The Vitrian Well
Scouts from every Coalition scoured the Gilded Manor and found various passages leading deeper, into what came to be known as the Snarl. A few of these passages were made with intent, hidden behind sliding walls and floors that shifted into stairs at the push of a brick. Many more were made by the devastation Mogrek and the Coalition’s battles had wreaked in Eklysium, chasms and tunnels revealed by exploding munitions or titanic duels; floors collapsing under the weight of crashing buildings or the flood of water coming from the Ur-River; and walls demolished by sappers and magic rituals.
As they moved down, they found the Snarl much harder to explore, and almost impossible to map. Gone were the meticulously laid halls and chambers that led nowhere and served no purpose, replaced with plain stonework overgrown by creeping plantlife seeking to reclaim it for nature. The hot, heavy, humid air strained many scouts unused and unprepared for such conditions, given the Vale’s temperate and crisp conditions above. Nor were they prepared for the mould and fungus that lined every walls, the carnivorous and corrosive plants that hung from ceilings and snatched the unsuspecting in their thorned nooses, or the forests of giant mushrooms that lived and breathed and shifted to block passages, their will enforced by mega fauna looking for easy prey or infested by fungal spores…
The passageways were smaller, forcing gargants to duck, yet the Snarl contained many larger, open chambers with ceilings that could not be seen from the ground with hand-held torches. Bioluminescent plants that twinkled with tiny stars provided some illumination, but more often cast shadows to distort the world around those below. Predators pounced from those shadows, from the stagnant waters that turned some chambers into swamps, or from the Snarl’s canopy of jungle trees and fluorescent fungi.
After navigating through long forgotten graves, gigantic gates engraved with ancient battles, and more rooms with even less obvious purposes, the surviving scouts stumbled upon the Vitrian Well. At first, its patrician galleries and crystal clear waters were a welcome sight, until they learned the creeping vines and aquatic predators within were just as deadly. But even as scouts were lost, enough made it back to each Coalition to speak of the murals within its waters. Murals that hinted at the Citadel’s past, and that promised an advantage to those who could decipher its messages. And so, many more would be sent to die in the Snarl and the Vitrian Well, for the sake of knowledge, progress, hope, and security.
After their combined victory at 2nd House, the Valeguard and Boltbreakers were almost disheartened to find that the paths they discovered led to the same portion of the Vitrian Well. The first days around the Vitrian Well were spent finding the most choice murals to study and the safest paths through the Snarl to them. The nimble Khainites of the Coven of Twilight’s Blade and the skinks of the Unblessed Exiles scouted ahead for the Valeguard, navigating the Snarl’s fungal predators and the Well’s carnivorous plants with grace. Hearing of a skirmish between Valeguard and Boltbreaker forces, Holger Skov of the Boltbreakers quietly crept into an unoccupied portion of the Well. There, he and his fellow undead dove into its waters, studying the murals until the water ran red with the blood of predators that tried interfering with their work. So clouded were the waters, that they emerged from them without realizing that the Valeguard had come to the Vitrian Well in force, and surrounded them.
While the Valeguard and Boltbreakers may have forged strong bonds from 2nd House, Wolfram Industries was more than pleased to discover the March contested their portion of the Well. Still, both parties focused on their objective first and foremost, looking to find the most intact murals to study. The March’s search was led by Tramax Gorehorn’s hounds, shadowy furies summoned by The Hands of Hate, and Tzeentchian fate-weaving while Wolfram was guided by mutants from the Cult of the Flesh Garden, The Gilded Eye’s finest spies, and, also, Tzeentchian fate-weaving.
While the finest minds on both sides studied the murals and pieced the information together with what they had learned from the Silent Guidestones, little progress was made. The first week saw both parties viciously ambushing one another, interfering with one another’s research. Heldan the Vindicated’s Stormcast fought without honour, culling the Beastcast’s hounds and bestial prosecutors where possible. Khainite, Chaos, and Skaven assassins stalked scholars and one another through the Snarl’s jungles and caves and the Well’s galleries and waters. Tzeentch played merry havoc with his followers, Covens ambushing one another at the Architect of Fate’s guidance more often than the easy prey they sought. And other predators lurked within, leaving only gnawed bones as evidence of their existence.
The March’s bloodthirst and innate predatory natures gave them an early advantage in both research and ambush, but after a week, the tides shifted as Wolfram managed to establish fortified encampments. Those guarded by the disciplined Templars of Our Burning Saviour or Clan Morinfar’s eerie stormvermin rebuffed the March’s assaults, forcing them to go after softer targets. But only days later, the March’s own research efforts met with stiff resistance, as the Vitrian Well was suddenly overrun by an unholy synthesis of daemonic and undeathly flora and fauna. The Well’s clear waters were choked with tentacled and mawed vines, filled with plant-like krakens that mutated constantly, and more, all of it only hostile towards the March.
As more of the March’s ambushes proved more costly and less fruitful, the bloodshed slowed until, finally, the March abandoned the Vitrian Well to Wolfram’s forces.
On the other side, Lorelith Brightsoul helped Holger Skov from the water, while Qhit of the Wandering Workshop explained that the skirmish between them and the Boltbreakers was a misunderstanding, and mostly bloodless. The truce negotiated by their diplomats still held, and that the Boltbreakers could study alongside the Valeguard without fear.
The few researchers sent by the Boltbreakers and Valeguard held to the uneasy truce, never quite certain if the sounds of carnage echoing from the Well were signs of imminent betrayal or the conflict between The March and Wolfram. None of the researchers interfered with the other, but they were not eager to share their work openly with one another either. The awkward peace lasted for a couple of weeks, allowing each side to only worry about the Well’s natural predatory flora and fauna and their own research. Holger glanced up at a commotion from the Valeguard camp, where their leaders seemed to make a breakthrough. He ignored their excited chattering, focusing on his own work, knowing he was so close to making his own breakthrough as well, just missing a piece of the puzzle likely in an area where the Valeguard scholar hogged all the mural time.
Wolfram’s scholars likewise had a productive week of deep, uninterrupted research. One critical breakthrough spurred them on, with a second within reach. They scattered to their encampments, knowing that the key piece of the puzzle was already in their possession, somewhere. They just had to identify it and slot it into their current theorems, grueling work leading to many long nights.
Khvath Slaveborn stretched as he emerged from the main research tent, needing to look at anything but his notes for a moment. He looked up to find Silanore, the Mad Queen, and her pack of predators inside his encampment, many of his guards already consumed. He raised the alarm with a yelp, quickly weaving a defensive enchantment that deflected the Mad Queen’s claws as she lunged at him. She tore through his enchantments as he kept throwing them in her way, the insufferable sorcerer slowly backing into Wolfram’s Flesh Garden.
There, the flesh plants constantly snaked around the flesh-eaters limbs, with greater strength and greater speed than ever before. Vreeche’s mad alkhemy had combined with Asavash’s Tzeentchian transmutation and Scalpite’s necromancy to form something greater than the sum of its parts. The teeth of daemonic plants tore flesh as they tripped unsuspecting limbs and bone spurs ground into muscle as undead plants constricted them. This slowed the Mad Queen enough that a retinue of the Gilded Eye’s Chosen rushed to her prey’s defense.
Suddenly, Silanore and her offal hounds were on the backfoot, wounds opening on the Mad Queen even as she tore apart heavily armoured Chosen. But she could not disengage without exposing herself to their deadly weapons, not with their mutating vines always looking to drag her down. Then the Arcanites of the Blazing Wind arrived on their discs of Tzeentch, hurling spells, wyrdflame, and accusations at their fellow worshippers of Chaos. Khvath had to turn his attention to dispelling rival magics, giving Silanore the initiative once more.
