The Ceremony
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and heavier are the arms that carry the sceptre, or so Pelham the Unready thought, wryly, as he heaved the thing towards the altar with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. To the outside observer, the embattled regent looked woefully out of his depth and under-protected, the crowd of onlookers pressing the ragged line of guards while only a few Stormcast of the Silver Legs and the Tarnished Tempest stood by. For any ordinary foe even a single Stormcast Eternal would pose a significant threat, but the foes that closed in on Eklysium were anything but ordinary. Pelham was just making the first steps up the great staircase leading to the entrance of the Grand Cathedral of Sigmar when the screaming started.
Overhead, the skies began to darken ominously, thunder pealing out to drown the Cathedral bells while red-tinged lighting crackled across the burgeoning stormclouds. Panicked onlookers began to press further towards the ceremony, the guards struggling to hold back the stampede as common folk and nobles alike clamoured to find an escape from the oncoming terror. And what a terror it was; a six-limbed figure whose bulk near-rivalled that of a gargant waded into the panicked mass, face set with grim determination as she shook the jolting body of an Eklysium steelhelm from her lightning-wreathed blade. Alongside Grakko Thunderhide marched a heavily armored cadre of Chaos Warriors of the Iron Wake, curiously ignoring the teeming mass of fleeing civilians. That was until a quivering nobleman hurled a pebble at Varn Kul himself, leader of the Iron Wake. With a glance at Grakko, who returned a solemn nod, Kul swung his great iron mace down on the screaming man without a second glance. “Those who do not take arms up against me will not be harmed,” the Shaggoth’s booming voice carrying over the cacophony of the crowd like thunder itself, “lay down your arms and hand over the jewel, and nobody else needs to die today.”
Pelham watched the scene with a raised eyebrow, red hair ruffling in the brewing tempest, and grimaced. Passing the sceptre to one of his Stormcast guards, he sauntered back down the steps towards Grakko, arms held out wide in seeming welcome. “Grakko Thunderhide, a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I’m afraid I won’t be handing anything over today though, I’m sure you understand.” With that, one of the warriors of the Iron Wake fell to their knees, a jagged bone shard jutting from a gap in his plate. All through the crowd, hunched beggars shed roughspun cloaks to reveal ghastly visages: They were not citizens of Eklysium at all, but a veritable tidal wave of slavering ghouls from the courts of the Winter Wolves and the Purulent Expedition that came crashing down upon Grakko’s vanguard. Grakko herself appeared unperturbed, however, and strode confidently towards her foe, striking down charnel horrors with blade and lightning as she went. Pelham’s grin froze for a moment before dropping as she kept coming. Surely even a monster like this couldn’t survive such an onslaught. Her momentum was beginning to slow as she became bogged down in screeching ghouls, but still her eyes did not leave Pelham’s. “You take me for a mindless beast, boy,” she thundered, “you think I do not plan ahead, that I don’t have the capacity to anticipate your treachery.”
At that, a new contingent of ghouls rose from the dwindling crowd, turning their blades, such as they were, upon the first. The ghouls of the Ebon Claw and the Iridian Company, sworn to Thunderhide’s cause, had made their presence known, secreted into the crowd alongside Pelham’s ghoulish defenders. Rancid blood flowed like rivers down the cobbles as ghouls tore each other apart on the threshold of the Grand Cathedral. Many of those civilians who had not yet managed to find a route of escape, mostly nobles who had been closest to the Cathedral when the attack began, clutched at their heads, eyes twitching and rolling as they found themselves engulfed in rancorous delusion. Not taking his eyes off the foe, Pelham sprinted behind the line of Stormcast arrayed on the cathedral steps, more stepping out of the shadowed threshold to join them. Many of these new arrivals wore the colours of the Knights Numinous, and with the shout of their leader Kalured who emerged from the cathedral mounted upon an enormous Gryph-Stalker, they charged towards the rallying enemy.
The charging Stormcast did not meet the foe unopposed, however, for Grakko’s backline had finally arrived to meet them. Led by Shërbëtor G'Jak-u of the Murder of Axes and supported by the beastly warriors of Tramax Gorehorn and the dragon ogor Kuugax, they met the advancing storm warriors head on, the heavens breaking open above them as Grakko still fought to free herself from the onslaught of ghouls attempting to drag her down, her own flesheater allies too busy with their own frenzied battle to aid her. G’Jak-U clashed with Dailor Elphas of the Silver Legs while at the fringes of the melee, the aelves of the Coven of Twilight’s Blade descended from the rooftops to pick off opportune March of Thunder targets. Further in, Seraphon of the Seekers of Tlanxla flitted through the melee, buying time for reinforcements led by Vallash Kall and Knight-Marshal Serpanya to shore up the Stormcast line. It seemed as though the Valeguard forces might be able to take the day, and perhaps even slay one of their most dangerous foes, when the earth opened up beneath them.
Ghouls and storm warriors alike found themselves falling into the void as the catacombs beneath the Grand Cathedral collapsed, much of the floor of the edifice and a portion of the street before it crumbling away as Goroan sappers from Kuugax’s Call of Thunder brought hammered at the supports. Floors collapsed downwards, the weight of the Temple shattering the catacombs they rested on, then plunging into a deeper darkness beyond. Stone, timber, bones and fighters all, they spilled down into the Citadel that lay below the city’s feet.
As the survivors pulled themselves to their feet and tried to gauge their situation, they found themselves in a vast chamber. Dust hung heavy in the air, making it difficult to see anything in great detail, but they could vaguely make out smooth stone walls and glowing lights in the distance. Above them, the ruins of the Temple had collapsed upon the rent in the earth. Escape that way would be difficult, and survivors above would be fighting each other still.
Grakko shook herself off as the battlefield fell into stunned, eerie silence, warriors from both sides reeling in the settling dust. With a bellow, she called the retreat. There was no advantage to press now. They’d been too slow; the Boy-Regent would be long gone by now, as would the sceptre all this carnage had been wrought in the name of. Remaining here was a fool's errand, especially with the sounds of approaching reinforcements sounding from all directions
Indeed, Pelham had left the battle behind him the moment it had begun to go awry. It was prudence, not cowardice. Mindless courage had seen his entire family slaughtered and himself placed into this impossible position. He placed to the sceptre in the hands of Zarek Magnum of the Tarnished Tempest, his steadfast defender. They would need to escape these tunnels and make it back to the safety of the fortress before they could feel secure. Yes, this was the right thing to do: while he hadn’t been able to complete the ceremony, he retained control of the sceptre, even though the Temple lay above them in ruins. Despite all that, however, Pelham had the sneaking suspicion that this was far from over. So long as he held the sceptre and the glittering jewel at its head, he had no doubt Grakko Thunderhide would continue to pursue him. The thought made him shudder.
