The Dominion Shatters
It began at the Colosseum. Only weeks before, the grand arena of white marble had stood as a fortress bristling with defenders, the Dawnguard, Remnant, and Dark Choosing briefly united in defiance, together daring the Waaagh! to come and test their resolve. Now it stood empty: Bram Tallow’s Incineratii had marched for a new posting outside Elissar City and were suffering bitter losses for it. The Bog Sloggers had been hired off to defend Iden’s vaults while the Lord of Whispers found Jenny’s Court embattled upon the Shimmersea. Vaalkara Crimsonforge conspired with Khvath Slaveborn to scour the Four Sisters with the fury of daemon constructs, while the Laughing Rats chased glory alongside the Bog Sloggers. They and half a dozen others chased battle and glory across the Prime Dominion, leaving only Goregon-Zola of the Bronze to defend the Colosseum… and he would not be enough.
Rolling thunder betrayed their coming doom. Dozens of stone figures appeared, their tread shaking the Colosseum’s very foundation, their baleful eyes hissing and spitting with rampant Waaagh! energy. Swarming around their awkward, stomping stride came Karitha’s horde and the mawtribe of Jakang Wyrdhulk. The woman warboss screamed her challenge, and the Bronze answered, his Bloodbound slitting open their own skin in anticipation.
The idols hit the Colosseum with the weight of an avalanche, splitting the arena open like a broken egg. Aside from the Bronze, the Waaagh! had caught a delegation from Iscarion, come to treat with the Choosing. With nowhere to flee, they turned their blades on the Wildbone mawtribe, intent on selling their lives at steep cost. As battle turned to mindless butchery, Karitha and Goregon-zola sought each other out, each circling their opponent like animals.“Are you the warboss of this rabble?” the Bronze questioned her. “Close enough,” she spat. “Close enough,” the Bronze grinned. “I will eat from the skull of a Warboss this day!”
Riding the winds aetheric, dozens of Stormcast Eternals descended upon the Colosseum in a final effort to hold the line, yet were cast back to Azyr upon bolts of azure lightning by the rampage of Killaboss Gazlok Blackstone. The defender’s fates appeared certain as above, Karitha harnessed rampant Waaagh! energy to summon the bodies and souls of long-dead Arena champions to throw themselves upon the Bronze and his warriors, while below, the Ossiarch of Khataras Khan pursued their own ends.
Ultimately, it was a dark miracle that would see Goregon-Zola delivered. Even as he prepared to offer his own skull to Khorne’s throne, the Waaagh! energy in the air flickered like a candle being blown out. The Idols fell dormant, and the Wildbones and Blackstones backed away, each hoping the other would be the first to die. The Basalt Lord had arrived.
His Circle was the Sixth, the Blades of Desolation, the hammer of the Everchosen taken up only to break apart the Realms themselves. About him was his Konroi, a dozen mounted knights belonging to the Basalt Lord’s family-clan. To look upon them was itself damnation, and to challenge them was certain death.
Locked in final contest, Karitha and Goregon-Zola stepped back from one another, gauging the newcomer even as the ground split open and caught aflame beneath his daemon-steed’s hooves. The Basalt Lord removed his helm, and regarded them with something leering and wrong that may have once been a smile.
“You have been witnessed, Goregon-Zola of the Bronze,” Qarang Sarn declared, “and you have been found worthy. Come; you shall be the first of my Black Pilgrims, and wreak greater havoc than this children’s squabble.” His expression soured as he turned his gaze to Karitha. “Their stink is upon your soul, woman. The eightfold path is closed to you. Never again will you rise above the company you now keep.” he sneered, and turned his steed away.
***
The Library of Galaeron burned. Fully half the Rogue Idols awoken from Frorholm had descended upon it… but they would not find it undefended.
A beastman soul clad in lightning and Sigmarite, Cik Bloodhorn howled in fury and threw himself upon the Emerald Pilgrims, his “Beastcast” butchering scores of the deluded ghouls in retribution for Sylmare. The duardin berserkers of Karghax Ebonheat’s lodge met Tragrok Skullsmakka’s Shadow Trappas head on, counter-charging into the onrushing orruks and refusing to yield so much as a single step back. Returning from patrol, the Coven of Twilight’s Blade set upon the stragglers, catching Tragrok and the Little Wren between the hammer and anvil of their Witch Aelves and Karghax’s stalwart Fyreslayers.