Knowing reinforcements were still far out, the Screaming Court put thoughts of retreat mehind them and fell upon the Chosen. Flesh-eaters died as they tore armoured plates off the Chosen, but the survivors took their place and feasted on the exposed flesh. Khvath backed into a corner as Silanore loomed over him, prepared to sink her fangs into his neck.
A lance of blazing wyrdflame punched through her shoulder, staggering the Mad Queen, and Asavash followed up her spell with a draw-cut as she swept between Silanore and Khvath. A warcry sounded from all around, as the Templars of Our Burning Saviour arrived in force, well before any could have predicted. Fiery arrows speared rival Tzeentchians from their discs, Arcanites facing Tzaangors as Tzeentch continued to revel in his mischief.
Silanore counter-attacked, putting Asavash on the defensive and battering away at the Tzaangor’s shining armour. But as she did so, Khvath used the opening to strike her with his own magical bolt. Before Asavash or Khvath could exploit the strike, เก้าตาm rained wyrdflame upon them, forcing them to protect themselves against Tzeentch’s treacherous magic. Yet when Silanore moved to finish off Khvath, Asavash still intercepted her in time while the leader of the Gilded Eye shot her with another spell. While Silanore and เก้าตาm had worked together for a few months, Asavash and Khvath had forged their bonds through years of battle together, working in deadly unison to drive the March back, dwindling their numbers and opening more and more wounds on their rivals.
Silanore heard the Templars heavy infantry approaching, knew what they were capable of from opposing them in The Prime Dominion. She acted fast, lunging for Khvath with blood-drenched claws outstretched. Asavash intercepted, parried her attack and riposted with a searing wyrdflame that left that arm hanging uselessly. But her other shot forward and crashed into the Templar’s breastplate, denting it and launching Asavash off her disk and into Khvath.
By the time they stood, the March was gone. Both eyed the trail of rotting blood that Silanore left behind in her escape, but knew even apex predators were at their most dangerous when wounded. Asavash’s head snapped up, and she hopped onto her disc once more, rising to the sky where she found the Ur-River Rejects escaping with Wolfram’s research notes and several of the excavated murals.
The far-squeaker hissed and crackled, abuzz with reports from smaller Wolfram encampments similarly robbed by the Coven of the Purple Flame, Gorehorn’s Beastcast or those mind-controlled by a sphiranx. Some thieves were caught and cut down by Heldan’s stormcast or Clan Morinfar’s stormvermin, but still more escaped. They cursed, but sensed something far worse was amiss, as the shadows from the Flesh Garden writhed apart from their actual forms.
Then the farsqueaker screeched as skaven reported shadowy daemons encroaching on the Flesh Garden’s heart within the Vitrian Well, of a shadowy sorcerer subverting Scalpite’s ritual, but other details were lost as two skaven accused the other of losing control of the situation.
The moment they heard two skaven openly accusing each other, Wolfram’s staff knew that things were about to get worse and launched into action. As subverted shadow plants warred against those that had remained loyal, cultists, schemers and corporate admins - all used to surprise audits - packed away anything of note and vanished without a trace.
The March was not far behind, having collected all the evidence they needed for their next breakthrough and being tantalizing close to understanding the Stormfort’s every secret. While they may have wished to remain behind, the monstrous flesh-plants began to multiply out of control in their war against one another and quickly rendered the Vitrian Well one of the most hostile places in any Realm.
Holger Skov sighed with relief, finally able to access the murals he had been hoping to see. He and his company were just about to dive into the waters when the Well’s very invasive and very unnatural flora and fauna burst through the ruined walls that had separated them from the other part of the Well. Within days, the Boltbreaker and Valeguard positions were overrun by the abominable, warring plants, forcing the researchers to scatter their separate directions. Due to the joint efforts of the Unblessed Exiles and the Dark Forest, acting as a rear guard, casualties were minimal, though the Valeguard still escaped with the lion’s share of the research.
For better or for worse, the warring plants solved themselves days later. In their race to evolve and mutate to destroy the enemy plant-life, their size and power swelled. As roots tore through rock and stone, the Vitrian Well and the Snarl around it collapsed into a vast sinkhole, burying the plants in tonnes of rubble. While most scholars would agree that it was for the best, it did mean that most of the Vitrian Well’s murals would be lost to time.
The March of Thunder defeat Wolfram Industries
Valeguard defeat the Boltbreaker Union
All Coalitions gain Knowledge
The March have completed Tier 2 of the Discovery Objective
Wolfram Industries and the Valeguard have completed Tier 1 of the Discovery Objective
***
The Green Hell
The air was cloyingly humid, full of the eerie sounds of creaking boughs as the verdurous mat of the Snarl searched for prey in the dark. The Shadowspittaz had lost a not insignificant number of Orruks to carnivorous vines and toxin-spewing fungal blooms as they had scoured these forsaken depths, but they had been triumphant. They had secured a relatively safe route for Grakko Thunderhide and her entourage to carry the Tempest's Eye, now torn from the sceptre on which it had been mounted for centuries, beyond the confines of the Citadel and into the chasm beyond. Grakko knew that the task would not be so easy however. The man-eating flora would be the least of their worries when they reached the rent in the Citadel walls, for something plucked from nightmares haunted the gloom beyond. They did not have the luxury of dealing with that problem first; they were pursued. Grakko found herself caught between ancient, untamable threat and the vengeful might of the Veilguard. It was now or never. She must not allow this precious remnant of her people's past to fall back into the hands of the usurpers.
Attempts to burn away the voracious tangle had resulted in quick deaths for the lucky, slow for those not so fortunate. Hacking at it was a dangerous game as well, and only yielded temporary reprieve from the questing tendrils, but it was necessary. The Shadowspittaz fought to keep the way open as Grakko thundered down the claustrophobic halls. The warriors of the Ebon Claw went ahead of her, preparing to join the Weirdnob Shaman Dolgul of the Shadowspittaz in battle against the ancient and terrible beast that surely awaited them at the end of this harrowing road. Behind Grakko, the Khornate warleader Ghargon Bloodpyre along with Shërbëtor G’jak-u’s Murder of Axes prepared to hold off their pursuers for long enough for the Dragon-Ogor to reach her goal. She had to believe that it would be enough.
Grakko was joined once again by Varn Kul, who had become her constant shadow over the course of her campaign to recover the Tempest's Eye, as well as B’agnok Stone-In-Hoof and his slavering Beasts of Chaos. Those travelling with the Thunderscorn did not need to burden themselves with torches to light the way through the oppressive, sweltering gloom, for scarlet lightning cracked and boiled the air, illuminating the viridian expanse in the hue of sickly blood. The sounds of battle reached their ears, dull echoes sluggishly forcing their way through the stifling air to deliver the message that their foes had arrived. Grakko Thunderhide grimaced, but said nothing as she hurled herself towards her destination. More unnecessary death. If these Veilguard dogs would just lay down and allow her to assert her rightful claim to the Vale of her birth, for these blighted walls to be torn down once and for all and the natural, pure state of this place restored, nobody else would have to lose their life. If they only recognised the futility of their opposition. But, alas, it was always fated to come to this.
