skinned face covered in soot.

‘Are you the last?’ Tivrain asked, knowing there was little time for pleasantries.

Athelys nodded, her dark eyes hooded and fierce.

‘Aye, Knight-Incantor. We are all that remain.’

Ahead, the lines began to break, the sudden reversal in fortunes heralded by a series of curses and exhortations followed by an almost explosive retreat of those massed at the rear as those before them fell or broke to flee.

All at once, like a dam bursting, the mass of defenders blocking the street were trampled or scattered, some fleeing back, towards Tivrain and her companions, others scrambling into side streets, alleys and open doorways. Those who tried to stand against the Khornate advance were cut down or trampled underfoot.

The Bloodbound of Khorne charged forward, flooding the street like a bloody, muscled tidal wave.

Tivrain had time for only a single order.

‘Stand!’ she cried, and unleashed a spirit storm.

In a single, heaving outburst, the skies above let loose a web of crackling lightning and a massive, concentrated hurricane that lanced down as a near-solid column, tearing through the massed centre of the onrushing Bloodbound, obliterating scores in an instant, leaving twice as many reeling, insensible, half burned. Beside her, Tarros hurled thunderclaps down upon the marauding Khornate forces, upsetting their tightest formations and leaving scores lying dazed while their ravening companions charged over their prone forms.

A Bloodwrack Medusa slithered into view on a balcony above them, stretching out her long, talon-fingered hands and snarling magical formulae – unheard over the din of the battle – from her twisted lips. As Tivrain watched, a coiling column of red-black smoke spiralled forth from the Medusa’s outstretched hand, engulfing a mass of Bloodbound at the fore of the advancing column. The charging brutes instantly jerked and stumbled, as if their bodies were wracked with agonised paroxysms and spasms. As a dozen of them fell, screaming and flopping about, fish-like, more of their companions raced right into the column of smoke and were similarly stricken. One unlucky Blood Warrior met the Medusa’s gaze and suddenly bled from every pore.

The fallen Bloodbound created a lumpy, writhing barrier in the street. Still more flowed around them.

A shriek of terror and bloodlust rose behind them, rushing nearer. Tivrain dared a glance over her shoulder just in time to see the second wave of Khainites charging up, racing to meet the oncoming Bloodbound. Their shining eyes were alight with murder and madness, their blades and barbed lashes flashing under the overcast sky. She noted as they rushed around her, charging onward, that a strange crimson corona seemed to surround their bodies, a rippling shield of some sort. A moment later, when they collided with the oncoming horde, the strength of those shields was made manifest. Every disciple of Khorne seeking to strike down a Daughter of Khaine found their blades useless, their fists unable to grasp or arrest them.

But the Khainites’ blades and lashes and arrows found their targets.

In a fearsome glut, the forward mass of Bloodbound all bled under the brutal ministrations of their adversaries.

Witch Aelves dug into the Khornate lines, hewing flesh and sinew as they went, but their shields were already fading and many were overcome in short order, dragged down to be beaten or cloven to a bloody pulp. As Bloodletters and reavers stomped among the ranks, snatching lives for their master as readily as a man pulled ripe fruit from trees, the bulky Khornate Juggernaut cavalry began to show themselves, pressing through the melee in the square, clearing ragged paths for the forces marching in their wake, sometimes even riding down their own comrades to charge the lines and barricades that held the heaving mass in place.

The defenders fought ruthlessly, courageously, but still the Khornate horde came, a seemingly unending stream of bodies and fury and murderous intent. Moment by moment, the melee crept closer to where Tivrain and her companions stood, blocking the narrow exit of the square.

Tivrain looked to Athelys.

‘It’s not enough,’ she said. ‘No matter how many we destroy, they keep coming.’

She dared a glance back. The second line of defence, a short distance behind them, was undermanned now – a few fighters huddling close behind the barricades, the bulk of their forces having already charged to engage the enemy.

A war-horn sounded, its peal clear and clanging. It came from the gateway passage beneath the barbican. Tivrain’s eyes were drawn into the distance, towards the great gate, where the Bloodbound continued to pour forth. All at once, those forcing their way out of the passage into the open square seemed to surge forward, as though pushed from behind.