Valeguard Minor Victory
- - - - -
The Convoy Raid
“How’re tha militia farin’?” Foreman Junnrik ‘Strong’ asked as Lady Sigrid entered the simple ‘command’ quarters, where the gargant stood over a map pinned to the bar with daggers. Copper mugs and stolen shot glasses represented the forces, tracking Wolfram’s convoy and where Boltbreakers adapted, planning new ambushes and raids.
“Morale is low and their numbers dwindle each session,” the Stormcast Eternal reported.
“Behemat’s balls,” Junnrik cursed in a whisper, crumpling the latest Eklysium Herald article in his dark fist. “We need a clear victory, show’em this is a fight we can win - together.”
“Foreman!” a young man shouted, rushing into the bar with a gryph-hound on his heels. “Scouts say that the corp’s convoy has split up a bunch and that they’ve seen many land trains across the city!”
“Impossible,” Junnrik replied, confident. “Even wif their sorcery, they aint had time for that kinda manufacturin’.”
“Yessir, ugh, Foreman. Sorry,” the youth stammered. “This gryph-hound bears a message from the Brazen Suns sayin’ the same. The Knight Questor interrogated a Fish Oil gargant workin’ with Wolfram, who said that only two of the Convoys are real! And we know which ones!”
Junnrik grinned as he looked down at the map. “So, this is what we do…”
***
“Thank you for your bravery,” Thram Blackshale said, looking up at his ‘fellow’ miner and shaking his hand. “This information will ensure everyone a bright future here, now you best move on before-”
“Stop right there!” a Stormcast in gold armour shouted, bursting into the flooded hovel. “Your campaign of lies ends here!”
“Run!” Thram shouted, pushing his informant out the door ahead of him and drawing the eyes of the poor crowd outside. “The Boltbreakers are sendin’ corrupt Stormcast after us! Run for your lives!”
A vigilor’s heavy arrow skipped off the wall by Thram’s head, accentuating his point and earning a scream from the nearby witnesses. They pointed within, where celestial metal rang as Stormcast Eternals suddenly battled one another: those in gold engaged by others in dark green, both accusing the other of working against Sigmar’s will.
The crowd watched in horror until the roaring engines of AABCo’s air fleet howled overhead, raining bullets and toxic munitions down upon Wolfram’s land train nearby. As the people scattered in panic, Thram smiled to himself and launched a flare.
Lady Sigrid and her draconith Silverflame dropped an enormous statue in the train’s path, forcing it to slow, and allowing the Stormcast of Sigrid’s Slayers to rush its poisoned defenders. While smaller defenders pulled on standard-issue gas masks, the gargants of Aalab’s Fish Oil company met the Stormcast charge head on, enraged at Eklysium’s closed markets.
As AABCo’s ships returned for another strafing run, more sky-ships soared in to relieve Wolfram’s defenders. The Hydra Company intercepted AABCo, forcing both air groups to scatter as individual vessels and their skywardens fought one another for aerial supremacy.
Silverflame dove towards the melee, breathing fire across the manned guns atop the train, but the enormous zombie dragon Scrazoth swept in and battered them aside. A draconic duel ensued, skill and speed matched against raw power and ferocity as they climbed higher into the air, tearing gouges into each other’s scales and flesh with tooth, claw, and blade.
Gargants held their own against Stormcast, repelling their attempts to board the slowing train. But the Boltbreakers’ toxins were taking a toll on Wolfram’s defenders, every choking cough a vulnerability the immortals exploited to lethal effect.
“People of Eklysium!” Sigrid roared over the din of battle. “Fight now! Fight for your homes! Fight for your future!”
Where Sigrid hoped to hear a united roar came only a clamour as dozens of Eklysium’s citizens burst forth. Only those she had personally trained, instead of the hundreds they had expected to rally to their cause from Eklysium’s poorest district.
The brave folk who answered the call charged into the lines of gargants, dying in droves, yet providing the momentum the Boltbreakers needed to push Wolfram’s forces back. To leap onto the moving train with grapnels, batter down its doors, and gain entrance.
The lucky few found no equipment at all, only countless zombies and skeletons that dragged them down and consumed them.
The unlucky ones found a train car set up as a mobile lab. Where Corvikki Pitchheart looked up from her khemistry experiment, gas mask and goggles still on, and screamed in fright. The intern ran and leapt between train cars, followed by the hollering of Boltbreakers who chased her into the darkness of the car ahead.
Only the Boltbreakers’ laughter rolled from the darkness, until the dueling dragons slammed into the train car, shearing off its roof as they rolled and flew away to continue their battle. Then screams that were not Corvikki’s erupted from the darkness alongside gore and limbs. The monstrous, wulfen form that emerged was covered in tubes of glowing liquids.
“Don’t kill any of ours!” Corvikki shouted to her experiment, waving a tranquilizer rifle threateningly at it.
The vampire howled his joy at being unleashed, then wreaked havoc upon the Boltbreakers. The largest and most imposing of their number were targeted, torn to shreds along with any that got in his way. Just as Sigrid and Silverflame had forced the zombie dragon on the back foot, the vampire launched toward them, opening another deep gouge in Silverflame’s flank that forced them to sound the retreat, but not before shearing off the abomination’s arm and slamming him into the ground like a meteor.
Yet Corvikki still shot the twitching, grinning vampire with the tranquilizer rifle, twice, as Wolfram’s troops removed the barrier, allowing the decoy to pick up speed once more and escape the ambush.
+++++
“For freedom! For family! Fight wif everyfing you got!” Junnrik bellowed to the hundreds of citizens across all of Tollbar’s Run, who roared in response with make-shift weapons raised. “You know your jobs, so get’em done!”
While the others took up their positions, Junnrik hefted his personal heavy cannon and the shield he’d welded to it, leveling it at the Wolfram land train screaming towards their blockade. He ignited the cannon’s fuse with his cigar, then put it back in his mouth and braced himself. The cannon’s roar drowned out all sound, though none of the Forgotten that formed his celestial retinue flinched.