The March rearguard had found themselves suddenly swarmed, their foes erupting from the dark all around them, bursting from twisting tunnels and collapsed ceilings all around them. The warriors of the March recognised their attackers all too well; indeed, it would have seemed as though the attack had been perfectly calculated to rile the Khornate warriors into breaking their ranks. Unfortunately for them, the Khornates minds were too fogged with the haze of rage and blood as they found themselves faced with their most hated foes to notice the ploy. On one side, the Fyreslayers of the Ibenholt Varma Lodge stoked their golden runes and chanted ancient grudges, while on the other the stoic Stormcast Eternals of the Silver Legs marched in lockstep towards their foe. Ghargon Bloodpyre spotted his hated rival, Khargax Ebonheat, leading the Fyreslayer charge, while Shërbëtor G'jak-u locked eyes once again with the Silver Legs’ Dailor Elephas through the firepit gloom. Both of the Khornate warleaders, blood running hot with rage, called the charge at their rival, a path that would take them directly through the charge of their counterpart. The Khornate warbands began hacking at each other with axes in their eagerness to claim victory over their rivals, while on either side those very foes pressed their advantage.
As the blood flowed and the Khornates’ rage stoked ever hotter, their fell god roared in the pits of their very souls. Their axes fell with ever greater fervour as they slaughtered all in their path with ruthless abandon. This was exactly as the Veilguard had planned, their pincer attack forcing their foes into position. That was when the mercenary soldiers of the Xth Fretensis made themselves known, marching into the slaughter with ruthless efficiency. By the time the dust had settled, few followers of the Blood God remained, though their warleaders fought on. From the pooling, boiling blood, hissing, snarling figures emerged, daemons summoned to the Mortal Realms through the sheer carnage. Still the Xth Fretensis marched on, trudging through the daemoniac gore with their eyes set on their true prize: Grakko Thunderhide herself.
For her part, Grakko had fended off Brynifor-Grimnir’s Fyreslayers in an attempted ambush as the duardin had tunneled into the Snarl from above and below. They had not managed to catch the Dragon-Ogor off-guard however and, though there were casualties on both sides, she had managed to maintain momentum without losing her prize. Finally, she coursed through the rent in the stone that marked her goal, dead Orruks at her feet, their bodies already strangled in creeping vines. Their sacrifices had kept this way open, and Grakko Thunderhide had almost reached her goal.
The scene she emerged into was not the triumph she had envisioned however. The crumbling cliff-faces and outcrops of the chasm entrance already teemed with combatants locked in fierce combat. The March vanguard traded blows with a Veilguard host much grander than anything she had anticipated, and she found her advance stifled. Dolgul and his Ironjawz beat back an onslaught of ghouls of the Purulent Expedition on one side and the Knights Numinous on the other. Above, wyvern whelps soared and screeched, plucking combatants from both sides into the air before dropping them, screaming, into the void. Some of the warriors of the Ebon Claw, those who weren't caught up in fighting back the advance of Vallash Kal and his men on Grakko's position, had tapped into chaotic magics to quell a few of the beasts, climbing aboard their leathery backs to direct them at their foes. But it was not enough. The March of Thunder were on the back foot, and Grakko had nowhere to turn. She clutched the precious jewel in a great hand, feeling the lightning within as she turned. There would be no escape the way she came, as the advance of the Xth Fretensis clashed with her rear-guard at the rent in the Citadel wall. Varn-Kul and B’agnok Stone-In-Hoof held the line admirably, even as the Seraphon of the Seekers of Tlanxla harassed their ranks from the sides, but Grakko’s options grew more and more limited with every moment. Then she saw her opportunity.
One of the warriors of the Ebon Claw soared towards her on the back of a wyvern whelp, and Grakko waved an enormous arm to get the rider’s attention, the Tempest's Eye glimmering in her fist. The rider, a helmetless woman who looked little more than twenty, though Grakko had never been the best judge of such things, nodded her head in understanding and held out an armoured hand. Grakko tossed the precious stone into the air with all the might and precision she could muster, and cracked a toothy grin when the youthful warrior caught it triumphantly, already turning to soar deeper into the cavern.
Her face was still frozen in that grin as time seemed to slow all around Grakko, the clamour and din of battle fading as something enormous emerged from the gloom, its great maw large enough to snap down on the whelp, sending its rider wheeling into the air, the Tempest's Eye launched away from her broken form. The jewel spun, spun in the air until inevitably, it landed in the palm of the great wyvern’s rider: the boy-regent, Pelham himself.
For weeks in secret, the priests of the Star fall Glade and the magicians of the Ash song Kingdom had toiled down in these forgotten caverns, weaving a spell of taming over the great wyvern. Many lives had been lost in the endeavour, but it had borne fruit. Truly this was a mount fit for a Prefect. He'd even named it after his mother, a move steeped in complicated emotions that even Pelham could not quite untangle. Regardless, he was here now, and everything had worked out just as they had hoped.
“A fine bauble this,” Pelham said, his voice resonating across the battlefield, bringing the desperate fight to a standstill. “Still, I've quite decided I've had enough of trifles such as this. I don't need symbols and ceremonies to prove I'm worthy for the responsibility placed upon me. It is through deeds that I shall show my worth.”
Without another word, as Grakko's jaw hung open and she reached an arm uselessly forward, Pelham tossed the stone up into the air. Then, as it seemed to hang above him, he held up a hand. On it was a ring that seemed to pulse with power and, as he channeled his will into it, it shattered. The sound of rushing wind filled the air as the rind reconstructed itself in the air in the form of a gigantic, bladed pendulum, hanging in the void. Slowly at first it swung, gaining speed as it went until finally, the very tip of the blade met the Tempest's Eye. For a moment, silence; a dewdrop of light falling into the dark. Then, an explosion of sound and concussive force as the trapped storm within the Tempest's Eye burst forth, lightning scoring searing rents in stone and screaming combatant alike. Grakko felt a hot pain streak across her face, a feeling she'd not experienced in her very long life. The storm had ever been her ally, turning to her whim. Now, it burned away her flesh and left a livid scar across her nose and up her cheek. She felt her right eye boil in the socket, plunging half her vision into darkness, and she howled in agony.
Pelham himself struggled to keep ahold of his mount as the world exploded around him. The thing that all this blood had been shed over was gone, the symbol of power and responsibility passing from the physical to the metaphysical. If he'd kept the stone, this would never have ended until one side or the other lay dead and the Tempest's Eye was claimed, but by destroying it he had made himself that symbol, and that was not something that Grakko Thunderhide could take away from him, even if she killed him. He was no longer Pelham the Unready, wastrel and roustabout, not fit to lead a bar brawl, let alone a city. He was Prefect Pelham, defier of storms, hope of Eklysium. Still, below his resolve an ocean of regret remained. Somehow, he found that the one thing he wanted at that moment was for his mother to see him. Perhaps that was all he had ever truly wanted.
Rivalry Complete - Valeguard Victory
***
The Sound of Silence
The earth beneath Eklysium shook, as the monster known as Nightspine or Voxthrys to its enemies skittered through the Mourning Hollow, and its crystalline lair. But it also shook from the countless boots of the Boltbreakers, as they marched down the tunnels snaking throughout the citadel’s layers. It shook from their loud singing, that kept the Voidblight at bay and also from louder singing that drew the Voidblight to them. Yet they did not encounter any Wolfram forces willing to fight them, until the ambushes began.
The earth roared from Wolfram explosions that caved in tunnels, entombing Boltbreakers. It roared when screaming drill-bills and gyro-cogs blaring sound disrupted the Boltbreaker’s chants, allowing Voidblight to rush into their ranks. And it screamed alongside Boltbreakers, as invisible fire burned away at them, causing mass panic. Their great numbers were used against them, the Boltbreakers unable to maneuver in the tight confines they found themselves in. Harried day-after-day, the Boltbreaker’s progress down into the Snarl slowed to a crawl.
