“So you want to know how it ends? Bleeding mercy. The stars’ll fade, or fall out the sky. Gods come and go. Even the world itself will turn to dust one day. I’ve seen it all me’self. There’s only one thing that lasts. Only the Great Saga remains, immortal. Everything else, no matter how big or strong, perishes. A stone dropped into a river. But that ain’t the end. The story continues, shaped by what’s come before, and what’s still to come. Ripples from a fallen stone can turn the current, spill a bank, change a course, and then the stone might see the light again. The fallen tree feeds the new forest. All paths lead but to the stage.
So who’s ready for the next story?” - Hogrog ug Weirdklaw
Animosity, Volume VII: Azyr Asunder
or, “A Tale of the Destruction of All in the Pursuit of the Self, a Folly of the Pride, and of the City Burdened with Blessings, of Desperate Alliances and the Many and Varied Armies of Fate and Fortune that Followed the Call to War, as told by the Mad Orruk Hogrog Ug Weirdklaw, Wurrgog Speaker of the Great Saga, and Faithfully recorded by myself, your humble servant Totus Lognar.”
***
Gray light filtered across the horizon, the first glimmers of the pre-dawn that hung like a halo across the Suneater’s Spine mountains. In a short time, the sun would crest the mountains like a blazing coronation, spilling light down into the sprawling city that filled the Vale, but for the moment all was dark, and quiet, and cold.
It had been nearly this time one week ago that, in a blossom of green flame and corruscating magic, doom had come to Eklysium. In a thunderous blast that shattered glass across the city, the realmgate at the valley’s far end had split open. Fire had come first, burning nullstone falling on the rooftops of the city. Next had come the ice, as the Everwinter poured its wrath out through the unstable realmgate. Then, last and worst of all, had come Mogrek. For three days, the orruk had rampaged through the city, before disappearing beneath it.
Few fires lit the pre-dawn sky now. Most of the wild blazes had been contained, the immediate danger passed, yet a growing anxiety clung to the city. The skyships of the ghastly duardin hung in the sky above them like leaden clouds, a darker black against the night. The monsters from nursery stories prowled just outside the city’s walls, their fires a starfield of red against the mountainside. Murmurs filled the back alleys, to the scraping of metal tools against stone. City guards moved quickly through the streets, their small orbs of lantern light bobbing uneasily as fearful glances were turned to every corner and alleyway. Everyone could feel it now. Anxiety and paranoia, a tension waiting only for one wrong look, one errant word, to explode into violence. Waiting only for the dawn.
***
Dainn Brisingrsson stood at the edge of one of the Cradle of Iron Wing’s sky-docks, looking down at the tiny forms that scurried about, illuminated by the torches they carried and the fires that blazed across Wolfram’s warehouses. The mobs rioting below moved about like swarms of enraged ants, overrunning any that stood in their way and destroying his property.
With a flick of his fingers, the Lord-Magnate lit an expensive Beherit cigar with balefire. Shaking his head sadly, he turned to the group of concerned guilders in shock met the eyes of those before him. Those desperate to retain their guild’s status in this new, uncertain age and those ambitious enough to break the shackles of aristocracy.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, just as I warned you it would,” Dainn rumbled, his sonorous voice resonating in their bones and souls. “I’ve seen it meself too many times, those ‘fraid o’ change lashin’ out at those offrin’ a helpin’ hand. Lots’a good folk gettin’ hurt as collateral, just tryin’ to make a livin’ themselves.”
He took a pull of his cigar, and tapped the ash off the side of the sky-dock.
“Don’ you worry yer heads though, Wolfram’ll do everythin’ in our power to make sure Gloamsend re-opens, ensurin’ jobs an’ profits for us all.” Dainn gave them a reassuring smile that warmed hearts despite making skin crawl. “We don’ negotiate with terrorists, an’ we don’ let our investors an’ partners down.”
***
In a dank cellar lit by flickering torches, a human sat in a chair, arms and feet bound to it.
“This one of the bastards that instigated the riots?” Junnrik demanded, his normally gentle voice full of leashed fury.
An orruk Boltbreaker standing behind the man nodded, lifting the prisoner’s head by his hair until he saw Junnrik towering over him. The boys had roughed him up good, concussed him to the point he hummed an inane tune so poorly that it was a war-crime. But he could walk away from this, heal up, and forget it ever happened.
