As Mogrek and the forlorn hope prepared to pit themselves against Za’loc-ta’s Perfected, the remaining forces of the Coalitions were moving into position throughout the heart of the Citadel. Their targets were the Wards, the arcane constructs built by Sigmar and Grungni in the days of myth to control and maintain the Citadel. Harnessing the power of these Wards, turning their arcane energies to shield the city above from the powers Za’loc-ta was about to unleash, was the last hope the Vale had for survival. There was no room for error. Failure at any of the sites would mean destruction for all. The burden the Coalition forces bore was heavy, for they knew every moment they had to take the Wards was being bought by the blood of their comrades. There was no room for doubt or indecision, no time for hesitation.
The War for the Wards had begun.
The Oculus Sanctum
Within the Chamber’s eastern point, polished black stone yielded to jagged steppes, formed as if chunks of different Realms collided with great force. Each steppe hosted one or more ancient arches, except the central plateau. Looming over all the others, it was home to an enormous, celestial orrery - an ancient relic known as the Oculus Sanctum. Za’loc-ta’s most cunning skinks waited there, hiding in Ghyranite jungles, clinging to Hyshan spires, or lurking within Ulguan swamps. All the while, the Perfected’s commanders operated the arcanotech orrery, opening rifts between Realms that allowed disparate and strange forces to march between them.
Throwing off Za’loc-ta’s calculations, it was Wolfram Industries that moved to take the Oculus Sanctum - and they did not come alone. The ground shook as Wolfram and Valeguard forces marched as one, cohesive force on the target. Ashsong Steelhelms fought alongside Burning Templars and Fish Oil gargants to repel raptadon chargers and kroxigor warspawned. Flanking hunters and stalkers were cut down by Khainite blades or the overwhelming gunfire of countless clawpacks armed with firearms. At the formation’s center was the Black Obelisk, which Wolfram had claimed and repurposed, serving as a locus to direct allied artillery fire. Enemy artillery on higher steppes fell to Ashsong great cannons and Refrakd bombards, massed formations of skinks were razed by Tzeentchian monoliths, and Perfected dinosaurs were torn apart by the daemonic metal of the Gilded Eye’s soul grinders. Finally, any terradons or ripperdactyls that tried to flank or bomb the tight formation were torn from the sky by the 83rd Gyrocorp and Furnace City Expedition Force’s aerial-armada.
Perfected skirmishers worked to pry the combined arms formation apart, lure portions away with feigned routs or sow mistrust by threatening friendly fire incidents. But every time, allied commanders reined in their troops, denying Za’loc-ta the openings he wished to exploit. Diana Galente de Alma of the Ashsong Kingdom had worked tirelessly with Wolfram’s commanders, ensuring their troops were drilled alongside one another and, to whatever extent possible, even trusted one another. Wolfram soldiers knew to hold their fire when it could cause collateral, and called their shots to allow the Valeguard troops to reposition safely first. Together, they advanced out of the Chamber’s deep waters, stepping onto the first steppe of Aqshy’s parched land, and carving a bloody path across it.
Skirmishers that threatened their flanks and rear were met in force by the Coven of Twilight’s Blade. The lithe and fast Daughters of Khaine engaged in their own strike and fade tactics against the enemy, preventing them from targeting vulnerable units in the allied train. Skink and aelf hunted one another across Aqshy’s crags and chasms, the Valeguard’s killers only falling back to lure enemies to the waiting guns of the 83rd Gyrocorp. Once their sworn rivals, but now their fire support and transport when needed. The allied army moved forward, battered but unbowed, climbing the steep slope where Aqshian desert turned to Shyishan swamp.
Sensing the frustration of his commanders, Za’loc-ta sent a fragment of his mind to assume control of the skink oracle overlooking the enemy’s advance. The skink’s eyes glowed green, head swivelling at the outsider’s bidding to take in the scene while the slann’s mind absorbed the oracle’s memories. Within moments, Za’loc-ta knew all he needed to, and directed his servants to obey. His mind shifted into the orrery, displacing one of the many star priests within, and fingers far more lithe than his own danced across ancient runes at his command.