The Thundering Wolves were on constant watch, often the Boltbreakers best response to cut down Wolfram ambushers. They were also the first to strike a meaningful blow, finding one of the 83rd Gyrocorp’s forward bases, and ensuring none who operated the damnable gyro-cogs survived. Without the Carnyx Cogdrones to disrupt their anti-Voidblight songs or the Grudgebuster Cogdrones to cause cave-ins, the Boltbreakers picked up speed. And as they moved through the Snarl’s wide-open areas, its jungle and fungal life turning crystalline as they neared their goal, Wolfram did not dare attack them.
Until they entered the dark chasm of Mourning Hollow, where all life had turned to crystal and where all the Sibilith shimmered like the starry night. There, one of the trailing lines of Boltbreakers was assaulted by the Penumbra 3rd’s Assault Company, who carved a bloody path to the supply trains and set them alight. But, that itself was a trap set by the cold Forever Warriors, who appeared in their midst once they were stuck in. The stormcast’s blades still dripped with Valeguard blood, ensuring none knew of the Boltbreaker’s passage, and soon dripped with the blood of Penumbral warriors, who pulled back quickly given the losses they suffered at 2nd House. After that, the Boltbreakers made good time, splitting off into hunting groups to goad the Nightspine to them.
Wolfram had done similar, testing prototypes in the Mourning Hollow’s maze-like passages until they found one that worked. Acting Director Corvikki Pitcheart’s keen mind allowed her to be the first to find SCP-00-EK: Voxthrys. She and her newly acquired branch of biokhemists were luring the titanic, crystalline centipede toward Wolfram’s desired ambush point, when the Acolytes of Ruin ambushed them. Master Moulder abominations clashed against the V-Series Lab’s alchemically enhanced vampires, the monsters tearing one another apart. Ikitt Greynip and his plague monks fell upon Corvikki’s cadre of scientists studying the results of the battle, disrupting the lure.
Chaos descended as Voxthrys snapped out of its daze and called Voidblight Infested from every tunnel around them. Both forces were cut down, surrounded on all sides.
“We have to work together!” Corvikki shouted. “Otherwise those monsters will kill us all!”
“No mercy for any that get in our way!” Ikitt shouted in response, slitting a young scientist’s throat. “Mercy is all that has slowed us, all that has stopped us from ending you!”
As he moved towards her, bloody knife ready to end her, V-53 shot forward and kicked the Great Horned Rat’s worshipper away. Ikitt spun with the blow and managed to imbed a warp-stone dagger into the khemical-filled monster. As Moulder experiments and Voidblight monsters overran them, V-53 picked up his captor and the lure, and ran. Bouncing over his shoulder, Corvikki saw that the Acolytes of Ruin even threw away their own lives to ensure that more of Wolfram’s staff and prototypes were killed. And in her first deployment as Acting Director, she realized that very few of her staff managed to escape the Acolyte’s ambush and onslaught.
Yet with the lure on, an enraged Voxthrys followed her to Wolfram’s ambush point, while surviving Acolytes rushed to report to the rest of the Boltbreakers. Within the large cavern of enormous, crystalline mushrooms and trees, Wolfram’s forces waited. When Corvikki got to safety, they opened fire on the titan and its Voidblight, cracking its carapace and tearing apart its troops. The Fish Oil Company turned its primary product into fuel for napalm, the crystalline flora screaming alongside the Voidblight infested.
In the chaos of battle, Corvikki climbed atop a large mushroom, bracing herself as she lifted a heavy launcher to her shoulder and sighted it on Voxthrys. She exhaled and started to pull the trigger, when Golruk Geartoof’s bolt took her in the chest and she toppled. As Golruk’s kruleboyz opened fire on the Wolfram forces, the Voidblight began pushing them back. A gargant was snipped in half by Voxthrys’ mandibles, but a timely bomb dropped before it, the explosion keeping it from breaking Wolfram’s lines. The Coalcut Tribe ogors turned their gem-tesla guns from the Voidblight, and raked lightning across the Kruleboy’s ranks, forcing them into cover. That gave Aalab’s gargants the space they needed to hold the line and wear down the beast.
Corvikki rolled to a stop at the feet of her prisoner, looking up at her doom, but instead he grabbed the launcher and rushed Voxthrys himself, using the launcher as a lance and slamming it into the creature’s face. The wail froze and shattered the closest Voidblight, and those further howled in insanity as Voxthrys collapsed to the ground with a quake, unconscious.
Dainn loaded the injured Corvikki into his mobile lab, ordering a small golem to get her to safety. The mobile lab roared into a nearby tunnel, leaving Dainn and his obsidian sarcophagus behind. Gargants and Gyrocorp combat endrineers hogtied and loaded the Nightspine onto the Chugified landtrain, while the rest of Wolfram’s forces kept the Boltbreakers pinned. The landtrain squealed as it picked up speed, slowly rolling away with its precious cargo.
Just when they thought they might get away with it, the ground shook as the Boltbreakers arrived in force. Dainn stomped out his finished cigar and looked up to Glottul, but the ogor spoke before he did: “Don’t worry boss, we’ll hold. Again.”
Junnrik marched at the head of the Boltbreaker forces, looking across the dark expanse to spot his rival. For just a moment, he thought the Lord-Magnate looked… sad as he scanned the lines of Boltbreakers approaching him, but then he shed his mortal facade and begun another one of his rituals using the obsidian sarcophagus.
“Not this time,” Junnrik growled between gritted teeth. Then he raised his voice, and it carried over the Boltbreaker’s singing. “Charge!”
The Boltbreakers surged forward, but just before they hit Wolfram’s lines, illusions dropped to reveal artillery and ranged companies set up in enfilading positions across the cavern. Warp-lightning cannons, Penumbra incendiary rounds, and more devastated the massive horde of Boltbreakers under continuous fire from concealed ledges and fungal alcoves. Yet such were their numbers that the Boltbreaker charge lost no momentum.
With a thunderous boom, Junnrik shot a distant warp-lightning cannon at full charge, the device detonating to incinerate the skaven around it. He tossed his cannon onto an ogor, crushing them, and drew his trusty mason hammer and mining pick. He and his vanguard carved through ogors and gargants alike, driving towards the ritual site.
Dainn finished his first spell, and a keening wail clawed at the souls of all present. A toxic haze drifted down from the ceiling, swirling and resolving into individual, ghostly shapes. Dainn’s Procession, all the cursed ghosts that had died in the battles above: Boltbreaker and Wolfram healers that gave aid to the poor turned to dreadscythe harridans, Boltbreaker and Wolfram warriors who died by the March’s apathy or betrayal turned as tomb banshees, and all the unfortunate, countless, unmarked deaths of those would never be remembered returned as spirit hosts. They swarmed over the Boltbreakers, slowing their advance, until the Tyrian Guild’s elite undead reformed the Boltbreaker’s ranks, the former Warden King Stace Andersson forming the heart of the anvil.
Identifying the threat and the solution, the Penumbra 3rd’s Assault Company charged towards the Warden King. Their cavalry stopped short, pivoting hard, and instead raking the enemy frontline with pointblank fire from heavy blunderbusses that shattered Tyrian skeletal warriors but pinged off the former Warden King’s ancient, impenetrable armour. Then Daergran Shatteraxe appeared from thin air, axe sweeping to behead the target. Stace’s own axe shot up with surprising speed and parried the blow, then undead and living duardin exchanged a flurry of blows. Daergran was wounded and exhausted from the battle at 2nd House, taking glancing blows from his elder, but his drive to succeed allowed him to push through it all. His axe bit into the back of Stace’s knee, battering the other duardin to the ground.
Before he could finish the job, the Stormcast Léofolat Grymbane and his draconith jumped into the fray, driving Daegran back. As undeathly healers moved up to aid the wounded Stace, a nullstone cogdrone detonated upon them. As the wave of anti-magic washed over them, all paused for a moment as the Charnel Stormcourt’s delusions were banished to reveal they were Flesheating ghouls! The Boltbreaker ghouls howled with rage and bloodlust, attacking all around them with reckless abandon.