Knight-Incantor watched the battle unfold from above, Mask Impassive betraying no emotion. This was to be their first battle, yet they knew it had not been. Instincts they didn’t remember having spoke to them: something was amiss. An aetherwing lighted upon their gauntlet, and spoke in a keening cry known only among the peaks of Azyr. The message was from Questor-Prime Salvestra Beast-stalker, and spoke a single word of warning: “infiltrators”.
Ushered behind the library’s gates even as the Idols had made their approach, a convoy of supplies and esoteric lore revealed itself to be a trojan horse, hijacked hours earlier by Kuzma Wulfwynn and aided by the shadow majicks of Dolgul the Wise to hide its true nature. The arcane shields and geomantic sigils keeping the Rogue Idols from finding purchase faltered as orruks and undead fell upon the Iscarneth spellweavers, their blood splattering tomes thought lost since the Age of Myth.
The indomitable and literate mawtribes tyrant Chungus howled in anguish and grief, his faithful stonehorn Stabcat crushing the saboteurs as they spread through the halls of the great library. The “li’l chonkers” rallied to their tyrant’s call, mournfangs bowling over and gargant-cleavers rising and falling in bloody arcs.
It was then that Attica appeared at his side, and Chungus snarled a protest as the Knight-Arcanum seized the Ogornomicon from the chains binding it to the tyrant’s chest. They had smelled the reek of Chaos upon it, yet this was a desperate time, and it called for a desperate measure. The Library’s walls were falling down around them, flames anhilliating attacker and defender alike, the blazing eyes of Rogue Idols peering through the smoke. Reversing the seals of binding with a gesture and a barked cant, Attica hurled the tyrant’s book at the attackers, and watched as something else slithered from it.
Having stalked and cornered the Knight-Arcanum and eager for the kill, a torrent of blood splashed across Kuzma and Dur’log, and from it, something horrible birthed itself into the library. Arms and legs of coiled sinew pulled themselves from a body of glistening meat as Spooky the Red Friend bellowed Khorne’s fury. Bloodletters clawed their way out of the floor beside their Bloodthirster, Kuzma’s earlier butchery dangled before them like a sweetmeat. Panicked and scattering, Spooky turned hunters into the hunted, scouring the Library for anyone who would harm Chungus’ precious books.
By the time a Rogue Idol crushed Spooky beneath its pounding fists and Kuzma, Dur’log and Dolgul had finished banishing the Bloodletters, they found only empty shelves among the ruins of the Library of Galaeron.
***
Ceraph Dariel stood in the Grand Conclave, his brow furled in concentration. Hundreds of adjutants, advisers, squires and scribes scurried about. Servants offered up food and drink before clearing away cups and plates without ever being acknowledged by the champions, generals and politicians they served. Representatives of the whole Alliance stood and sat, debating, arguing. It was a necessary cacophony. Somewhere nearby, a Dawnhammer Bombard battery fired, its percussion felt more than heard.
“Violence and variations,” he spoke under his breath.
“What?” responded ‘Daybreak General’ Renaya Oathsworn, rousing Dariel from his doldrums and interrupting the force disposition she had been explaining.
“Nothing,” Dariel cleared his head. “Continue, please, Warden.”
The Ceraph pictured the battles as flowers, some blossoming, some withering on the vine. The Colosseum and the Library were gone; he would never again behold their wonders, lovingly raised by Iscarneth hands. The Four Sisters had been wholly returned to Ceraphate control, utterly purged of a Skaven infestation by daemonforged monstrosities. War had ever been accompanied by strange bedfellows, and the Choosing spoke of Twistflame and Rotspleen fighting side-by-side. Dariel couldn’t help but wonder if a rotten seed hadn’t been planted upon their very doorstep…
‘Da Grimfangs’ had been caught scouring Amisra for… something, apparently, and had brought marauding warbands of ogors and skaven with them. The Remnant had stood beside the Undesired and fought them off, their deeds having made it all the way to Iscarneth high society by way of a ballad they called the “Seven Spears of Darathuus”.
Tanulia had been made safe again by Nurgle-blighted Sylvaneth, of all things. Left behind by some forgotten army that fought in the civil war, cannibal cultists of the Ur-Bat had long plagued the Ceraphate upon Tanulia yet found themselves utterly overwhelmed by the Sporesong Swarm.