‘They’re intensifying their attack,’ Athelys shouted above the clamour, and raised her shock handaxe.

‘No,’ Tivrain said. ‘They’re not charging – they’re fleeing.’

‘Fleeing from whom?’ Ibon asked beside her.

Before them, the Bloodbound crowded in the passageway of the Burnished Gate, shoving, jostling, desperate to advance, blocked by the press of bodies before them.

Then a blinding bolt of condensed Azyrite energy speared forth from the dark passage, searing through three-score bodies in a single blast, slaying a long line of Bloodbound in an instant and creating a narrow gap that anyone coming from behind could force their way through.

They came, at last – Lord-Arcanum Neiros Steinbrech and his Evocators, their Celestial dracolines clawing and pouncing, clearing a path that their trailing comrades could slide into. One by one, the cavalry galloped through the passage, tearing into the rear ranks of the Khornate horde, crushing enemies beneath their talons, ripping heads from necks, opening chest cavities with deadly swipes of their reptilian claws. Evocator tempest blades flashed in the overcast sunlight, swiftly bloodied and stained as their enemies were hacked down in mad abandon.

The sight of that cavalry, pressing into the fray, trampling enemies, striking them down with blade or arcane energies from their magic staves, seemed to energise the remaining defenders. Tivrain watched, amazed, as all those fighting before her – Khainite, Freeguilder, Darkling or duardin – all redoubled their efforts to close ranks and strangle the Khornate invaders before they could penetrate deeper into the city. Even Tivrain was swept up in the moment, calling down the storm, hurling lightning and arcane magic against the roiling horde with mad, bloody-eyed abandon.

It was enough.

Neiros Steinbrech’s arrival and merciless onslaught turned the tide.

Moment by moment, the enemy fell, the enemy died.

Tivrain waded in among them, eager to give all, if necessary, in defence of the people who called this place home. In moments, she was no longer surrounded by her comrades. She had advanced – alone, determined – and stood deep in the midst of the enemy’s forces, acting as a lens through which the power of the storm could be focused and redirected. As thousands fought on all sides of her, Tivrain gave all that she could. When she saw allies in need, she briefly gave them the aid of a magical shield. When she saw enemies gaining ground, she rained white-hot death upon them in the form of deadly Azyrite lightning. She fought with magic. She fought with her Incantor’s staff. She fought with her bare fists.

Suddenly, without preamble or ceremony, the mass of Bloodbound before her parted. Down the throat of a narrow alley formed by their blood-caked, mud-encrusted bodies, she saw their leader – a hulking, armoured brute that could only be a Mighty Lord of Khorne. As the monster of a man exhorted his minions and cut down challengers with his Khornate axe, he pressed on, always gaining ground, a few steps at a time, determined to lead his troops to victory.

He wore no helm. His face and beard were painted in blood and gobbets of viscera. Only his eyes – ice blue, malign, insane – and his gnashing teeth shone out of that terrible crimson visage.

Those mad eyes fell upon Tivrain.

Tivrain met his gaze.

‘Another of Sigmar’s living-dead minions!’ he shouted, and opened his arms as if for an embrace. ‘Come, witch! Let Khalath Helthorn send you back to your blasted Anvil!’

Then, he roared and charged.

Tivrain unleashed a volley of arcane energy, aiming to slow him and conserve her own strength for more deadly attacks once she had pinned him down. To her disbelief, he absorbed several of the bolts and raised his axe as a shield against the last brace. It was as if the weapon were enchanted, providing protection of its own. It seemed to absorb – or, at the very least, weaken – her magic.

On he came.

She summoned the storm, called down all the power she could muster. A scintillating column of lightning blasted down from the sky, passed through Tivrain’s form and burst forth towards the onrushing adversary.

The lightning engulfed the Mighty Lord. He stiffened and spasmed under its fearsome power, his blood-caked hair smoking, his wild eyes bulging in his skull.