Daegran was forced on the defensive against the zombie dragon attacking him, until a barrel lobbed by Aalab hit it and coated it in greasy fish oil. Thinking quickly, Daergran called for another toss, this time shooting the barrel between Stace and Léofolat, showering both with shrapnels and sticky fire. The warden king was forced to withdraw, but the enraged zombie-dragon and its ghoul rider bore down on Aalab, still aflame, the two monsters causing untold collateral as they wrestled one another.
Fire continued to pour down onto the Boltbreakers, until Wyrdtoof and the Ogresuns arrived - better late than never. Their aerial assault on Wolfram’s artillery forced them to turn their fire to the skies. While giant green feet crushed ironweld cannons and orruks leapt from ships to cut down Wolfram crews, the Ogresun ships took a beating from the return fire. Then the Helsmith’s working with, if not for, the Boltbreakers arrived quietly, using their own daemonic artillery to take out Wolfram’s and forcing the enemy fireteams to split fire even further, while attacked and outnumbered on all sides.
Junnrik didn’t know how he came to be fighting undead alongside so many other undead, but there he was. Then he spotted the spectral duardin he was looking for, shouting out a challenge that Dainn met with gusto. Dainn unleashed another spell as Junnrik closed, draining the gargant’s vitality. That allowed Dainn to open their duel by unloading his enormous repeater gun into Junnrik. Most of the unholy rounds skipped of the thick iron armour Junnrik had forged for himself, but one of them found a gap. The gentle gargant that had lived through factory accidents and police brutality roared in pain, as the bullet burned flesh and soul, forcing him to drop his giant mining pick.
As Dainn darted in with his sabre, Junnrik caught him off guard with a fierce backhand. Suddenly, Junnrik’s mind was elsewhere, reliving the memories of a young Dainn, sweating away in a factory and laughing as he chatted with co-workers. When he came too, Dainn was still reeling from his blow though, but recovered just in time to duck Junnrik’s hammer. It connected with the obsidian sarcophagus, re-opening cracks like old wounds.With a roar of anger, Dainn weaved a spell with his free hand, but lost his concentration to parry blows from Varinja’s Four. Junnrik’s hammer howled towards him like a meteor, but Dainn’s form went ethereal, slipping through the mundane weapon and cutting the gargant’s wrist to disarm him.
Before Varinja and her Four could interfere again, Glottul and his Gemguard intercepted them, driving them back. Glottul swung his begemmed weapon with bone shattering force, Varinja ducking the blow, but one of the Four taking it in the chest and flying through the air. Before he recovered from his swing, Varinja dodged in and opened a deep gash on the ogor’s leg. The remaining Four cut down several of the Gemguard, but not without suffering their own injuries. Varinja and Glottul exchanged glancing blows, the fight going back and forth until Glottul crushed one of Varinja’s arms. Except the experienced fyreslayer allowed it to happen to get inside his guard, leaving a nasty gouge in his considerable gut, forcing him to withdraw while she did the same.
Without further interference, Junnrik grabbed Dainn’s wrist, twisting it until he dropped his sabre, then punched the ghost in the face. A vision hit him, an older Dainn shedding blood alongside comrdaes, fighting for the good of his people with pride. Junnrik pulled back for another punch, wondering how things could have been different, when a bomb detonated before him, shredding away his armour. Thram Blackshale and the Hydra Company’s skywardens rocketed down, pikes levelled to impale him. Dragon fire enveloped most of them and forced the survivors to scatter as Sigrid and Silverflame swept through their lines. Thram parried her attacks, each of his ripostes opening a wound on his opponent, but the Stormcast’s experience in open and honest battle won out as Silverflame snapped his pike and Sigrid wounded him. Before they could finish the job, Hydra drillbills swarmed them, allowing the Hydra Captain to escape, his Skyrigger harness leaking aether while his body leaked blood.
Sigrid’s draconith incinerated the rest of the drillbills and moved to collect that Wolf-Ram skull she so desired, but Junnrik pointed emphatically beyond their battle - to the fleeing landtrain. Doing as ordered, Sigrid rushed over the landtrain, draconith fire burning away the train’s guards, yet only stoking the aelementors within its endrin. Sigrid leapt from her mount, driving her blade into the train, dragging the Sigmarite steel through its unholy endrins and stopping it in its tracks. Sigrid’s Slayers descended upon the Nightspine, chipping away at its crystalline hide, but it woke with a silent roar that resonated with every crystal in the Mourning Hollow and drew the remaining Voidblighted to the battle, once more under its control. The Slayers fell back in an orderly fashion, as the monster broke its shackles and joined the battle itself.
“You short-sighted fool!” Dainn barked. “You don’ know what yer tamperin’ with, and just lookin’ to kill it leaves us all vulnerable to similar threats in the future!”
The two men battered away at one another with their fists, every blow exchanged coming with a memory of Dainn’s failures. Blood, sweat, tears, pain, loss, guilt.
“There’s a right way t’ do these things!” Junnrik said, shaking off the latest of the ghost’s visions. “The ends don’t justify the means!”
“Oh, aye? Like throwin’ crowds o’ poorly trained civvies inta the meat grinder?” Dainn shot back, driving the wind from Junnrik’s lungs - and sapping more of his vitality. “Quite the high horse, given that you’ve signed on plenty o’ servants to Nagash and the Dark Gods!”
“I have my regrets! Maybe we coulda found a better way, but we had to do something to save whoever we could!” Junnrik admitted, catching his breath and going back on the offensive. Each blow showed him Dainn’s regrets: friends and family lost to war, betrayal, or his own dedication to work. “You used to be a good man, what changed you?!”
“Nothin’ changed, you over-sized, thought-stealin’ prick!” Dainn roared back, counter-attacking. Each hit sapped more of Junnrik’s life and showed him memories of Dainn bending his ideals just a little, one degree at a time, until his course diverged from Junnrik’s own. “Yer a fool to think the Realms’ very real threats can be overcome with blind hope! I’m jus’ do what others don’ have the guts to do to save us!”
“That’s just another lie you’re telling yourself!” Junnrik snapped back. “Just because you failed to make the world a better place, doesn’t mean the rest of us won’t succeed!”
Junnrik’s big, meaty fist connected with Dainn’s face, dropping the stunned duardin to the ground. The gentle gargant looked down at the cursed revenant with anger and pity, as his calloused fingers caught his mason hammer - now etched with fiery runes by the runesmiter that had tossed it to him.
“I’m sorry your ancestor’s claim wasn’t honoured, that you were born into a society that warped you and your ideals into the tools they wanted,” Junnrik said, raising his hammer above his head with two hands. “In another world, maybe we could have been friends. Maybe I could’ve helped share your burden, before it broke you. But we don’t live in that world, and the best I can offer you is peace.”
Junnrik’s hammer swung down, but Nightspine bowled him over as it crashed through the lines of fighting Boltbreakers and Industrialists, separating them as Voidblight surrounded all of them, killing without care for their factions or their ideals.
“No!” Dainn shouted, seeing the titan trample his troops, his people. The ragged survivors that had followed him this far, shown him kindness and understanding.