Viktor Solevig alone stood sentry upon Zaleria as squigs- spilled overboard from some earlier battle- washed up along its shores. Initially ignored as a nuisance, the beasts multiplied with terrifying speed and soon became a bounding squigalanche. Had they faced any foe but the implacable dead, they might have swept across the whole of Zaleria.
“Our Lady in Ellisar” was the latest moniker the Dawnguard had bestowed upon their Warden, and it was in Ellisar City they had rallied after the fall of Sylmare. Vaska of the Black Rose Coven and Lethe Ashedawn, the Lost One, had hardly rested in their vigilance, improvising ingenious- and incendiary- defensive measures in the best traditions of Ruyalar innovation. Time and again, warbands and spearheads probed the city, bleeding casualties from House Highsong and the Incineratii or breaking upon the Guardian Legion without a real fight. Eager for battle, Renaya had patrolled the lines herself, speaking privately with each and every commander there. When word reached them of the battles at the Colosseum and the Library, Renaya realized the Waaagh! would not attack Ellisar City without their idols… yet the defenders could not help but feel that it was only a matter of time before their reckoning came.
“What of Corinth Skyport? Any word from our allies?” Dariel asked, gesturing to the map, where scrimshaw orruk skull sat opposite a stone-carved Mask Impassive.
“None,” Renaya said softly, and a long silence followed.
***
Rudolph swore as he ducked down inside the turret of his steam tank. “How long does it take to turn some knobs?!” he barked at his fireman. “We’re almost finished! Just another minute or she’ll burst at the seams!”
We don’t have another minute, Rudolph though bleakly, before popping back up and blasting the face off a gibbering ghoul with his pistol. He made to reload before something made him stop, still as stone, locking eyes with a visage so horrible his worst nightmares could have never conceived of it: Silanore, the She-Fiend of Sylmare, just five hundred yards away and closing fast.
The tank commander ducked back inside his turret and screamed at his crew. “I don’t give a damn! More pressure or we’re cooked!
“We’ll fly her apart!” the fireman protested, face slick with oil and sweat. “Then fly her apart!” Rudolph snapped back, their steam tank squealing in metallic pain as her crew opened the regulator and cracked the pressure gauge, pistons cranking as the tank began to pick up speed. Rudolph cast a glance over the hatch at the dread apparition behind them as his men frantically cranked the steam gun around, his tank holding her undivided attention…
“Faster, faster! Faster would be better!” Rudolph shouted and opened fire.
***
It was the X Fretensis that kept the route of Corinth Skyport from becoming a massacre. The Waaagh! had allowed the defenders no time to recover. Although the Rogue Idols had moved off from the relentless barrage of the Dawnhammer Bombards, the air remained electric with Waaagh! energy as though Mogrek Longblade himself looked down upon them. Eager for more savagery, the same despoilers whom had sacked Sylmare had now come for the Skyport, and not even Siorc Fishbane could stand before them.
Lord-Relictor Doruhn rallied the defense even as the Murder of Axes renewed their attack. Word had reached him of their Stormcast brethren of the Iron Templars marching to relieve them; they did not have to hold the line long, just long enough. Azoth Realmgorger would not allow him such a luxury; invoking wicked bloodrites of Khorne enabled by G’Jak’s butchery, the Chuglords rose from the spilled blood of the battlefield, breaking apart Doruhn’s fragile battleline. Seeking to salvage the disaster, Doruhn challenged Silanore and was devoured by the creature, his sacrifice buying precious moments for his Stormcast to regroup.
Newly arrived, it fell to the X Fretensis to cover the Stormscale Covenant’s retreat. Grim and disciplined, they fought without fear, ceding ground only after it had been sowed with the bodies of ghoul, ogor, and daemon alike. Although the Iron Templars would grant them a respite to withdraw, the Skyport’s fate was sealed; their actions had simply bought the Terradon riders of the Excan Tlahtoloyan time to summon the Kharadron of the Able Albern Baking Company to complete the evacuation. When Azoth and Silanore finally claimed their second prize, it was empty upon arrival, their foe airborne and beyond their reach.