Junnrik’s cannon ball punched through Furnace City’s reinforced cow-catcher and the train’s endrin, causing it to spew smoke and screaming fire aelementors. The return fire battered against the barricades the Boltbreakers had forged, reinforced iron more than a foot thick in places, designed to withstand anything - and to stop anything in its tracks.
The train picked up speed, looking to smash itself against their barricade, but Junnrik frowned as the entire train turned ethereal. His skin crawled as it passed through the barricade and his troops, only to become corporeal again behind them, its defenders already opening fire.
“Blow the street! Now!” he shouted without hesitation even in the face of incoming fire, reloading his cannon and using it for cover. The order was conveyed down a chain of foremen, bellowing it into the sewers below, where the Boltbreaker’s best demolitionists detonated their charges in a hurry.
The street exploded with shrapnel and the sewage stench of Grey Slough canal, yet the train managed to screech to a halt despite its momentum. Junnrik cursed the machines Wolfram’s lackeys had created, but it didn’t matter. The land train was still in the jaws of their trap.
As the train’s defenders rose to fire at the oncoming Boltbreakers, the Nightowl’s halfling snipers took heads off, forcing them back into cover. With Wolfram’s shooters pinned, the train was rushed from all sides by Boltbreakers and Eklysium’s brave citizens.
“Put the call out, everyone comes here, fast as they can!” Junnrik ordered, several messengers running in every direction to make it happen.
Sky-ships howled overhead, dropping incendiary bombs on Junnrik and his guard. Hissing rounds glanced off his cannon-shield, and Junnrik managed to clip one of the ships before Ogresun sky pirates chased them away. Before they knew it, marines from Furnace City’s Expeditionary Force rushed them alongside monstrous golems, the usual sleek Wolfram design twisted with Chug engines making maw-like furnaces of their guts.
Dropping his cannon, Junnrik drew two enormous mason hammers and spun on his attackers. Each of his swings smashed aside a golem or crushed a handful of Furnace City’s finest, yet still they came at him without end.
“Go,” the nameless Reclusian that led the Forgotten told him, intercepting a gout of unholy flame meant for Junnrik. “You are needed elsewhere. We will hold.”
Junnrik resisted for a moment, but, reluctantly, disengaged. He knew when to trust good folk to their work.
+++++
Dainn Brisingrsson, Lord-Magnate of Wolfram Industries, tossed the dead driver out of his way and picked up the aethervox. “Combat endrineers and bridge supplies to Q10, now,” he ordered calmly, then switched frequencies before speaking again. “Bombing run, Q10 555 013, collateral authorized.”
He returned to his train car, where Glottul Coalcutter stood with his armoured ogors, corpses all around them where they guarded a floating, obsidian sarcophagus.
“I’ll give you some cover, but you’ll need to carve us an openin’, then hold off the enemy fer me,” Dainn rumbled to his retinue, fingers brushing the B-00 on the sarcophagus. “I’ll need time to mend the endrin an’ refuel it, then we need to go ‘fore those Boltbreakers close the noose on us. Can I trust you?”
“Of course.” Glottul gave his boss a crooked grin, filled with excitement and hunger.
Green balefire burst from the train car, incinerating the bodies and souls of the closest Boltbreakers and choking the air with smoke and corpse-ash. The sharpshooters ceased firing and relocated, needing line of sight to do meaningful damage to the train’s rooftop defenders. It was the lull Wolfram needed, the train’s defenders and their aerial support raining experimental warheads and munitions on everything in the vicinity. Nearby Boltbreakers and rallied citizens were scythed down, while explosions and fires consumed the districts leaning warehouses and dilapidated homes, leaving bloody ruin and smoke everywhere.
Glottul and his Gemguard rushed out of the train car, battering aside crafty orruks and skilled fyreslayers. As they formed a bloody perimeter in front of the train, the 83rd Gyrocorp’s ‘copters swooped in, losing enemy sky-ships with deft maneuvers between narrow buildings. Support ‘copters dropped materiel and the combat endrineers required to turn it into a functional bridge, while combat ‘copters dropped rangers to breach and clear through the neighbourhood’s surviving buildings. Dainn set up with his floating sarcophagus beside the endrineers, bullets passing through his form and skipping off the unholy artifact while he etched runes onto the train.
To regain the initiative, Varinja threw herself at Glottul with a roared challenge. After landing only a few glancing blows on the enormous ogor, the fyreslayer found herself losing ground to the tyrant’s advance, knowing that a single blow from the monster could spell her end.
“Shouldn’t ‘ave bit off more’an you could chew,” Glottul spat at her, still grinning. “Thought slayers were s’posed to be brave.”
“We are, but we’re also not stupid,” Varinja shot back, smiling. “Unlike a certain bodyguard that left his charge behind…”
Glottul turned to shout a warning, but the weirdnob Wyrdtoof dropped a giant green foot on him, stomping him into the ground. The rich tyrant used all of his enhanced strength to strain against the foot, lifting himself back up, against all odds, second by second.
But they had bought Junnrik all the time he needed.
The Foreman’s cannon roared again, its heavy round shooting straight toward the sarcophagus. There was a monstrous explosion as the artifact was struck, an unearthly scream followed by fire, smoke, and dust.
“Everyone, now! Advance!” Junnrik ordered, drawing his hammers as he led the charge.
The surviving Nightowls put on the pressure once more, pinning the train’s defenders for a moment as even more Boltbreakers and citizens rushed forward, drawn to the fight.
Glottul and his Gemguard were driven back, one bloody step at a time as smoke and ash swirled about them. But each ogor that fell took more than their mass down with them. And with each of his comrades that fell, Glottul’s ferocity grew. No citizen was brave enough to face him and no Boltbreaker foolish enough to risk their life.
Except one. Junnrik prepared to throw himself at the monster, to put him down as an inspiration to others, but it was too late.
In the end, Glottul earned Dainn’s trust. They held long enough.
In an eldritch blaze, Dainn completed his ritual. He ripped souls from the corpses of those that opposed him and sent them screaming into the endrin, the starving aelementors within screaming back to life at the feast. The horrifying sight was cut short, as metal of fallen tools melted and flowed onto the land train, patching up the damage.
Sky-ships strafed by, their close-range bombing run forcing the attackers back and leaving behind a wall of hungry fire. Wolfram’s besieged forces fought off the stragglers and re-embarked as the land train rolled over the make-shift bridge. More shots and taunts were exchanged between the combatants, but the battle was over. The land train blemished, but its contents unharmed, and with nothing left to stop them from reaching Gloamsend.