Across the Shyishan swamp, rifts formed within arches, disgorging shrieking ghouls and Nagash’s loyal vampires, all swarming towards the allied forces to feast on flesh and bring the traitor Dainn to heel. The allied army stalled as the rifts flickered across the swampy steppe, dragging more and more enemies from across the Realms against them. Dwindling munitions poured into charnel abominations and spry limbs slowed with exhaustion as allied forces cut down swarms of ravenous beasts.
Dread gnawed at allied hearts as much as fiends, with every delay representing the moment Za’loc-ta could finish his cataclysmic spell before they were ready. They also knew that every second granted them was paid for in the blood and lives of their comrades battling the sinister starmaster directly. Seconds that could not be wasted on pawns. Drawing power from the Black Obelisk until it burned her soul, Asavash the Serene twisted the magic of nearby rifts, the corruption causing them to spew forth Tzeentchian horrors until the arches cracked and burst under the strain. Cackling daemons and twisted monsters descended upon the undead, burning away rotting flesh and bone. The Wolfram and Valeguard troops surged forward, cutting their way through the undead horde, and advanced quickly as their enemies were bogged down in splitting and multiplying daemons.
They left behind the bone-riddled swamps of Shyish, climbing into jagged, serpentine barrens covered in blood-thirsty Ghurish flora. In the dense and carnivorous woods, arches flickered to disgorge monstrous predators that preyed upon the unsuspecting, the slow, and the wounded. The best scouts, salvagers and harriers from Wolfram and the Valeguard protected the allied forces as best they could, but the army’s quick pace through the horrid steppe left many a body behind. The furthest scouts ahead cried out that the trek was almost over, a steppe of Chamonite ruins and badlands up ahead.
But their escape did not fit Za’loc-ta’s Great Plan.
As the army neared the edge of the steppe, the arches ahead of them flickered to life. Raging rivers of molten metal spilled out, carving up the landscape and cutting off their way forward. Combat engineers were called to bridge the rivers while the information was relayed down the restless army. Ghur’s uneven terrain and carnivorous plants forced the allied formation to loosen, exposing the Wolfram and Valeguard troops to the Perfected’s real assault. Bastiladons charged forward, caring not for the molten metal that scoured their legs as their thick hides turned aside small arms fire. Many fell to allied artillery, but not before solar engines disintegrated heavy infantry, skirmishers, and war machines alike. As the air turned to choking smoke and ears rang with a hollow dirge from the exchanged fire, there was a moment of hope that it was over. Then the surviving bastiladons crashed into the allied front lines, leaving them vulnerable for a stegadon chief leading another stampede to overrun their ranks and embed themselves deeper into the allied formation. While the allied center buckled under the pressure, their flanks were harried by chameleonic skinks and spawn of Chotec that picked away at softer rear guard units, taking down artillery crews and burning away swaths of clan rats.
As the Ghurish barrens turned red with the blood of their allies, the air fleet had no targets to take down without risking significant collateral. Until a skink oracle appeared at the top of the Sanctum’s plateau, alongside wizards and siege engines that rained meteors and raked beams of solar energy across allied troops on the ground and in the sky. But as the air fleet moved to engage them, the Chamber’s unnatural sky darkened as terradons and ripperdactyls launched from every ruin, crevice, and canopy. Led by a chieftain on the back of a quetzacotl, they descended upon the allied force in the sky.
Within the Oculus Sanctum, Za’loc-ta smiled, ignoring the pain the unnaturally wide motion caused his host. But a nearby explosion dispelled his mirth, and he wheeled in time to see a cloud of toxic smoke and ash billowing into the main chamber. He sensed a pit of shades tear open, dragging his unaware minions to their demise as they rushed at the evident interlopers. Kroxigor warspawned formed up around him defensively, but forge-hot harpoons struck from the smoke, perforating vital organs and boiling blood at arteries. The smoke churned as nimble duardin in light endrin packs shot forward next, looking to strike him down.