Thinking quickly, he picked up a fallen gem-tesla and removed its limiter, powering it up. Then with a cry of rage, he threw it at the cracked, obsidian sarcophagus, blowing it up with a terrible boom that was overshadowed by the unholy wail of the duardin banshee that was freed. Her shriek stunned the Nightspine for just a moment, allowing Wolfram firepower to batter it back while courageous Boltbreakers took it down. Fyreslayer and stormcast steel hewed apart crystalline appendages, while orruk and sigmarite cannons shattered heavy carapace armour. Undead and skaven bore it to the ground, pinning it beneath their combined weight. Then Junnrik rushed forward, using his rune-enhanced hammer to smite Nightspine between the eyes. The resonance from Nightspine’s cracking crystalline carapace reverberated across everything in the Hollow, until the entire titan shattered in an instant and all the Voidblight dropped dead.
In the sudden silence of the Hollow, the Boltbreakers looked across at their Wolfram enemies. Without their illusions, smoke-tricks, and cog-drones, it was apparent that they were outnumbered, as nearly every Boltbreaker in the Vale stood before them, weapons ready.
As tension thickened within that silence, a rough voice broke it.
“Parley!”
Junnrik and Dainn met once more, battered from their battle. Junnrik bruised and bleeding while Dainn’s spectral form leaked ashen smoke.
“You spare me people, and we’ll leave Gloamsend fer good.” Dainn said, meeting the gargant’s eyes.
“And your ancestral claim to it?”
“Consider it relinquished, I’ll have it sent to you so none may claim a Rune o’ Mark on you or yer people.”
“All those spirits, they your doing?”
“Aye…” Dainn admitted, head downcast, and Junnrik could sense the sorrow from him once more. “I’ve little control over me curse in that regard. Can’t free’em meself though.”
Junnrik’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the haft of his hammer harder. “Can anything be done for them?”
“Lay’em to rest, let’em find peace… an’ remember them for who they were.” Dainn said, looking up once more. “Truce until both sides can do so?”
Dainn held out his hand.Junnrik looked down at it. Considering all the lives lost that day, and in the months leading up to it.After a long minute of tense silence, where those around him shuffled uneasily, fingering their weapons once more, he shook the duardin’s hand.
“Get your people and their bodies out of here,” he said, then squeezed harder, pulling Dainn closer. “Then I never want to see your ilk here again. You got it?”
“Aye,” Dainn replied, sounding impressed and making Junnrik’s stomach churn at the thought. “I got it, Foreman.”
“Good, now move fast before I change my mind,” Junnrik said. “And so the Boltbreakers can get to our much deserved celebration sooner!”
The Boltbreakers’ united cheer shook the cavern, and its echo seemed to follow Wolfram’s soldiers all the way back to the surface as they evacuated their wounded and their dead. Over the next few days, the truce would hold, as both parties worked to recover their dead - even together, on the rare occasion - and lay them to rest. Scuffles broke out, but officers of both groups made sure they never escalated into anything worse. As hostilities stilled for that brief window and as smoke cleared to reveal Azyr’s glimmering, celestial sky once more, the people emerged into the streets once more. They helped both parties recover their dead and provided what little succour where they could in exchange for the care both sides had shown in minimizing collateral damage.
The Boltbreaker Union’s ranks swelled as news of their victory spread to the citizenry, more of them growing emboldened to enlist and receive training. But while they received immense popular support, there were still more than a few pockets of citizens that supported Wolfram Industry’s policies - if quietly.
And both organizations knew that while their current rivalry was resolved, that the war for Eklysium was far from over.
Rivalry Complete - Boltbreaker Union Victory
***
The Dreamer’s Gate
The noise of the chamber slammed into King Leopold like a physical barrier, nearly knocking him from his feet. Shouts and screams, battle cries and furious incantations, rattling armour and cracking bone reverberated off the black marble walls, all lost beneath the bellowing rage of Mogrek Longblade.
The orruk fought like a grizzly bear, always on the attack, always on the move, making it hard for the smaller assailants to surround him or attempt to drag him down. Each swing of his blazing sword still left a trail of destruction, but his movements were erratic, pained and uneven. The mad quest that drove him had wrought a heavy toll. His hide was torn and rent, still bloody and raw where the unconstrained magics of the broken realmgate had scoured him. A half-dozen new wounds crisscrossed his arms and legs, fresh from the day’s work. He was slower, weaker, the fluid destruction of an avalanche gone, but replaced by the dangerous outbursts of a wounded beast.
Kicking at the wretched plants that even at this threshold tried to grab at his ankles, King Leopold spurred his knights into the chamber of the Dreamer’s Gate, raising an arm in salute to Radhrion and his scouts as he passed them. The aelf’s forces were holding the entrance against a press of Vyrkos skeletons, fighting side by side with Brazen Suns stormhost. It was strange, after the bitter battles of the previous weeks, to see the Valeguard and the Boltbreakers cooperating, but at least for the moment they stood united in common cause against both the March of Thunder and Mogrek himself. The aelf answered his salute with a nod, then turned back to his own battle. Monstrous vampiric creatures loped out of the caustic vegetation, screaming like nightmare bats, only to be cut down by aelven steel and sigmarite blades. United, they would hold the line, he was certain. There would be no interference from the March.
As the Ventoleons thundered across the black marble chamber, Mogrek leapt to meet them. A blast of ice from the Everwinter, though much depleted, was enough to blunt the impact of their charge, and by the time they had realigned their lances he was in among them, slashing and hurling himself bodily into their mounts. Leopold dashed in among the scattered horses, taking advantage of the gap Mogrek had created, and landed a quick series of rending strikes to the orruk’s side. He was ready for the blade as it came swinging back, but not the hobnailed boot the size of a wheelbarrow that followed it. The king was sent sailing across the room, rolling to a stop beneath the gateway. He looked up to see the massive sword poised in the air above him, ready to drop like an executioner’s blade, yet instead of the killing blow a red-gold strike shot forward instead. Lord Vytravius stood over the fallen regent, his sword piercing the orruk’s forearm. Mogrek roared, stumbling backwards and freeing his arm, but the distraction was enough for Leopold to leap to his feet.
Shoulder to shoulder, the Stormcast and the Arch-regent, the Boltbreaker and the Valeguard, readied themselves to charge, but just as they did a horrendous sound of metal screeching and roaring filled the chamber.
Barreling down one of the entry passages to the chamber, trailing smoke and aethyrmatic energy, came a blackiron airship. Sparks flew from its struts and endrin casing as it banged and skidded through the narrow passageway, wreathing it in a halo of light even as armoured panels and hull pieces snapped and flew off. The gods alone knew how the mad fools had gotten the ship down into the undercity, whether they had rebuilt the entire thing in the darkness, or how it had navigated the choking hell of the Snarl, but those questions melted away as it came screaming out of the darkness and into the chamber. It was small for an airship, a modified frigate or heavily stripped down ironclad, but in the confines of the underground it was like staring down an onrushing train. The Soot Hounds who had been guarding the passageway leapt aside, their scattered fire dropping one duardin crew from the deck, but doing nothing to slow the barely controlled metal beast. With one last screech of metal as the landing strut skipped off the floor and went flying into the darkness, The Caller’s Flame was through and into the chamber.
Barely a hundred yards separated the airship and Mogrek, and as soon as they were clear of the narrow passageway the air lit up with white fire as a dozen or more rocket-propelled bombs streaked forward. Many fell on the united soldiers, sending them flying, yet more than half slammed into Mogrek. The orruk stumbled back, dazed and battered, the air slammed out from him in a haze of green blood. They did little to pierce his hide, but they were not meant to. In the space of the half-second it took for the bombs to reach him, the ship was already nearly half way across the chamber and barreling straight towards him.
Mogrek did not try to avoid the airship. He did not swing his sword, or call up the Everwinter’s storm. Instead, he straightened his back and brought the Longblade in front of him, held straight in a two-handed grip.