Across the distance, Dainn and Junnrik’s eyes met. Dainn’s mortal features had melted away like wax, leaving only a mockery of a face over a skull that flared with amethyst fire. Rage-fueled eyes bore into Junnrik’s as the ghostly duardin laid a hand protectively over the sarcophagus, where deep cracks spider webbed from Junnrik’s shot.
Junnrik glared back, but sorrow drowned out his rage, at all those who had died that day. At all the homes destroyed around him. And he swore that while the battle was lost, he would not lose the war. Even if Wolfram had swayed the hearts and minds of more than he thought possible, he would still do whatever he could to protect those fools too. To ensure that the people of Eklysium had a bright future, not one where innocent lives were just another expendable resource to exploit.
Wolfram Industries - Major Victory
+++++
Dainn smiled at the compound Wolfram had quickly erected in Gloamsend and at the heavy equipment moving into the mines already. He knew it wouldn’t be enough to stave off the Boltbreakers’ plots, at least not yet, but his new partners had proven themselves so far and, for the first time in a long time, he felt he could rely on others to see a job done.
He finished his cigar before entering the mobile laboratory, walking over to where an aelf, a human, and a vampiric duardin monitored a dark crystal in isolation. Rather than refract light like a typical prism, the crystal seemed to absorb it, dimming the area around itself.
The researchers were so absorbed in their work, the vampire humming an awful tune, that they didn’t notice Dainn’s approach, jumping as he spoke.
“Fascinating stuff, aint it?” he said conspiratorially, the vampire’s humming stopping immediately embarassment. “Don’ worry yerself, I couldnae carry a better tune if me life depended on it. D’you think these light eatin’ crystals are the source o’ the Voidblight rumours?”
“Most likely, sir,” the human replied. “Early exploration hasn’t uncovered anything else unique to the mines.”
“Well, turn up the experiments. We need to understand the threats an’ opportunities it presen-”
The aelf screeched, throwing herself at Dainn, clawing at his ethereal form with futility until one ghostly hand reached into her skull and violently pulled something out of her ear. While she twitched violently on the ground, he held out a small, crystalline centipede.
“Get her stabilized and into an isolation cell. Looks like we found the source of the ‘Voidblight.’”
+++++
“This it?” Junnrik asked, flipping through the large folder as gently as he could.
“Yes, all the research Wolfram has on the ‘Sibilith’ crystals and their effects on people, so far.”
“Sibilith?”
“Aside from eating light, the crystals we’ve recovered so far emit a sub-sonic resonance.”
“Right, hence the stupid name insteada Voidcrystal, gotcha,” Junnrik replied, stopping to read a page. “Only infects the livin’ by crawlin’ inta ears, huh? That’s not good for us, or anyone. Any counter-measures?”
“Don’t be alive,” the informant said with a manic laugh. “It’s all Wolfram needs, for now.”
“Well, thanks for takin’ the risk t’ get this t’ us. Wolfram don’t got a monopoly on smart folk, we’ll see what the Boltbreakers can come up with too.”
“I know, its one reason I wanted to share the information and samples with you. Take care, and good luck.”
And with that, the informant wandered off, whistling to himself.
- - - - -
The Starseer Aerie
The halls of the Starseer Aerie had echoed with the sounds of scribes and bureaucrats running to and fro, each carrying more than a handful of scrolls and papers. Each heard the sounds of protests outside the walls of the Aerie and the scribes had sought to preserve any documents should the worst come to pass. In the central plaza a massive crowd had gathered, each a member of the Boltbreaker Union. Alexandros Stormbringer, a Knight-Questor, had arrived to address the grievances of the crowd, flanked on each side by Saurian reinforcements of the Unblessed Exiles. As he spoke, a thick blanket of magical fog had smothered the streets and left the crowd confused.
For but a moment, it had seemed that their attempt to deescalate the protests had worked, the crowd had begun to quiet down. Yet the calm was not to last as the sound of clattering steel had broken any semblance of peace. The Union and Valeguard soon clashed, the cultists of the Acolytes of Ruin swarmed past the protestors towards the entrance. Met with a veritable wave of Great Horned Rat worshipers, Itza commanded his saurus warriors to meet them with a reprisal. Spears and clubs made from Celestite pierced the patch-work metal armor, each a single and deadly blow. Yet even with the massive jaw of Goremaw, it was not enough. The forces of the Valeguard would have been overwhelmed in seconds had it not been for the intervention of Lorelith Brightsoul, who ensnared the oncoming horde of ratmen with a mess of vines and undergrowth.
The cacophony outside nearly covered the sounds of detonations throughout the tower. Ikitt Greynip began to flee the halls of the Aerie with the remains of a warpstone explosion in his wake. As he turned a corner, he noticed the window he had used to enter the Aerie vanished without a trace! Radhrion Silversquall flicked his fingers, causing the illusion of the hallway ahead of the clawlord to stretch on forever. Ikitt sensed the foul smell of tricksy magics and brandished his still-bloodied and crooked dagger. The Aelf Radhrion watched the intruder carefully from behind the mirage of a stone wall, only to quickly dodge out of the way from a surprise warpstone grenade. As he unsheathed a longsword and matching shortsword, Radhrion and Ikitt dueled within bending halls. Aelven steel clashed against blades forged from verminous hands, and though Ikitt had sought to gain the upperhand with a hidden blade, he was met with an elegant yet decisive kick through an illusive wall that concealed an open window. Radhrion quickly went over to ensure the job was finished, blades still drawn. As he looked upon the streets below he saw several wagons of escaped prisoners scattering from the Aerie. Yet despite the chaos, there remained little sign of Ikitt, save for cackling carried away upon the wind.