With a dismissive wave, Za’loc-ta dispelled the enemy’s pit and conjured a Hyshan gale to banish the duardin and the smoke that covered their advance. Gyrocorp harpooners slammed into walls and each other, but King Garavor and his Ashsong assassins rushed forward in their place. The bestial king tore the throat from a starpriest while weaving another spell, but another wave of Za’loc-ta’s hand snuffed it out before it could form. The slann weaved his own suite of spells in riposte, but a grenade arced through the air with a deep thwoomp and unleashed an ethereal scream that tore his magic apart.
“Ready fer round two, you parasitic toad?” Dainn said, materializing from thin air encased within Project Hollowframe.
The large suit of golem-armour revved up a ratling warpblaster and unleashed a hail of bullets that cut down two starseers on the way to the possessed skink, but Za’loc-ta had already raised a mystic shield that absorbed the shots. He riposted by conjuring several swarms of meteorites, directing them at his many enemies. Dainn and Garavor managed to counter a few of the spells, but found themselves battered by showers of the flaming projectiles. Garavor slowed as he shielded himself with the body of a kroxigor, but Dainn advanced as meteorites bounced off his heavy armour. Balefire and wyrdflame erupted from the golem’s other fist, cascading over Za’loc-ta and forcing him to focus his magical energies on defensive wards.
“You’ve grown tainted,” the skink hissed in disgust with the voice of a slann. “You should have let me give you freedom!”
Gyrocorp harpooners and Ashsong assassins finished off the remaining kroxigor guards and, with Za’loc-ta blinded by flames and smoke, King Garavor lunged for him. With shocking speed he moved past the possessed skink, claws tearing open the lizard’s throat. But the marionette continued to dance on its strings, and Za’loc-ta launched silvery talons through the air at the Ashsong king, forcing him back. Healing energy erupted around the host, starting to close wounds that should have felled any mortal, until Dainn’s fiery assault ceased. Before Za’loc-ta could look up at the golem-armour, he looked down at the forge-hot harpoon Urif Miresson had thrust through his back and out through his chest. The slann weaved more spells, but Garavor and Dainn countered them while Urif twisted and dragged his weapon through the host to counter its unnatural healing. Then a large metal hand closed over the skink’s head.
“How’s this fer freedom, scum sucker?” Dainn growled as Za’loc-ta retreated from his host before he experienced its skull being crushed like a melon.
Dainn ghosted out of the Hollowframe, leaving behind his small golem of a co-pilot. The Lord-Magnate rushed over to the Sanctum’s arcanotech consoles, and began to work. Urif and other engineers moved to support, shutting down the rifts Za’loc-ta had opened and inputting their own commands. King Garavor watched them work, still learning how the arcane machinery functioned through Wolfram’s basic training.
“Will you honour our bargain?” the bestial king asked.
“‘bout that,” Dainn said, quick-drawing the heavy repeater at his hip.
As quick as the king was, he knew he couldn’t dodge in time as the gun thundered.
But he didn’t have to, as the chameleonic skink behind him fell over dead.
“Aye, we always honour our Contracts,” Dainn replied wryly as he holstered his gun. “Most of the time, anyway.”
“Are you always so dramatic?” Garavor asked, but Urif’s eye roll answered the question. Given his own flair for the dramatic, the Ashsong King could not begrudge him too much.
“I think I’ve earned a wee bit o’ drama, no?” Dainn said with a chuckle, before explosions and roars drew their attention elsewhere. “If yer no’ helpin’ with this, then you’d best hunker down an’ protect us so we can do the work. Go.”
The last word was said to the Hollowframe, still hovering protectively over him. Reluctantly, it left alongside King Garavor, loading a new drum into its warpblaster. The decapitation squad turned from offense to defense, assassins and hunters looking at one another with the shared fear that this would be their last stand.