The Colosseum destroyed
Library of Galaeron destroyed
Corinth Skyport destroyed
***
The shadow of Noctis fought with the iridescent glow of the shimmersea, the advancing Waaagh! ships stark silhouettes, ominous against the gloam. They seemed to think themselves a pack of allopex, circling their cornered prey. That was exactly what Admiral Soroya wanted. The Iscarneth fleet had made itself up as a wounded animal, Soroya’s flagship surrounded by vessels severely damaged in the previous engagement and moored in the shallows with seemingly no escape. And Sharkbiter was swimming right into her net.
Kaptin Sharkbiter, for his part, did not expect anything but an easy slaughter as he closed in upon the wounded fleet. It was almost disappointing. His disappointment would not last. From all across the treacherous narrows and hidden channels of the shards of Wirenth, horns, gongs and bells sounded out to each other, signalling the ambush. The ships of the Iscarneth Alliance braved the straits to surround the Waaagh! Armada. Bellicose orruk taunts and jeers turned to shouts of alarm and calls to arms. Sharkbiter grinned. This was more like it. After all, the fleet was still protected by the everwinter and no desperate ambush would slow the Waaagh!’s momentum. Then the fires came.
From behind a shattered hillside, still bearing the crumbling ruins of a Wirenth Homestead and decorated with yellowing longhorn bones, a Dawnguard ship under the command of the Templars of Our Burning Saviour towed a chain-lashed metalith. The floating island bore upon it a realmshaper engine, the stone edifice shimmering with heat. On the prow of the ship, the Promised Conflagration, the tzaangor Asavash the Serene raised her arms, golden armour gleaming as the metalith at her back burst into flame. All across the shards of Wirenth, fires erupted from the shattered landscape as runic enchantments and Tzeentchian sigils reacted to the metalith’s activation. On that lonely hillside, long forgotten bones turned to ash.
In the sky above, a vast stormcloud gathered. It was no ordinary stormcloud, however, and upon it was gathered a vast lumineth host led by the Windmage Aledrec, who even now shaped a maelstrom from Wirenth’s roiling skies. Alongside Koyou of the Black Lotus Combine on her own vessel below, Aledrec wove together gale and flame into a windborne inferno that tore into the Waaagh! fleet. Only the everwinter saved the flotilla from annihilation, the arcane chill absorbing the heat before it could burn away the wooden hulls. Sharkbiter’s armada had not been destroyed, but they found themselves suddenly exposed. Worse, the fires still raged about them, directed by Iscarneth Windmages to burn away any retaliatory artillery fire.
Grukka Redtoof and his crew, suddenly finding themselves surrounded, their ship boarded by soulblight vampires from the Decaying Ost, raised their blades with a roar. With savage glee, they set about repelling their vampiric boarders, the deck slick with blood. Above them, more clouds began to gather as the elemental forces of ice and flame warred. It provided the perfect cover for the Waaagh!’s own ploy. In the sky, hidden even from Aledrec’s lumineth host, the Kharadron company MERC’s skyships swept in. Under escort from the mercenary Ironfang Fleet, they carried a truly vile payload. Acolyte Blisterpaw rode upon the MERC flagship, readying the deployment of a grand cauldron of plague brew, its vile contents mixed with the magics of the Great Corruptor alongside other ingredients of ghoulish, orruk and ogor origin, among other esoteric effluvia. Similar cauldrons were held below each of the rest of the skyships and, at Blisterpaw’s command, the noxious slop was loosed, raining down upon the foe. Lumineth, riding clouds down to the battle below their lofty perch, screamed as their skin blistered and melted away under the rain. Many dove towards the Shimmersea in search of relief that they would not find, their careful formations thrown into chaos. In some places, the fluid seemed to redirect itself as it fell, momentarily forming into the shape of a peculiar masked grot as it hurtled towards the most choice targets.
Reeling from the attack, the Undesired contingent of the Iscarneth fleet launched a desperate counteroffensive so audacious that, in the aftermath, many considered it to be some form of mass hallucination triggered by the noxious gases of the plague rain. From unburned isles around the roiling sea as well as the living hull of Sleekit Fang’s resurrected Leviathan flagship, magically propelled gore-gruntas lashed with Skryre weaponry launched into the sky towards the Kharadron fleet above. At their head, Veithan the Waaagh!-Mother roared as her grunta hurtled through the air spewing warp-infused ordnance. Seeing the perfect time to deploy their own tactic, wizards from the Armies of Azyr led by Lord-Celestant Vytravius Hearthborn harnessed the brewing storm, wreathing their airborne allies in crackling coronas of pure azyrite lightning, infusing the muscles of the Undesired orruks and their porcine mounts with energy beyond anything they’d felt before. Many of the flying hogs collided directly with the hulls of the Kharadron vessels, tearing through them like bullets. Those riders who survived the impact leapt forth, lightning-wreathed brutes charging across shattered decks with blades in hand. Among them were Veithan herself alongside the Dawnguard’s Varrag the Wall.