The battle beneath the Aerie raged on as the automatons of the Wandering Workshop fought against the Thundering Wolves. Clockwork ogors slammed metal fists upon the
mounted cavalry that sought to use the old tunnels to breach the Aerie. Qhit watched from a distance and noted the reaction time of her creations. Kaia Wolfkin led the charge as they broke through the first wall of metal monstrosities, only to be met with a battalion of skaven knights who hacked and stabbed at the passing cavalry. Several riders fell under the brunt of the knight’s weapons, yet Kaia pressed on, and led a spearhead formation through a weak point in the skaven shield wall. Bodies of ratmen scattered from the initial impact, and more were crushed beneath steelshod hooves. As the Thundering Wolves breached the undercroft, the rest of the Boltbreaker Union poured in from all sides and overwhelmed the saurus guards. It was only until the banner of the Boltbreakers were raised above the Starseer Aerie that the two forces knew which had claimed victory. The soldiers of the Valeguard were pushed back, yet they had given the invaders hell all the while. The streets were left filled with bodies of the broken and bruised, a price paid dearly in blood on both sides. As the yellow of the Union waved in the night sky, the last representatives of the Valeguard managed to smuggle out several decades worth of decrees, documents and legal bindings that the Union could have used against them.
Boltbreakers Union - Minor Victory
- - - - -
The Archive of Swords
Boots thundered up and down the cobbled streets around the Archive of Swords, a steady bass to the clatter of armour and stamping of pole arms. The Templars formed glittering barricades of plate and ensorcelled steel, their lines backed by the imposing bulk of the War Golems. Ahead, the streets stood empty. Asavash could hear the muted barks of the Penumbra 3rds' coach guns in the distance, chasing off ungor harassers or whatever else the March had sent ahead, but no enemy had yet dared show their face in the high streets. Unfortunately, neither had the people of Eklysium. Wolfram propagandists had spent hours ahead of the battle attempting to rally the people of the district to stand with them, to create a united defence against the 'vile raiders and despoilers'. None had risen to the bait. It seemed, for the time being, that the people of the city saw little distinction between the outsiders. It would take time, and victory, to win their support.
The first sign of the enemy was not the throaty roar of a war horn, or the wild charge of monsters that Asavash had been expecting. Duardin, gray skinned and wearing little to no armour, stumbled out into the streets in ones or twos, then in small groups. Some carried spears, but many more held tools, or nothing at all. They wore no colours and flew no banners, and made no sound to stake their alignment. All bore heavy marks of the stone curse that plagued their kind. The Templar squinted at them, trying to see the strings of their fate, then noticed the blank, dreamy expressions that each wore. At once, she barked out an order to open fire. She had seen that expression before, and knew exactly what it meant - their minds had been stolen by a sphiranx.
Scattered rifle rounds and bolts fell from the walls of the Archive behind them, plunging down into the duardin. Where they found flesh, blood blossomed into the air and a handful of duardin fell, but many more rang against the stone-hardened skin. A heavy hrummm overwrote all other sound, then a split second later a duardin exploded into a mist of blood and gravel as the ancient shaggoth crossbow the corporate mercenaries had hauled to the Archive's windows loosed a bolt the size of a warhorse. The line stumbled, but it did not fail, and the Templars grinned and readied their great blades.
Sorcerous steel sang, and the first duardin to reach the line were cut down with ease. Suspicious ease, Asavash thought, then opened her mind's eye to the winds of magic. There, on a rooftop overlooking the killing field, she spotted the sphiranx. The beast was drawing magic around itself, preparing to cast some spell. The paladin almost laughed. The winds of magic were tools to Fate's designs, and she readied herself to cast off whatever crude hex was thrown against them. When it came, however, the spell was not directed against the Templars. A blazing ball of flame appeared behind the duardin, then streaked through their midst, chewing through stone and flesh with equal fervour. Asavash watched in confusion, then saw a stricken duardin convulsing, the fire eating through them, and their stony hide begin to glow an angry red.
"Down!", came the command, a split second before the duardin exploded, sending burning stone shrapnel and arcane fire scything through the Templar ranks. It was only the first, as a second later a second duardin exploded, then a third a heartbeat later. The blasts tore through the ranked warriors before then, but even worse they set off other nearby duardin, until the scattered explosions became a single contiguous roar. It was over in only a dozen or so seconds, but the damage was considerable. Templars lay dead or bleeding, and the lines were in tatters, but they had held.
Then, a war cry sounded behind them.
Deep in the depths of the Archive, Dolgul the Wise had lead the Shadowsplittaz through the crumbling Citadel that lay beneath the city and emerged in secret behind the Wolfram lines. When they emerged into the Archive, they fell upon the unexpecting Skaven of Clan Refrakd. Kralt had been readying gnawholes to move reinforcement around the Archive, yet with the battle far in the distance his attention has shifted to looting a few artefacts he was sure Dainn wouldn't notice. Twisting in surprise at the bellowing orruk battle calls behind them, he managed to incinerate one charging brute with an amberstone rocket. The blast sent a handful of the orruks into a fit of Ghurish madness, lashing out at their comrades, and Kraft wisely took the opportunity to flee.
With the bulk of the March forces emerging behind the Wolfram lines, a close and desperate battle began. B'agnok and Silanore worked in tandem, smashing into the lines and sowing panic among them. The March fought close and vicious, giving no time or space to their foes, and drawing them in to fight in the confined chambers of the Archive or beneath the walls where the gunners stationed on the higher levels could not draw a shot. When, up and down the Wolfram lines, Vyzorak's infiltrators revealed themselves in a flurry of knives and curses, it was too much. What might have been a rout, however, was saved by the timely return of the Penumbra 3rd, whose heavily armed dragoons headed off saw the retreat in good order.
It was not a complete victory, and Wolfram would not forget the insult to their reputation, but as the sun set the March held the Archive of Sword.
March of Thunder Minor Victory
- - - - -
The Battle for Signarch Basin
“Mornin’ Val,” said the farmer, walking up to the edge of the terrace and resting his hands on his pitchfork.
“Mornin’ Marcel,” replied the other farmer, gesturing out to the beautiful expanse of the Signarch Basin before them. “We got it good, don’t we?”
Marcel looked out over the winding rivers and the constellations they formed, able to name all of them from memory even with all the grey in his remaining hair. From their vantage, he could easily make out Kuronos with his bow, Rionye’s cauldron, Alyoi’s bonesaw and Moira with her loom of fate. But without looking, he knew he and Val worked Riverlord Sabino’s lands, whose rivers formed Gnuthus the Ox. He smiled at the thought, partly because he always felt guided by the Sign of Duty… but also because he met his wife along the river, decades past.
“Aint gonna complain about more pay, to be honest with ya Val,” Marcel replied after some navel gazing. “But it sure is nice and quiet, yeah, ‘specially with Lord Sabino up and leavin’ with all his blue-blooded kin, cousins and cussers days back.”