But the blast did little more than briefly immobilise him. In the next instant, the lightning seemed to weaken and dissipate, and Khalath Helthorn, shaken but far from vanquished, staggered forward, bloody teeth in a thrilled rictus, eyes alight with mad abandon and wonder.

‘Again, witch!’ he snarled, then broke into a run towards Tivrain. ‘Do your worst!’

Suddenly, Tarros was at Tivrain’s elbow.

‘Together!’ the Knight-Arcanum shouted.

Once more, Tivrain channelled the storm. Tarros unleashed Azyrite lightning from his stave. The combined attack engulfed the charging Khalath in a corona of elemental force that shook his bones and made his oversized body quake violently.

It slowed his charge, but it did not stop him. On he came, gathering momentum once more.

Again, Tivrain called down all the fury of Sigmar’s elemental power. Again, Tarros cast searing skeins of lightning from his stave. Khalath Helthorn, charging like a maddened auroch, bellowing like a magmadroth, leaned into the blast. The energies they unleashed upon him only arrested his charge for a moment before dissipating.

He was nearly upon them.

Out of the roiling chaos, a lithe white body suddenly appeared – a Witch Aelf, aiming to earn herself the glory of glories. Before Tivrain even knew what was happening, the Witch Aelf had leapt towards Khalath from his left, her sciansa daggers high and flashing as she described an arc through the air towards him.

Tarros yanked Tivrain back, using the distraction to place a little more distance between them and the oncoming Khornate lord.

Khalath caught the Witch Aelf out of the air without breaking stride. His gauntleted fist clamped around her thin throat and yanked her sideways. Using his momentum to carry him round in a circle, he slammed the Witch Aelf head first into the mud at his feet – stunning or killing her, Tivrain could not say. In the next instant, however, he brought one great, steel-shod boot down upon her, crushing her skull.

When next he turned round to face them, Khalath’s mad eyes flashed with bloodlust and malice. His gnash-toothed rictus widened into a terrifying grin.

He opened his mouth to speak – seemed to prepare to charge once more.

A crossbow bolt appeared in his throat.

For just a moment, Khalath’s eyes grew wide, wondering, amazed. He coughed up a gout of blood and sputtered, clutching at the bolt protruding from his neck.

Tivrain looked to her left. Athelys Grimscar stood there, already slinging her boltstorm pistol and preparing her shock handaxe.

‘Athelys, no,’ Tivrain said.

‘He’s the head of the serpent,’ Athelys said calmly. ‘If we take him, we end this.’

She charged.

Khalath yanked and the bolt came free. Fresh blood coursed from his wounded throat, sheeting down the front of his breastplate.

Athelys’ handaxe flashed, swift as lightning. Tivrain saw her land two solid strikes at narrow, unprotected joints in Khalath’s clanking armour before the lumbering Khornate lord finally managed to bring his battle axe arcing towards Athelys with monstrous force.

The Hunter-Prime danced aside, Khalath’s strikes splitting the space she’d occupied only an instant before.

Khalath took the bait, though. He lurched towards Athelys, still choking on the blood from his wound, his axe whistling as it hewed back and forth. Athelys moved deftly around his flank and landed two more strikes, one on his shoulder, another just below his left rib.

Tivrain stepped forward, ready to unleash a new bolt of elemental force the moment Athelys was not in the path of the blast.

Athelys circled Khalath. Khalath turned, his motions slowing, growing clumsy, trying to keep his eye upon his adversary.

Athelys lunged for a quick attack.

Azyrite lightning cast by one of Steinbrech’s Evocators tore through a knot of Khornate Bloodbound not a stone’s throw from where Khalath made his last stand.

The second-hand concussive force of the blast caught Athelys unawares, broadside. Just as her handaxe bit deep into Khalath’s abdomen, she was thrown to the left.

Khalath lashed out one-handed as the Hunter-Prime reeled.

His broad axe caught Athelys mid-torso. The moment blade bit armour, Azyrite lightning exploded upwards from the place where Athelys stood. The eruption was sudden and violent, blinding in its intensity.

When the lightning cleared, Athelys was no more.