The Caller’s Flame ran straight into Mogrek. The bowsprint, with its harpoon tip, struck the blade’s edge, turning aside and punching past Mogrek’s head by inches. As the hull hit the Longblade, its unstoppable momentum met Mogrek’s immovable will, and by the inevitable laws of the realms only one could survive. The workmanship of Furnace City was put to the test against the last master work of the Sage of Iron, and it learned why the final student of the God of the Forge earned his title. The hull crumbled and split, the ship tearing itself in two as its momentum carried it further onto the blade. Hjolgin’s crew flung themselves from deck as the ship and metal screeched, and then the Longblade’s edge found the bound aelementor at the vessel’s heart. For a moment, everything became white, then the chamber exploded into heat and noise.
The death-knell of The Caller’s Flame shook the very bones of Eklysium.
When King Leopold could look again, he saw Mogrek standing tall, wreathed in an inferno of flame. The orruk seemed oddly calm in the blaze, almost meditative, though even through the fire the arch-regent could see the white-knuckled grip which was locked on the sword’s hilt. Mogrek breathed out, like a bellows, and the flames around him rippled. Then, like a plug had been pulled, they were drawn swirling into the Longblade itself, the essence of Aqshy given form. Mogrek had left standing, breathing heavily, smoke rising from the smoldering remains of his armour, and steam hissing from his wounds.
Leopold launched himself at Mogrek, teeth and claws flashing. He had lost sight of Vytravius and his stormcast allies in the blast, but could not afford to spare the orruk even a moment to gather himself. He left several long gashes in the orruk’s side, but was not ready for the speed of the counter-attack when it came. Mogrek’s hand shot forward, grabbing the Arch-regent and lifting him high before slamming him up against the gateway. The orruk was moving fast, faster than he had mere minutes earlier. The flame along his blade was bright and hot once more, reinvigorated by the force of the aelementor it had drawn in. Pinning Leopold against the gateway, Mogrek brought the longblade back, then drove its point forwards.
For the second time in as many minutes, Leopold watched certain death hang above him, and for the second time he managed to avoid it. He was never sure exactly how. Had there been a flash of light in that split second, something to turn the point of the blade just wide? Or had he simply called upon all his will and instinct to survive, and twisted out of the way? Whatever the case, he watched in shock as the point of the blade drove just past his head, and sank deep into the gateway behind him.
The sound of cracking stone filled the suddenly silent chamber. Golden light washed across Mogrek’s features, streaming from the fractures that spread from Mogrek’s sword across the face of Grungi’s seal. With a sound like lake ice cracking deep beneath your feet, the seal split, and collapsed.
*****
Blue and gold light flickered down from the high and airy halls. It glinted off tapestries of spun gold and silver, and the jeweled hands of nobles and magisters. It danced off gleaming sigmarite spears and axes, and the dazzling battleplate of the figure chased in satin and ermine. It smoldered like a hungry predator in the brazen depths of the hammer that rested by his hand, patiently waiting. Most of all, it radiated from the crystalline throne upon which he sat, shining like a beacon for all the realms.
This is the audience hall of the Sigmaron, the ivory palace-city of Sigmar himself, where the judgement of the realms is delivered, and where the Celestant-Prime sits on the throne of the Heldenhammer.
Each day, hundreds of petitioners came to seek judgement or aid, to ask the God-King to intercede on their behalf, to lend his stormcast to this battle or that, to bargain their services or wares to the royal city, or a hundred other things. Each day, his Heralds also delivered the news of the realms, to keep them apprised of threats or opportunities, track the progress of Dawnbringer crusades, and the incursions of Chaos. It was the Celestant-Prime’s job to sit in on these affairs, at least when he was not called away for battle, and serve as Sigmar’s own intermediary.
“Lastly,” the Herald said, “there appears to be some disturbance in one of the outer cities, my Lord. A place called Eklysium.”
The Celestant-Prime turned his head sharply. The Herald had been providing a report on the city-states of outer Azyr, a matter which seldom if ever required much of the Prime’s attention. The name Eklysium, however, struck at some nerve, some memory he could not bring to mind. That name meant something, something old but not forgotten, yet each time he tried to reach for the memory it slipped through his fingers. He nodded for the Herald to continue.
“It appears that there is some civil disturbance, a workers dispute or the like.”
“Is that all?” The heavy voice of the Celestant-Prime was hard but not unkind, intrigued by the puzzling news.
“I’m … not sure, my Lord. It might not even be related, but there have been stormcast returned to the Anvil the past several weeks that were unexpected. Some are questors, but many belong to hosts on assignment across the realms. Despite that, their transit suggests they perished somewhere much closer, perhaps even within our own realm. None have any memories of the events of their death, or weeks surrounding it.”
“Reforging is an imprecise process. Its time varies by the soul, and memory loss is not uncommon.” Despite his objections, the Prime was intrigued. For some time, he had felt that something was amiss in Azyr, something he could not place a finger on. Now, another mystery. He was certain the name Eklysium meant something, but try as hard as he could he could not grasp it.
“As you say, my Lord. Should we-”
“Lord Celestant,” a croaking, reedy voice rose from among the gathered courtiers, “if I may?”
The Prime looked over, and saw a skink stepping out from among the attendants. He wore a heavy golden torc and the feathers common to his kind, and the stormcast gestured for him to continue.
“I am Tetar-Muntaq, oh great one, servant to Lord Za’loc-ta, Starmaster of Szlaa’alazec, the Empyrian, Lord of Pure Waters and Third of Tlc-anu, and Saviour of Bykaal. My master wishes to speak with you.”
The skink’s eyes glowed green, and a shudder ran through his body. Though his form did not change, anyone looking at him saw in their minds a very different face. Broad and wide, with huge almost eyes that held a depth of knowledge both vast and utterly inhuman. Tetar-Muntaq spoke, but the voice that boomed in the chamber was deep and strong.
“Greetings Celestant. My own forces are not far from this place, studying a cosmological convergence. Allow me to intercede in this manner. We will resolve the issue, and continue our study from the city. It shall benefit everyone.”
The Slann’s voice echoed in the Celestiant-Prime’s mind, and as he looked into the glowing green eyes, he felt his concerns drifting away. Elysium was just some old mining town, he was sure of it now. Azyr was safe and secure, there was nothing to be concerned about, and this workers’ spat hardly merited his attention.
“Very good, Starmaster. I shall leave the matter in your hands.”
Za’loc-ta gave a single, tilting nod of his - Tetar-Muntaq’s - head, then broke the connection. The skink bowed deeply, waiting to be dismissed, and felt himself beginning to dissolve to light as the starmaster recalled him back to High Azyr.
The last sign of him in the throneroom was the fiercely glowing green eyes, which lingered long after his body disappeared.
*****
Golden light spilled across Mogrek’s face as the seal splintered and cracked, then with a soft thud, fell to the ground. Leopold could feel the great doors behind him heave and begin to move, and pure white starlight washed across the chamber.
Mogrek’s eyes went wide, focusing on something past the arch-regent. “You…” he said.
Leopold did not wait to see what happened. With Mogrek’s attention fixed beyond him, the arch-regent struck. His long taloned hands shot forwards, one slashing at Mogrek’s left eye, and the other sinking deep into his chest, sliding past ribs and towards the vital organs beneath. The orruk howled in pain and rage, flinging him to the ground and stumbling backwards.
Leopold landed hard, and as he scrambled to his feet he saw two things. First, the hard surface he had landed on was Vytravius, the stormcast warrior struggling to get free of a piece of airship wreckage. Second, he saw the hard starlight around them begin to resolve into rank upon rank of seraphon warriors. Reinforcements at last, he thought, and bent down to help the Boltbreaker.