“Looks like bad weather on the horizon for us though.”
“Don’t reckon that’s weather, old friend,” Marcel said, seeing the smoke and dust billowing on the horizon all around the Basin’s lip. “Think that’s change comin’ for us, at long last.”
A garbled bark-yelp drew their attention, where the two old men grimaced at the strange, hairless creature ambling towards them.
“That someone’s dog? Don’t look too good to me.”
“Can’t be no dog Val, you know ol’ Sabino aint payin’ to feed extra mouths ‘round here. Specially none that big!”
The dog-thing hissed at them, opening its narrow maw full of crooked teeth, and tensed to pounce at them. A moment before it could harm them, a spear impaled the monstrous creature to the ground.
Both farmers turned to see a Stormcast clad in black armour walk past them to recover the spear. They fell to their knees in supplication before the immortal being.
“You are not safe here,” it said to them, with the voice and will of Sigmar. “You must evacuate the area, until the Boltbreakers can secure it. Then you may return, if you so choose.”
The farmers frowned in confusion, never offered a real choice before. All around them, Stormcast of the Shattered Sky ushered workers back, stabbing and stomping more of the mutant creatures that scrabbled around.
“Farmers, a word please,” the Stormcast asked, pointing across the Basin. “What do you think they are loading on those unmarked barges?”
The farmers leapt to answer, speaking over one another. “That’s Piero port, main artillery-err artery? It leads outta the Basin, lord-sir. Lotsa things go through there, but I reckon the crates theys loadin’ are full of early harvest food.”
“Unmarked, but typical of the Valeguard looking to rescue food over people,” the Stormcast muttered, their helm shifting as they scanned the Basin. Then stiffened. “Lord, it begins!”
Lord Vytravius flew past them on his stardrake, watching as naval vessels mustered across the Basin’s many rivers and lakes. Vessels suspiciously close to the barges being loaded with cargo bore the Ashsong’s colours, as well as more antiquated craft that belonged to the undead of the Amarna Expeditionary Force. The March of Thunder’s fleet, mostly bearing the faded red of Vyrkos, moved toward the barges at speed, like Vytravius himself.
Stormcast loyal to the Boltbreaker Union spread out below him in armours of black, silver and gold, prosecutors flying fast to reach civilian populations that might be impacted by riverboat skirmishing. He watched as some stopped to hunt down packs of Skaven lurking around ponds, and saw a few Stormcast turn to lightning as monstrous plants lashed out at them, crushing them or consuming them with rat-toothed maws. Soon, the skirmishes escalated, as rat-ogors, wolf-rats and more Moulder abominations emerged from tunnels to run down hapless farmers in their way, spraying toxic flames over fields and hurling strange jars into pools of water.
The blasting of cannons announced the true beginning of the Battle for Signarch Basin, the Valeguard vessels looking to cut off the Vyrkos fleet before they could unite or reach the barges. The heavier vessels endured, pushing their enemy into hit-and-run tactics as they withdrew up the smaller, narrow rivers and fought brief, high intensity battles in the open lakes that mirrored the celestial sky above them. Until finally the Vyrkos fleet united at the fletching on Kuronos’ arrow, and sailed down the major river as if launched from the ancient god’s bow.
Within the great lake, the combined Ashsong and Amarna forces awaited them with a deep defensive formation, wreaking havoc on the Vyrkos vessels as they surged into the jaws of the trap willingly. The March fleet took a pounding, but not before it managed to cripple and beach a number of enemy vessels, as well as driving deep into the enemy’s line to lock them into more decisive boarding actions. Ashsong marines fought for their lives, while Amarnan undead fought for their freedom from Nagash. Their allies on the beaches found no respite either, as drowned undead marched onto shores around the Basin, battling the living or each other.
Ahead, some lighter Ashsong frigates held back from the main battle, instead escorting the barges to safety. Already tasting victory, Lord Vytravius dove straight for the lead frigate, he and Byratus punching through its decking and out the side like a bolt of Sigmar’s own lightning. They wheeled sharply towards the next frigate in line, only for the well drilled crew to broadside them with cannons and gunners. Byratus weaved between most of the shots, but a draconic roar and an unsteady landing on the deck said that he could not dodge them all. The Stardrake trampled nearby sailors while his Lord-Celestant made short work of the Ashsong marines that hurled themselves at his wrath.
The ship was theirs, but Byratus’ shredded wing meant the end of their pursuit, and Lord Vytravius cursed his impulse to take out the frigates before crippling any of the barges. He watched as the remaining frigate escaped with the barges, the Valeguard securing the food they valued more than the lives of the locals. And as he and Byratus limped away from the battle, he saw the same across the Signarch, skirmishers pulling back to lick their wounds while fleets withdrew to repair their vessels for the battles to come.
+++++
The Signarch Basin changed as both sides dug in, the rivers that served as the Riverlords’ borders reinforcing the hard lines of defence that demarcated occupied territory. River banks eroded from amphibious assaults, fields were trampled by boot, hoof and claw, and water and soil were polluted from the magic and munitions unleashed. A toxic haze of greens, yellows, and scab-reds had settled across the Basin, blotting out Azyr’s sky and cutting visibility significantly.
Less than a week into the Battle for Signarch Basin, both sides abandoned the central Riverland as endless toxins, chaotic magics, and experimental munitions rendered much of it worse than unusable. The rivers around it that formed Rionye’s cauldron were truly all that contained a hideous witch’s brew of plants both mutant and daemonic, restless undead, and things no sane mind could categorize.
After more than two weeks of ceaseless skirmishing and fighting, of forces taking one territory only to lose another, would the Battle for Signarch Basin see its closing days.
Alarm bells clanged in the Valeguard central line, relieving Captain Garth from his nightmares and crushing what little hope he had of getting a few hours of rest. He rushed from his tent, buckling on his weapon harness. The exhausted Captain winced as his aide tightened one of his armour straps, digging into a wound that had yet to heal. He dismissed the boy’s apologies, knowing full-well that all of his active troops bore no shortage of bandaged or splinted wounds, or worse.
Ironweld great cannons thundered, shooting towards the hazy shore. Captain Garth moved that direction, a messenger reaching him as he checked his weapons one more time.
“Enemy is coming through the central Riverland, advancing behind a rolling barrage from their Helsmith artillery,” he shouted over the endless din of thundering weapons, mouth twisting in disgust. “Typical Boltbreakers, claiming to be high and mighty, yet allying themselves with daemonic slavers.”