Khalath Helthorn remained – bloodied, half burned, smoke rising from his armour and flesh in slow, curling tendrils.

The Khornate lord grinned – the most horrifying, inhuman grin Tivrain had ever seen, as though he revelled in his present suffering and celebrated the abuse his body had thus far endured.

‘Again!’ Tivrain said, and readied for another onslaught.

Before she or Tarros could summon their energies, a bloodied blade crashed down, biting deep into Tarros’ shoulder from behind and driving him to his knees.

Tivrain pivoted. A towering Bloodsecrator stood above the fallen Knight-Arcanum, exalting in his stealthy attack upon the Stormcast. Before Tivrain could summon the storm, the Bloodsecrator yanked his axe free and brought it down again upon Tarros’ head.

Tarros was consumed by Azyrite lightning.

The blast sent the Bloodsecrator staggering backwards, the sorcerer not bearing the same magical defences as his Mighty Lord, Khalath Helthorn.

Tivrain moved to strike Tarros’ murderer, but suddenly felt a heavy hand clamp down on her neck. She was yanked round, and stared into Khalath Helthorn’s blood-painted face.

‘Let me help you home, undying one,’ Khalath croaked, blood burbling from his pierced throat and open mouth.

He threw Tivrain down. She hit the churned mud with stunning force.

Tivrain struggled to focus, to summon the storm, to channel its power.

Khalath lifted his great axe of Khorne, preparing for a mighty, two-handed blow that would cleave her skull to belly.

Then, Tivrain saw a lithe form coalescing in the light of the high Aqshian sun, a pale figure borne on mighty black wings, wielding a fierce barbed javelin.

Malascyra Stormwrack.

Khalath’s axe began its final arc downwards as Malascyra slammed into him from above, her javelin driven by the force of their impact. The barbed blade emerged, covered in blood and gobbets of flesh, from the centre of Khalath’s breastplate before the impact drove him to his knees.

The moment her feet alighted on the churned earth, Malascyra produced a pair of barbed sickles. She circled her prey, preparing to strike a killing blow.

Khalath lurched and spun, sputtering blood and snarling with wordless, bestial fury as he raised his axe for a powerful sideways swing. Malascyra’s javelin protruded from between his shoulders and out of his breastplate.

Tivrain caught Malascyra’s eye. She jerked her head to one side, a silent warning to give the Khornate warlord a wide berth.

Malascyra took one long step backwards.

Tivrain called the storm. A scintillating cord of lightning leapt down from the sky, channelling into her body, awaiting release. Tivrain held the gathering power as best she might, awaiting the sense that it was more than she could bear, that all that elemental energy might destroy her from within.

Then she unleashed it upon Khalath Helthorn.

The Mighty Lord of Khorne was engulfed in blinding white light, the storm’s fury overwhelming him as stray strands of lightning crackled from his armoured form. Tivrain thought she heard Khalath roaring, screaming, agonised beneath the ministrations of the lightning’s terrible power.

When, an instant later, the lightning faded, Khalath remained. His flesh was blackened and blistered, large swathes of it already breaking and oozing. His hair and whiskers had all been immolated from his body. His armour smoked as though it had just been extracted from a furnace.

And still, by virtue of some malign, murderous force that animated him, Khalath Helthorn would not expire. He reeled drunkenly from side to side, and his attempts to lift his axe betrayed what all-encompassing agony he found himself in – but he would not relent.

He half turned, as if to promise Tivrain that her turn would come soon enough. He made a strange croaking sound, no words forming on his burnt lips.

Malascyra struck the killing blow. She attacked with both barbed sickles at once, scissor-like.

Khalath Helthorn’s head leapt from his shoulders.

The Mighty Lord of Khorne’s corpse collapsed before Tivrain.

Tivrain’s knees buckled. Down she went, and the darkness swallowed her.

There was peace in exhaustion. The darkness, the silence – both were most welcome.

Tivrain felt as though she lay in a lightless chamber, sealed away from all the world. She could hear nothing but her own heartbeat, her own steady breathing. Her eyes were open, or so she believed, but there was nothing to look upon. Absolute darkness enfolded her.