Unlike many who attended a peaceful protest only to wind up as boot fodder or worse when things got out of hand.
Junnrik ground his teeth, the sound finally drawing the prisoner’s attention. “Do you know how many good people died because of you?”
The man’s expression remained slack, Junnrik’s only response that awful humming. The gargant’s scarred knuckles were pale from how hard he clenched his fists, wanting to loose some of that anger on someone who deserved it.
“You got info from the guy before ruinin’ his music career, yeah?” Junnrik asked his subordinate.
“Sumthin’ big’s comin’ Foreman,” the orruk said. “Da corp’s set up ‘rounda a big rift, prick says dey’s expectin’ da gear dey need ta dig into Gloamsend. Big, ‘eavy stuff, gonna be slow movin’.”
Junnrik stepped back, gesturing to let the prisoner’s head go. He pinched a Sweet Wilheim cigar from his box and lit it off one of the torches, taking a pull on it while he considered the future. After a minute, he sighed and in that moment, it seemed like the weight of the world rested upon the gargant’s shoulders.
“Put the call out. Every tool, every explosive, everythin’ that is and isn’t bolted down gets ‘misplaced’ for the cause,” Junnrik said, the iron in his voice hiding the sorrow. “We tried t’ reason with’em, we tried negotiatin’. Hell, we even tried to warn the big-wigs… If they won’t stand up for our rights, if they won’t stop the Voidblight’s return… then we will.”
“However we must.”
***
Grakko looked down on the shining walls of the Temple of Sigmar. Its gilded facade rose from the street like a monolith, meant to inspire awe and worship, yet from her position on the mountainside she could see the aging timber and patches of plaster where water had leaked through the roof. She resented the lie it stood for, the plastered over history it told that robbed her people of their land, their blood and their past.
In a few hours, the Tempest’s Eye would be brought forth from the Temple vault. Once, the rough cut jewel had blazed like fire from the war-helm of her ancestor, the great Shaggoth chieftain Khalida. Like a frozen shard of lightning, seen from across the battlefield, it had marked her right to rule and been a beacon for her people. It would be so again. Grakko had visited the tombs of Khalida, in the deep, secret places of the mountains. She had reforged the helm shattered by the Heldenhammer. All it was missing now was the Tempest’s Eye. It would be more than a symbol. The March were united behind her, but her people were scattered across the realms, distant and slumbering. Restored, the Helm and Eye would be a beacon to them all, drawing them back to their ancestral lands, and back to her banner. It meant more than reclaiming a relic. It was a step to reclaiming their history.
And so Grakko waited impatiently, willing the sun to rise.
***
Pelham looked up at the frescoed walls of the Temple of Sigmar. Great scenes played out across the domed ceilings in bold colours, meant to inspire awe and worship, but from his position on the floor he could see the cracks forming in the ancient, yellowed plaster beneath. He resented the hours-long vigil that custom demanded he keep in the chapel before the ceremony when there was so much else to do, but was powerless in the face of centuries old tradition.
In a few hours, the Tempest’s Eye would be brought forth from the Temple vault. He had heard the tale many times, of how Sigmar had taken the large, rough cut diamond from the foes that once scoured these lands, and set it in a golden sceptre, and given it to the first Prefect of the Vale as a symbol of his right to govern in the God-King’s name. Ever since then, every Prefect had been sworn in to service by placing a hand on the sceptre as he or she took the oath of office. It was more than just a symbol - it was a direct, unbroken line between him and Sigmar’s decree. In the eyes of the Church, it was what made him Sigmar’s direct representative in the Vale. Like the ceremony, and the vigil he uneasily sat through, it held the weight of history behind it.
And so Pelham waited impatiently, willing the sun to rise.
***
At the far end of the city, the shattered realmgate still burned, the nullstone giving off a slow and sickly green flame. Mogrek’s arrival had destroyed the portal, yet the magic it had contained had bled deep into the earth, and there, as it had across the mortal realms, the Ur-River found a weakness in the fabric of reality. Water seeped into the earth. It joined with the streams and canals of the city. It hissed and boiled where it touched burning ruins, rising up to join the sky. It tricked down in cold rivulets over ancient carved stone that had not seen the light of day in centuries. In deep, dark places, it splashed in echoing pools.