“Careful lad,” Garth replied, looking up as one of Wolfram’s sky-ships deployed the ‘death-pain gas’ against the enemy. “Allies of convenience are a time-honoured tradition, unfortunately. Have the farmers been called back?”
“No, sir, orders are-”
“Get the farmers back into the village, now,” Garth counter-manded. “I know the city needs food, but there’s no point risking their lives for a few more grains now.”
“Yessir!”
A trumpet blasted an emergency signal from the north flank. Garth picked up a squad of ‘fresh’ reinforcements and rushed toward the action, shocked to find the flank already crumbling to enemy Stormcast. A quick glance at the shoreline showed simple fishermen’s boats, which the Stormcast must have used to sneak onto shore under the haze’s cover.
Soot Hound ironbreakers anchored the Valeguard’s line, but they were about to be overrun as the lighter infantry around them were scythed down. Garth barked a quick command to his reinforcements, laying down suppressing fire to prevent the Stormcast from exploiting the exposed flanks. Stormcast burst into lightning under the fusilade, but there were just too many that had gotten inside their firing lines.
With the Valeguard frontline crumbling, a number of the immortals rushed past the ironbreakers and straight for Garth and his reinforcements. The Soot Hounds unleashed one last devastating volley before drawing their weapons, the few that uttered prayers to Sigmar sounding confused and uncertain. Fire engulfed the charging Stormcast as allied draconith flew past them, then off to another conflict.
The short-lived hope was replaced with another spark, as the Xth Fretensis arrived in force, barreling over the Stormcast that threatened Garth’s gunline and stepping in to reinforce the front. The enemy were pushed back to the water, their heavy forms sinking deep into the muck, where they became easy prey.
Garth breathed a sigh of relief, until one of Wolfram’s flares exploded in the sky. Its incandescent light cut through the haze, revealing a nightmare before him.
The winding river that represented Moira’s strands of fate were choked with naval vessels. The allied fleet had deployed the more damaged ships with minimal cannons and crew to act as decoys while those in better shape, with the best remaining weapons and munitions, fought back against the enemy fleet, even prioritizing their transport ships. A desperate command, and one no commander could give without being scarred.
The battle in the sky fared little better for them. A stardrake and its riders blasted the Kill-Bomb-All with furious lightning, the sky-ship withdrawing from the fight a smoking ruin, quickly losing altitude. Before the stardrake could finish the job, members of Dracothion’s Fury pounced on them, the many dragons spiralling off as they battled one another.
“It’s grim,” Decuriarch Marcus Aurelian agreed with Garth’s thoughts, clapping him on the shoulder. “With the Helsmith artillery deployed so far forward, our fleets can’t win, and they know it.”
“Reinforcements are coming from the wings, right?” Garth asked, resisting the urge to reach for his flask. “This MUST to be the enemy’s main thrust.”
“You’re probably right, but we’re being attacked on all fronts,” Marcus replied, looking as exhausted as Garth. “Everyone has their own problems, and we won’t know until it’s too late to shift forces anyway.”
An explosion rocked both men, nearly knocking them off their feet. They looked to where a great cannon was once fortified in a farmhouse, only to find a smoking ruin where the enemy artillery had struck it precisely.
“Loose formations!” the Decuriarch bellowed.
“Light infantry, to me! We need to hunt down the enemy spotters!” the Captain ordered.
The two men grasped forearms before parting.
“It all rests on Diana’s plan then?”
“Aye, and the duardin who will carry it out. Otherwise, this is the end.”
+++++
Beneath the earth, duardin from two lodges paused in their tunnelling. Hands on the earthen walls they had dug out, they felt the deep thundering of nearby artillery. They argued and grumbled with one another for only a minute, before nodding. The fyreslayers readied their weapons, as magmadroths clawed at the ground.
Then the monsters rushed forward, bursting through the thin ceiling of their tunnel, erupting like a volcano amidst their vile Helsmith cousins. Daemonic artillery pieces fell under the fury of magmadroths and runic axes, their crews cut down before they could draw weapons. The fyreslayers spread like wildfire from their ambush point, carving a red path of ruin in every direction.
Their advance was checked once their cousins got their bearings, fyreslayers falling to coordinated fire, the hooves of bull centaurs, and ferocious daemon engines. Artillery continued to bomb allied formations as elite and skilled duardin were locked in lethal combat, but Brynifor-Grimnir’s felling of a monstrous dominator engine allowed the Kintsugi Lodge’s many magmadroths to overrun more of the enemy.
The Helsmiths of the Lex Talionis wavered, their lines threatening to break entirely. As more and more of the bombards fell silent, the fyreslayers roared with the taste of victory.
Then the Bloodpyre Tribe arrived, having lagged in their deployment to the front lines despite the Blood God’s desires. The disheartened Khornate warriors charged into the duardin’s melee, and sowed confusion and chaos as the largest amongst them battered aside an allied tyrant, spoiling his duel.
“Is your skull worthy yet?!” Ghargon Bloodpyre roared, launching a ferocious assault on the fyreslayer he had been stalking for weeks.
Karghax Ebonheat parried the incoming attacks from his former comrade, riposting with his own. The two exchanged a flurry of blows, each having fought alongside the other and knowing too much of the other’s fighting style. Tells were exploited, known moves countered, and both adapted rapidly as wounds blossomed across both combatants.
Seeing their leader in a proper fury for the first time since the war began spurred on the Bloodpyre Tribe, cleansing them of their lethargy as they hurled themselves at the fyreslayers. The skilled fyreslayers punished blind rage, but the assault allowed the Helsmiths to re-order their lines and devastate their cousins with daemonic weaponry. Worse, both Lodges had been deployed non-stop over the past two weeks, giving their all in every engagement, while their opponents had not. Slowly, the fyreslayers lost momentum, then found themselves losing ground.
The duel between Ghargon and Karghax fared no differently. The exhausted fyreslayer could not adapt or react as quickly as his fresher opponent, and no amount of rage or will could overcome mortal frailty. A deep wound drove Karghax to the ground, a simple twist of the blade away from death. Ghargon raised his axe as he considered taking Karghax’s skull.
A nearby fyreslayer screamed in rage and hurled himself at the Deathbringer. Ghargon kicked the younger duardin in the chest, hurling him back from whence he came. He looked from the boy, down at his prey. “You are not worthy yet. Grow stronger, before I give you the motivation to do so.”