Blessed oblivion, she thought. Interminable peace. How devoutly I have sought you…

Faintly, beyond the veil of shadow, she thought she heard someone speaking, frantic petitioners calling her name.

She ignored them. She clung to the darkness, refusing to seek any release from it. Part of her prayed that this was only a precursor to merciful death. Even the agony of Reforging and the scrambled disorientation and rehabilitation that would follow would prove a most welcome respite from the chaos and terror that had defined the day’s combat.

Faces began to coalesce out of the darkness around her, faces that were strangers yet all too familiar.

No, she thought. I have done my duty. I have fought. Let me die. Let Sigmar remake me.

The many faces threatening to materialise upon the veil before her shimmered and faded. Only one remained, coming into sharper focus, meeting her gaze.

Pyrath Redflame. His eyes bored into her. His pale, haunted face and frowning mouth made his quiet desperation abundantly clear.

End this.

Let me rest, Tivrain begged. I have given all this day. I have nothing left.

There is more, Pyrath said patiently, and we require it – the last, full measure of your devotion. End this, Tivrain Greymantle. Release us, as you swore to do–

‘There, she’s coming round!’ someone said.

Light flooded in, searing Tivrain’s half-opened eyes and sending waves of agony through her fevered, half-conscious mind.

Pharena Ashforged knelt over her. Above and around her stood the others – Liberator-Prime Ibon, Judicator Vornus Blackcrown and the Sequitor, Golghaar the Scarred. Pharena’s pale, freckled face was streaked with gobbets of mud and blood so thick it looked like warpaint. It robbed her of all the innocence and wide-eyed naivety that her countenance normally possessed.

‘Knight-Incantor,’ she said, ‘how fare you?’

Tivrain pushed herself upright, Pharena providing welcome aid. Her companions closed in around her. She heard weapons yet ringing, curses and screams still sounding, and realised the battle raged on, a short distance from where they were all now gathered in the mouth of an alley just off Burnished Gate Square.

‘I blacked out,’ Tivrain said.

‘That was a great deal of power that passed through you,’ Ibon said with grim satisfaction. ‘I saw what an onslaught you unleashed upon the Khornate lord. You ended him, Tivrain. Though the Harpy took his head, it was the might of the storm – the storm that you summoned – that truly ended him.’

Tivrain craned her head round, trying to see how the battle unfolded.

She saw Stormcast Evocators mounted upon their dracolines, pressing through the enemy ranks, striking down Bloodbound with spells or blades as they went.

‘The battle,’ Tivrain said.

‘Still they fight,’ Vornus answered. ‘But the tide has turned. Those Khorne-worshipping zealots will force our allies to slaughter them to the last, but I am certain they will be slaughtered.’

Silently, Tivrain struggled to her feet. It was a premature move – upon standing upright, her vision swam in darkness and she fell against a stone wall, struggling to regain herself. When next her vision cleared, her last remaining comrades stood before her – Pharena Ashforged, Ibon, Vornus Blackcrown, Golghaar the Scarred.

Five. They appeared to be all that were left of the twenty-three Anvils of the Heldenhammer who’d taken the field that day.

Tivrain looked across the murderous press in the square. Still the Bloodbound of Khorne fought, but they were contained now, their numbers finally dwindled to a point approaching equilibrium. The defenders held them. They would not gain another inch of ground.

Neiros Steinbrech, atop his Celestial dracoline, was visible amidst the close-quarters chaos, eyes lifeless, face impassive as he rained Sigmarite fire and lightning down upon his foes.

Tivrain turned to her companions.

‘Our oath to defend this city is fulfilled,’ she said. ‘But we have one last test before us.’

Vornus looked at those around him. ‘Just us?’

They exchanged weighted glances, then silently nodded in unison.

Tivrain peeled herself off the wall. ‘Onward, my friends. It is time to finish this.’

They all turned and started away from the square down the length of the alley that sheltered them.

Sigmar, bless this mad endeavour, Tivrain prayed as she withdrew. Vindicate our faith with victory.

Help us to take our brothers and sisters home.