Outside, Gyrocorp bombers did everything they could to protect the Khainites below, who fought to ensure the allied flanks didn’t crumble. In turn, the Furnace City fleet, flying Ashsong Chamonic lions, and tzaangor skyfires protected the Gyrocorp from terradon bombing runs and ripperdactyl boarders. But Za’loc-ta returned with a vengeance, assuming direct control over the chieftain and their quetzacotl. The feathered serpent tore another Furnace City gunhauler from the air before Hjolgin Forgecaller, interred within a flying sarcophagus of Chug-design, engaged it with a roar of anger and grief. The two darted back and forth in an intense dog-fight that left Hjolgin’s artificial form smoking and the quetzacotl torn apart. As his beast fell from the sky, Za’loc-ta leapt onto Hjolgin’s sarcophagus, tearing it open to expose what remained of his organic form. The possessed skink chief impaled him with his spear, but Hjolgin refused to die alone. Grabbing the chief in a rictus grip, he cut the engines and they crashed into the steppe far below.
The skink died on impact, and Hjolgin gave the corpse a bloody grin as everything went black. He would have died there had Kralt Gemeye refused to give up on him. Roaring through the enemy on his modified doomwheel, the Thirteenth Comet scythed down any that stood between him and his friend. His prismvermin rushed to keep up with him, their halberds sparking from the power of various realmstones as they tore apart stegadons and skinks that threatened their flank and threatened their comrades. They formed up around the fallen craft alongside flying D.O.O.M wardens, protecting Hjolgin while Kralt stabilized him. None other could have saved such an abominable combination of flesh and machine but a Skryre engineer of Kralt’s caliber.
With the quetzacotl dead, the sky battle turned and, through the strands of Fate, Asavash and Khvath knew their time had come. Both launched into the air, disc and manticore flying straight for the skink oracle and its coterie of Perfected mages and artillery beasts. They banished enemy spells as they soared together and countered with their own, mutating skinks and their beasts into gibbering horrors. But the oracle’s eyes glowed green and they were put on the defensive, forced to dispel Za’loc-ta’s monstrous meteors and focusing all their magical might on keeping the allied forces alive. Asavash witnessed her own death, but it was averted as a Chamonic lion crushed the offending bastiladon beneath the weight of its golden body. A timely blast from a soul grinder’s harvester cannon saved Khvath’s life next, and the emboldened champion and his manticore pounced on the oracle’s troglodon.
Za’loc-ta was thrown from his mount, but Hyshan winds caught him. He hissed when Asavash incinerated the starseers surrounding Khvath, their wards unable to stop her Tzeentchian wyrdflame. But as Khvath’s manticore tore the troglodon apart, the annoyed slann weaved a spell that condensed the power of the sun into the palm of his small hand. In that moment, Khvath knew he was doomed, every strand of fate tied to his actions leading to death. So he decided to pad his pocket book once more before he died, and hurled a curse that struck the skink host dead even as it cast a beam of pure radiance at his heart.
Pain struck him as Asavash’s armoured form shoved him out of the way. More pain wracked him as the beam punched through her ward, then through her chest. While his manticore massacred the Perfected survivors, Khvath rushed to Asavash’s side and stared down at her empty eyes, that bled from all the power she had poured through her body to save those around her and, finally, him.
With the threats from above dealt with, the battle on the ground began to turn. The flanks were the first to stabilize, Gyrocopters flying in low to use their ‘Dealbreak’ rams to crush dinosaurs while their copter-blades turned swarms of skinks into gory salsa. That gave the Coven of Twilight’s Blade the room they needed to go on the offensive at long last, unleashing their built up bloodlust in a frenzy. After skirmishing and holding the flanks for so long, the Perfected were shocked to see their fury unleashed, skinks and even raptadons unable to escape their serrated blades. The Khainites painted the Ghurish and Chamonic steppes with arterial sprays until their Queens set their sights on greater prey.
At the center of what used to be their front lines, Diana Galente de Alma sang as she fought for her life, and worked to establish pockets of order within the maelstrom of chaos that had descended when the stampeding dinosaurs broke their lines. It made her an easy target when Za’loc-ta possessed the stegadon chieftain and charged. Pinned between other dinosaurs, Diana stared death in the face until the gargant Aalab barreled into the stegadon chieftain. A giant club broke off horns and bones, but a nearby engine of the gods and Za’loc-ta’s magic restored them faster than Aalab could smash them. He quickly found himself on the defensive against the invigorated dinosaur and rapid stabs coming from the chieftain and skinks on its back.