On the burning sea below, Sharkbiter’s fleet found themselves beset by foes from all sides, their ships swarmed by the spectral hosts of Jenny of Oldstone. Orruk, ogor and grot sailors found themselves fighting for their lives as nighthaunt screamed across their prows. With a snarl, Kaptin Sharkbiter called the retreat, his ships desperately manoeuvring out of the narrows that they’d found themselves trapped in. As they broke away, the armada found themselves beset by one more calamity, as the Dark Choosing’s Burning Chorus gathered along the shattered coasts to call forth a noxious wind, choking the fleeing orruks. As the sailors reeled, the Maggotkin of the Mournful Choir tore a rift in the sundered sky, summoning forth hordes of foetid plague drones bearing bloated beasts of Nurgle to rain upon the fleeing ships, sinking a few and leaving others with pestilent stowaways bounding about their decks, wreaking havoc as they went. Despite all this, many Waaagh! vessels, both upon the sea and in the sky above, managed to escape, limping but alive. The Iscarneth allied forces were not left unharmed either, the plague rain having caused untold damage to vessels and sailors alike. The triage ships of the Black Lotus Combine were overrun with victims of the noxious deluge, and even Admiral Soroya herself had not been spared. She grimaced as her right eye, burned away and weeping blood and pus, was sterilised. The pain was excruciating, but she set her jaw and bore it. Both sides had suffered tremendously, but the Alliance had come out on top, at least for now. The war at sea was reaching its climax, and she would be ready to face it. And when that time came, the Admiral swore, she would gut that cur Sharkbiter herself.
Ceraphate Lesser Victory
***
The quill scratched across the paper in short, quick, impatient strikes, leaving scars of black ink across its surface. There was no artistry in their lines, no grace or culture. There was no poetry in the words they formed. It was the plain and brutal algebra of war - spear tips and medical gauze, transport boats and lives. Where they would hoard, and where they would spend. Casualty reports and expense forms signed on the same line, and all recorded in Iden’s ledger. Everything was there, every transaction, every loss down to the bayonet bolt. A war, reduced to pure numbers. Dust fell from the shaking ceiling, fouling the long line of small, precise figures, and Iden scowled. The quill tip had broken on the coarse debris, leaving a blot of ink obscuring the final summation. He cast a quick eye over the desk, but there was no spare quill at hand. It couldn’t be helped. Dariel would need to make that final figure for himself. Spreading a quick dusting of sand across the page to absorb any ink that had not yet dried, he snapped his fingers and a small glimmerowl appeared, perched on the edge of the desk. The magical construct looked at him with curiosity as he shook the ledger clean, wrapping it tightly with a leather cord and sealing its edges with wax. Iden opened the desk drawer and pulled a small tin of dried fish free, carefully feeding one to the glowing bird. For a moment, he thought it oddly unsatisfying that there were more fish in the tin left, that it had not been the last one. That would have been more poetic. He grunted at himself, dismissing the fancy. It was simply wasteful was all, that half a box of fish would never be used. He held up the sealed ledger and the glimmerowl leapt into the air, circling him once before picking it up and disappearing in an azure haze. It would take the ledger to Iscarion, and then … well, it did not really matter after that. The noise around him increased, and more dust fell from the ceiling. The office shook with the marching feet of the invaders on the plains above. Iden the Auric rose, and picked up the great axe that had been leaning on the table beside him.