That saved his life, as a celestite spear shot forward into the space he had been a second ago. Whirling back, he saw the saurus warrior that held it rearing back for another strike. He never got the chance. A Ventoleo lance exploded through the lizardman’s side, pitching him to the side as one of the last of the knights that Leopold had arrived with pulled up next to him.
The rider leapt from the saddle, offering Leopold the reins, but the arch-regent pointed instead to the trapped Stormcast. “Help him up!”
“My lord, you must go!” the knight said, even as he bent down to assist.
The retainer wasn’t wrong. Even as they pulled Vytravius free, Leopold could see the battle collapsing all around them. Saurus by the scores were appearing, hardening out of pure starlight, and laying waste into everything around them.
“Mogrek?” he shouted, and the knight pointed. The orruk was staggering from the chamber, clutching his ruined eye in one hand and bleeding heavily.
Leopold bent to give chase, but the retainers shouted again. “My lord, you must call the retreat! Get the survivors to safety, regroup with the Valeguard. We need a plan!”
As deeply as his hatred for Mogrek ran, Leopold could see that the knight was right. Leaping up onto the offered horse, he could see the few survivors that remained in the chamber were on the verge of breaking entirely. They would be easy prey for the saurus if he didn’t bring some order back to their lines.
In the darkness of the chamber beyond the gate, he saw another figure. Squat and broad, perched on its throne like an obscene mockery, the impossibly inhuman figure turned and floated into the darkness, leaving only the green trace of its eyes behind.
“To me! Everyone, to me! We retreat together! Retreat!”
The Valeguard Place First
The Boltbreakers Union Place Second
Wolfram Industries Place Third
The March of Thunder Place Fourth
* * * *
Across Eklysium
Halgrim Brokrite orchestrated long range communications from the Cradle to the rest of Eklysium, a hard job yet one rarely acknowledged. He’d ensure any and all war camps that served under the prosperous name of Wolfram were well stocked for the venture ahead.
“This is Bolric at Sector 10, requesting supply of materials, coal.” A voice emitted from the strange device.
“Aye, I got ye.” The duardin punched a sheet with a metal press and sent it through a slot beside him.
“Sector 8. Food. Please.”
“Heard.” Halgrim replied, and repeated the same motion as before to a different sheet.
“S-sector 13 Uh… We… we’ve got contacts, lots of ‘em… But they’re not March or the Union or… or even the Valeguard! They’re tearin’ through us - what the? N-noo stay back!”
The device crackled and went silent.
“Sector 13? Do you copy? Over!”
The device gave no further response.
***
Gortog hummed a quiet tune as he strolled through the tunnels of Eklysium, pushing a cart filled with snacks. The gray orruk figured he’d get some good business in with the warring visitors. As he turned a corner, he stumbled into a tall figure, the cart knocking to one side. “Ey, sorry there uh… sir.” He looked up, his eyes failing to focus on the person in front of him.
“Zoggit, you popped up right in front of me, I didn’t see-”
With a single and unnervingly silent stroke, a blade of Celestite sliced into the old orruk like a knife through jelly. As Gortog slumped over, the tall warrior stepped over his body with its digitigrade legs and led more of its kind further down the halls. The last thing the Orruk ever saw was the night sky deep underground.
***
The streets were empty and grim from the fighting. What once was a peaceful city became a tomb of rubble and broken dreams. Two soldiers of the Valeguard sat stationed on a road with orders to be on the lookout for any of their adversary’s colors.
“You know, I can’t reckon why they’ve put us here.” Erik mumbled to his partner.
“To guard and keep watch, clearly.” Maxil replied, his tone flat and dull.
“Yeah but, all the action is down below our feet! We should be down there! Exploring! Listen Maxil. I can’t get my fair share of glory up h-”
“Shh!” Maxil held up a gauntlet hand to silence the complaining soldier.
“But I’m seri-”
“Shut it, I… I think I heard something. Just. Just stay right here, I’ll go and check it out. If I see something, I’ll holler.”
Erik held his tongue as he watched Maxil draw his blade and leave, turning a corner. Only seconds passed until he returned, sprinting back towards Erik. “I-intruders, lots of th-” A celestite spear pierced the soldier's chest as his words were cut off in a sickening gurgle.
“Sigmar preserve us!” Erik drew his sword to avenge his comrade, looking towards the approaching enemies as they marched in a silent lock step. Their forms like that of night, marked with numberless stars and as cold as the void itself. As Erik swung towards the foe, his blade parried and was dashed aside. Before he could react, cold fingers wrapped around his throat and lifted him, his neck snapped with a crunch. As his body was tossed carelessly upon the cobblestone paths, his murderer led a pack of many more through the streets.
***
They arrived with nary a sound, an entire regiment of a star lit night, marching and killing without a word. Warriors honed through millenia of strife with no discernible allegiance nor emotion. Skorak, a Beast Lord of the March, raised a gnarled axe towards the interlopers. ”YOU. GO. NO. FURTHER.” His raucous challenge met with silence, the warriors drawing their celestite blades. Bestigor jumped down from on high, brutal maces clashing against astral hide in a surprise attack. Yet their adversaries remained steadfast, the two sides traded blows and righteous ferocity met cold discipline. As one warrior fell, Skarok bleated and brayed triumphantly, his axe raised, now fresh with the blood of his prey. But where one foe fell, five Bestigors met the same fate. The Beastlord knew that fate would not be on his side, yet that fact made it all the more worthwhile. As the remainder of his retinue quickly fell, he thrashed with reckless abandon, cutting into several more. With an overhead slash, he brought his all to bear upon the largest of his enemies, hoping to cut the head of the snake and claim victory. His expectation soon dashed as the blade of his axe was caught by the strange gauntleted hand of his foe. Skarok could barely react as the haft of his weapon was snapped like a twig, and that same gauntlet plunged deep into his chest.
*****
The Howling Abyss
“Sirs,
I fear this will be my final missive.This place is horrid. The walls of the corridors beyond the Dreamer’s Gate are irregular, roughly cut or natural. There is no light. Black ash lines the floors, and is constantly being whipped into the air by the howling wind storms that tear through these passages at irregular intervals. The Ash Storms can strip skin and polish stone. It is from them that I give this layer the name the Howling Abyss. The winds are deafening, but they are a mercy, for when they are silent you can hear something else. Like a horrid heartbeat, or the steady beat of some hellwrought and arcane machinations in the deep.
I shall go no farther. Let the Seraphon take me, or hang me for a deserter, I no longer care. I will see the sunlight again before I die.
N.S.”
The Chamber
Borgut’s tongue tasted iron and he felt like heaving, but he’d already heaved his stomach empty. The glutton had once strode from Stealheart Bay to the ribs of Choggrish without so much as a full night’s rest, but in this lightless place his strength had failed him. His skin burned as though someone had set him aflame, and the ogor had collapsed into the water that pooled about his knees, expecting never to wake.
When he did, Borgut found himself filled with surprising vigor. He had never felt so healthy and hale; not even his empty belly seemed to bother him, although the pain behind his eyes remained. Feeling his way by touch alone, he found only more stone walls, sloshing water and the pounding of distant machinery that served only to worsen his headache.
Finally, a gust of wind swept over him, the first moving air he’d felt since arriving in this accursed place. With the wind came the light of stars, impossibly faint yet still blinding to Borgut’s eyes. He held his arms before him and regarded his flesh in the nascent light. The skin was blackened in spots, and translucent in others, the purpled veins below clearly visible. He curled his hands into fists and felt the skin of his knuckles separate and peel back.
The agony behind his eyes became blinding and he fled, desperate to escape the encroaching starlight. Borgut shed his gear as he went, his waxy skin degloving from acidic, tearing musculature as he cast aside his garments and descended deeper into the welcoming darkness.