With a holler, another of his Fish Oil gargants smashed a barrel onto the engine of the gods and a Gyrocorp salvager ignited it moments later with a thrown flare. Aalab shrugged off the stab wounds and grinned down at the skinks as he swept the howdah from the stegadon’s back and broke bones that would take longer to heal. Before he could finish off Za’loc-ta’s new host, he took a thagomizer to the knee and went down hard. He wrestled the stegadon’s horns away from his innards, but the skink chieftain pounced onto his face, stabbing down with his spear. He would have lost an eye had he not sneezed in that moment, coating Za’loc-ta in snot, and nearly lost his life as the infuriated chieftain stabbed him in the neck. Before it could twist or wrench its spear through his arteries, the Twilight Queens Malita and Melura darted at him from the shadows, slicing tendons and rending muscle. The stegadon chief fell off Aalab as the gargant rose, snapping the dinosaur’s neck with a sickening crunch. The shadow of the gargant’s foot fell over Za’loc-ta, who willed his host to move through the pain. But while they cared little for pain, a marionette could not dance with its strings - or tendons - sliced. The Queens smiled as the foot descended, and the eviscerated chief returned to his body in time to see darkness crush him.
Within the Sanctum, Dainn felt every demise and near-death. The confused wails of the hollow Perfected souls, the cries of rage and anguish from the mortals who fought tooth and nail against Nagash’s claim on them, those of his partners that had fought for him for months and of his allies who fought with them even now. Hjolgin’s sorrow at being saved, Khvath’s guilt, and Asavash’s serenity even as Tzeentch claimed her soul.
All of them joined the burden he had carried for over a century, that bore down on his revenant form made of the smoke and ash of countless wars and countless deaths. But as each death drew closer, he knew the allied forces were breaking the siege around the Sanctum. The power of Za’loc-ta’s ritual had built up within the Chamber, giving everyone a migraine they had to fight through to save the Vale.
Even with allies fighting alongside them and all the knowledge they had gained studying the ancient Fort, Dainn knew they might not make it in time. He and the others worked tirelessly, taking apart ancient consoles to jury-rig their own devices to better communicate with the ancient runes. They were surrounded by dead and dying troops that had given their lives to give their allies the time they needed to take control of the Citadel Ward, just as so many of their comrades gave their lives against Za’loc-ta and the Perfected forces across the entire Chamber. A bestial roar from too close told Dainn that all those sacrifices may not have been enough, that the enemy would breach the command center and ruin all their work in the end anyway.
“We’re in!” Urif shouted, drawing Dainn back to reality.
The consoles hummed back to life all around them, their eldritch runes glowing and shifting at Wolfram’s command. Thinking fast, Dainn opened an arch nearby to the depths of Ulgu, letting the Ashong king and his shadow mages draw on its power to fuel their spells and keep the Perfected at bay moments longer. Wyrdflame and gunshots erupted in nearby hallways, announcing the arrival of blessed reinforcements. Researchers shouted over the din of battle, coordinating their efforts in lieu of understanding the ancient arcanotech completely.
“Venting coordinates locked in,” Urif reported, looking up with bloodshot eyes. “Final coordinates ready for input after the blast. We… we actually did it!”
“That we did.” Dainn heaved a heavy sigh, walking over to join the cogsmith in looking out over the Sanctum and the arches that glowed at Wolfram’s command. “We all did…”
“Damn toad burnt out half the systems doing… whatever he was doing though, we won’t have the same power after this.”
“Aye, doubt any o’ the relics will,” Dainn said with a crooked smile, lighting his last cigar with a flick of his fingers. “Shame, but… more than enough reinforcements, investors, an’ researchers to unshackle the future with what we have.”
***
The Ohmling Forgeheart
Any traveler to Aqshy has heard of the Colossi, automatons twice the height of a mega-gargant constructed by the ancient Algoraxi Empire for labor and battle. Less known is how Seraphon secrets allowed for the creation of these titans and none, before now, could have known the Colossi to be little more than crude imitations of the Forgeheart’s Ohmlings.