Overhead the armies of Waaagh! Mogrek stomped and roared, throwing clouds of dust in the air and the ringing beat of the Waaagh! drummers bouncing off the mountain sides. They had discovered the location of the Vault quite by accident, when one of the lesser chieftains noticed an unusual number of weirdnobs were exploding. This usually meant an unusual concentration of magical energies were nearby, and it soon became a simple matter of following the explosions as they honed in on its source. Now, the horde stood across the broad basin valley from the once-hidden Vault. The defenders wasted little time, arraying before the Vault entrance like a glittering host from the days of yore. The Hyshian light gleamed off polished helms and glittering lances, but they seemed a paltry few to the ranks of greenskins arrayed against them. Noise erupted among the invaders’ ranks, loud enough to be heard even above the bellowing and stamping orruks. A procession had begun in the midst, shoving each other aside to make room. A marching band of drummers, rabble-rowzas, bellowers and magically bolstered musicians of all kinds reveled, driving the fighting spirits of the Waaagh! to greater heights.
They attacked like a storm breaking across the plain. Magical gravitic traps laid by the seraphon sprang to life, throwing raging orruks and bellowing pigs high into the air or slamming them to the ground, but it did little to deter the momentum of such a force. The Waagh! building around them was so strong that most simply stood up and kept marching. The frost-gleaming Death Knights of the White Host rode out to meet the charge, cutting into the flanks, but they could not break the charge and soon were forced to quit the field. The Hiyakki Yagyō stood like breakwater pillars amidst the charge, smashing down terrible destruction all around them, but the horde flowed around them in spite. The very ground the gargants stood on writhed and grasped at the invaders, twisted and corrupted by the Chaotic Nexus that had been called forth by the Shadowsworn Host. For a moment, it seemed like the charge had been blunted, mired by the churning and mutating earth, when dozens of gnashing, fiery jaws burst forth from the mawpots of the Coalcut tribe. Streaks of blazing arcane fury traced across the plains, burning tracks through grass and mutated growth alike, and the Waaagh! surged across these ashen paths once more. With a crash, they reached the thin line guarding the Vault’s entrance.
Warplock fire echoed from both sides, cutting down attackers and defenders with equal indifference. The Khimer Brayherd roared in challenge, their massive bulky forms dwarfing the skaven before them, before each side fell on the other in bestial frenzy. The odd Bog Sloggers appeared like demons of the fog amidst the long rifles and great cannons of the defenders, wreaking a horrific slaughter among the unprepared crews before being charged down by Artyr Blackblade and his chosen warriors. Vhaskora fought like a lion, a last line of defense before the beleaguered gunners. Front and center, before the gates of the Vault, an unlikely group fought like ancient heroes. The treelord Dynawr stood like a mighty oak against the tempest, turning aside attack after attack. Quolk Killwhisker skittered across his back, mad warplock weaponry spitting death out in all directions. Gahaerian the fire mage leapt and weaved, calling walls of flame down around them. Marshal Marcel rode up and down the lines, steadying freeguilders and allied troops alike, and for a moment it seemed that the horde had been stopped. Charging orruks faltered, their momentum lost, and they took an unsteady step backwards. The defenders looked at each other in relief, then noticed the shadows that had fallen across them. Casting their eyes upwards, what they had thought was salvation turned to despair. A Kharadron frigate was skewing through the air, fires erupting across its deck and its largest endrinn. Duardian and skaven fought across the deck, small arms fire ringing constantly across its brass hull or finding purchase punching deeper into the endrinnworks. Flames wreathed it like a comet as the large airship came crashing down into the side of the valley wall, punching a hole through the vault entrance and carving a path deep into the chambers below. A shockwave of sound erupted across the battlefield, pushing back attacker and defender alike, and for a moment the valley turned quiet after. Only a moment, however, until with a mighty Waaagh! the greenskins charged once more.