The Bloodpyre Tribe’s fervour dimmed once more, but the damage had already been done. The fyreslayers initiated a fighting retreat with whatever wounded they could carry, collapsing the tunnel behind them with readied charges to stop those chasing them. As they pulled back through the tunnels, they could still hear the rhythmic thunder of the artillery above them, quiet but not silenced.
+++++
Captain Leo, Stormcast of the Tyrian Guild, looked out over the Signarch Basin. He watched as the fires of resistance guttered out and the day was won. Valeguard ships limped out of the basin, barely afloat, and the Wolfram sky-ships were no better, streaming toxic smoke behind them as they fled. The enemy routed, and those who could not escape under their own power surrendered.
Wisely, they surrendered to the righteous Stormcast of the Boltbreakers, who were still out in force despite doing the lion’s share of the fighting - even against their own misled kindred. Still able to keep their allies and their penchant for destruction in line. Still able to liberate and protect the farmers the Valeguard kept working throughout the weeks of battle.
Leo shook his head sadly as a messenger approached.
“Sir, the day is ours!”
“I noticed, thank you,” Leo replied with a wan smile. “The March wish to know if we’ll honour our agreement?”
“Yessir,” the messenger replied, almost keeping a straight face.
Leo wondered what his peers would say, after all they sacrificed compared to the March of Thunder. But he knew what Junnrik would say, and why he followed the Foreman over the other leaders here.
“They’ll get their due, I’m sure,” he said aloud, gesturing over three of the distant Riverlands of the Signarch, where the river constellations were lost amid the rampant, mutant growth of toxic flesh-plants. “The March of Thunder wishes to purify the lands, and return nature to its due course? Let them prove their mettle, like the people of Eklysium have, or let them-” Leo’s face twisted ”-purchase the hardy seeds offered by Wolfram’s snakes.”
“And what of the farmers that worked those lands… or for the enemy, sir?”
“They’ve never had a say in the matter, until now. The March can do what it wishes with its land, but we’ll happily let any who wish to work on our plots do so. Even the nobles, if they’re willing to get their hands dirty with honest work.”
“Guess that’s that then, eh Val?” Marcel said, using his pitchfork to roll a skaven’s corpse down the terrace, where it tumbled to join a growing pyre of diverse bodies. “We Boltbreakers and land owners now?”
“Seems like,” Val replied, strangling the horrific meat-plant he had pulled up by its roots until it stopped trying to bite him. “Don’t think it’ll be that easy though.”
“You think Sabino will want ‘is land back? Gonna be another war down the line?”
“Nah, doubt that. Just think we’s gonna have our hands full of cursed plants, shamblin’ dead, and whatnot.”
“Oh, true! And we’s the lucky ones, aint we?” Marcel asked, gesturing out over the Signarch Basin.
Where the Stormcast had seen troop movements and future threats, the farmers saw fields flooded by rivers and streams dammed with sunken ships, bodies or worse. Spent ammo and bombs that would need to be pulled from the soil before it could be tilled and planted. And their minds couldn’t even grasp at solutions to the oil-slick haze that made the Signarch Basin’s new dawn somehow less glorious than it ought to be.
“Aye, we’s lucky alright. Lucky we were with ol’ Sabino where the Boltbreakers found and sheltered us, and not the poor fools over there that were worked to death by the Valeguard and those damned.” Val accentuated his point by spitting on the ground.
“Thought you wasn’t big on the Union, ol’ friend?” Marcel said with a grin. “You singin’ a new tune now that they gave you land. You gonna be the next Sabino?”
“Never!” Val replied aghast. “They’s get it, right? Few can’t do all the work, we’s all gotta work together!”
“Speakin’ of, help me with this biggun!”
“We’re too old for this,” Val grumbled as he looked down at rat-ogor’s corpse. “I need a break.”
“Yeah, yeah, me too. I hear Union’s are fine with grumblin’ and takin’ breaks though.” Marcel said, looking back out at the Basin. His face scrunched up as he concentrated, making his already tanned, wrinkled face look like bark. “Well, would ya look at that! Fool done left ‘is mark on the Basin!”
“What are you- Oh…” Val said, looking at the new rivers and streams formed from the violence carved into the land. “Hey, you’re right. I see the silly cap and goofy face. Looks just like you Marcel, takes a fool to spot a fool, eh?”
“Oh keep laughin’, we’ll see who gets the last laugh when I’m the first one to officially name it!” Marcel retorted, then picked up his pitchfork. “Alright, now help me with this bugger. We all lift together, on three, yeah?”
Boltbreakers Union and March of Thunder Minor Victory, Boltbreakers Glory
Elsewhere
Borgut stumbled through the dark, warm water sloshing up to the ogor’s knees. He felt blindly at the rough stone walls of the cave, or passageway, or whatever it was. It was strangely warm to the touch. Not hot, like rocks baked under the sun or near the volcanoes of his homeland, but warm like fevered skin, and it felt oily beneath his hand. His head buzzed, and his skin felt like it was on fire.
He should never have stepped through the strange realm portal, that was clear now, but he had seen something glimmering through the darkness and leapt before thinking.
The air around him thrummed with the pulse of some arcane machine pumping in the unknown distance. His head hurt more, and he vomited into the water.
- - - - -
“Sirs,
I have made my descent into the sprawling Citadel that rests beneath Eklyisum, following Mogrek’s progress, though I have heard reports that many scouts for our rivals have found other entry points through the City as well. They say there are layers to the Citadel, changing as you descend further into its depths, and I shall attempt to verify these accounts.
The walls of this layer are well-treated stone, meticulously laid and in pristine condition, being only a few hundred years old. The halls are tall enough for a gargant to stand comfortably. Soft blue light suffuses the corridors from glowing gemstones set in the wall every dozen or so feet, though any attempt to remove them extinguishes their light. Running along each wall, around shoulder height for a gargant, is a band of gold a foot tall and set with strange runes that none can understand. Though the passageways are well built, they are meandering, purposeless and confusing, often ending in dead ends or empty chambers. I believe they date from a time when the mason gargants had already forgotten the purpose of their construction, and simply built out of habit and ancestral obligation. Flood waters can be seen streaming down the walls in places, draining out into the depths below. In places, buildings from above have crashed down into this layer, so city rubble can be found from recent collapses.
I shall continue my descent, N.S.”