Deep beneath the earth, another battle had erupted. Emerging from ancient disused lindwurm tunnels and harnessing troggoth rock-movers, Soto and his crew punched through the wall and found themselves standing in a vast, carved chamber. They were one of many crews chosen to assault the vaults from beneath. Relics and strange artefacts rested on runic pillars spaced evenly throughout the room. Some were identifiable, like a dragonith egg that sat beside a sealed note from the Civil War. Others were a complete mystery, their form giving no clue to their function, at least to the orruk pirates that gazed at them now. One of the ogors that had accompanied them reached for a carved tooth, picking it up without hesitation. A brief moment of panic passed across his face before his eyes went white and vacant, and snatching up a cleaver, he cut his hand clean off. This made little impact on the Troggboss Mudglutt, who absent mindedly wandered the aisles plucking up interesting looking treasures to snack on, while Markela Vyrkos studied each with a critical eye, searching for something she could not yet describe. Soto and his lads crept carefully across the chamber, towards a large gem set at its center. Light fell off it like a fountain’s water, washing over the treasury. Soto reached out covetously, nearly touching the gem, when some deep-rooted instinct pulled back his hand. That moment saved his life, as a half second later a fyreslayer axe whistled through the air where his head had been. With thundering khazalid warcries, the Caengan Lodge erupted onto the attackers. They were at home here among the vault, deep beneath the earth and surrounded by golden treasures, and they reveled in the carnage. Driving the invaders before them, they pushed deeper and deeper into the Vaults. Goredrenched Nighthaunt emerged from the stone passages, swiping at the panicked orruks with chill ethereal claws. Shrieking gits spilled like wildfire through the hall, battling with the Servants of the Crow wherever they met. A fresh relief force of allied defenders charged down through the upper corridors, forcing the invaders down towards the counting room. Not all the reinforcements seemed equally interested in pursuing the orruks, however. Khvath Slaveborn’s wild tribesmen fought tooth and nail with raging troggoths in the dark and twisting passages, while their erstwhile avian cultist allies instead too to gathering as much loot as possible. Squirm Pactmaker and his gutter runners scurried through the halls, leaving their clanrats to fight and die while they found the best pieces of magical treasure. Even the Fangs of Garm mercenaries left their posts to gather whatever they could find, leaving several key exit points purposely open for easier looting.
None of that mattered to Ghostface. The skaven leader had prepared the counting room as the killing field, directing all their allies to drive the invaders down to that point. Carefully stacked crates contained coins packaged in neat rows, bearing every mark and vintage known to the mortal realms. Clan Skorchfur warriors milled uneasily at the center of the room, unaware that they were nothing more than bait. As were all these so-called allies, the skaven thought with a wicked grin. If the Underside were to fall, better to burn everything all the same. The invaders began pouring into the counting room, pushed from all sides by the alliance counter-attack. He let them come, let them fall upon the clanrats now trapped in the room’s center. Then, with a claw, he gave the signal. Warplock fire rang out, some striking the attacks but most finding the warpstone explosives that had been placed throughout the room. There was a flash of green light, painfully bright for a moment. It caught a single frozen moment in time, seared into the skaven’s brain. Shards of shattered coins, glowing hot, were scything through orc and skaven and duardin alike, cutting down everything in the room. From every corner of the room, every pile, had been turned into a hurricane of burning shrapnel. The Auric’s own hoard, turned to the greatest murder weapon Ghostface had ever seen. He would cherish the memory, even when his sight returned. Then, in the silence that followed, Haluspiré opened the phylactery of souls gathered at the slaughtered cities in the war above. The fresh dead began to twitch, then rise. Marching together, orruk and duardin and skaven alike, they pulled their broken forms across shattered ground and rose up through the vaults. The army of the recently dead met with the invaders at the wreck of the burning frigate, yet each greenskin that died added a fresh recruit. When the bodies of a trio of gatecrasher gargants slain by Dynawr and his allies began to twitch and rise, it was the breaking point for the invaders. The Waaagh! broke, fleeing back across the plains, unaware that the Remnant ritual was at the very edge of its power. Its power unravelling, and the dead falling dead once more, the defenders were left to gather what victory they could find, costly though it had been.
Ceraphate Lesser Victory
***
Far beyond the Perimeter Inimical, where light and thought became indistinguishable, an idea that had once been a man might have nodded to itself in satisfaction, had his body remained. Whatever happened next, he had played his part. The thing which must never be known would become Iden’s burden, now.
***
The Tetrarchy had been chanting for hours, speaking without lips or tongues. As one, they stopped, and silence spoke instead.
A soul drifted before them and waited dutifully.
“Summon our supplicants, my dear,” Mithridates Bir said softly. “We begin.”
***
The skies over Iscarion churned. Red spilled across it like blood, then the angry purples of a rotten bruise, before blackness consumed it all. Upon the floating metalith he had commandeered for his own use, the Mooncaller giggled. It had taken power that neither of them had known they had, casting and capering and chanting for days without pause. Their feet bled, sticking to the rock with each wet step. But they had done it. They had brought night to the City of Dawn. A sickly yellow light shone across the mask, and as the once-grot looked upwards, an awful, grinning face appeared, rising like a kraken from the inky night’s sky. It was glorious, and terrifying. The bad moon was on the rise.