They looked the part of clockwork curiosities, wind-up toys for the entertainment of children, if such things were fabricated by the hands of gods. The greatest works of the finest duardin Endrinmasters and Daemonsmiths would appear little better than a novice’s tinkerings next to the Forgeheart’s craft, and it was this incredible power the Perfected had bent to their will.
Forged by the Ohmlings, these Perfected stood armed and armored in the purest celestite, Azyr’s own realmstone. The memory of the slann’s greatest warriors, clad in the finest armaments of their unknowable kind: this is what the Union, a motley assemblage of laborers and engineers, men, duardin and orruks alike, now made to do battle with.
The assault on the Forgeheart may have been over before it began without the actions of Lord-Arcanum Teledar Thundermind. Gathering to him an eccentric flotilla of airships befitting the Union, Teledar’s Stormcasts led the attack in their voidflier Reticent. It would be the end of them, but the Union’s main advance was spared the worst ravages of the Perfected’s countless terradons, ripperdactyls and worse as the flotilla tore them apart as it, in turn, was torn apart by them.
Born into fire, Brynifor-Grimnir felt more at home in the Forgeheart than any other place in Eklysium. It was all caverns and passages, heat and flame, water and steam. For all the devastation ahead and behind, this was a place of creation and promise. As the Union’s battleplan began to take shape, the fyreslayers of the Kintsugi Droth-lords broke into song.
“Down in the deep,
Where the shaggoth used to sleep,
Glorious gold,
Glimmers in our home of old,
Dark as the night,
Where the day has lost its light,
When the hammer falls.”
In the heat-blasted halls above, Sigrid the Radiant signaled the attack on the entrenched Perfected from atop her trusted draconith Silverflame. Wolfram black coaches and mawtribe ironguts made up the vanguard; with Sigrid as the architect of this mad strategy, she gave the Perfected a taste of Nighthaunt shock combat. The ogors piled into the breach made by the coaches, shouting and cursing. More brawlers than warriors, they made a wondrous mess of things. No matter how this battle ended, proof of the Seraphon’s treachery even now escaped the slann’s grasp in the hands of Sigrid’s trusted friend and Knight-Judicator, Thorsus of Thondia.
“Of legend and myth,
Is the craft of the smith,
The molten metal poured,
And pounded into sword,
From the fire is made,
Every Duardin axe and blade,
When the hammer falls.”
Sigrid’s attack had not broken the Perfected’s lines, but that had never been its intention. The brunt of the assault would be borne by the Brynhar Lodge and the heavy infantry of Kaia Wolfkin’s Thundering Wolves. With Foreman Junnrik in their vanguard, they crashed against phalanxes of Perfected saurus as the battle began to spill over into maze-like passages and barely-lit side chambers. Hoping to sustain Sigrid’s forward momentum a few moments longer, Kaia took to her wildform and threw herself into the seraphon ranks, tearing and mauling. When kroxigor warspawned threatened to overwhelm them, Junnrik rushed to their aid and crushed three of them in quick succession with his trusty hammers.
The Foreman’s presence drew the attention of Za’loc-ta, who assumed control of a nearby starpriest and wove spells over the kroxigor, enhancing their strength and regeneration. Junnrik was put on the back foot, his strength suddenly matched and his glancing blows meaning nothing to the enemy. More Perfected rushed into the fray, seeking to put down the rebel the Valeguard had failed to stamp out, cutting off Junnrik, Kaia and Sigrid from much of their forces as Za’loc-ta’s host rained spells upon them.
None alone could defeat their foe - but they were not alone.
While Junnrik could not create his own openings, Kaia darted about in her wildform, tearing at tendons. That allowed Junnrik to go on the offensive, his hammers crushing skulls or demolishing chests beyond what even Za’loc-ta’s magic could regenerate. Sigrid and Silverflame covered him as he did so, parrying clubs and intercepting spells. As foes fell around them, Silverflame took flight and blasted draconith fire all around them, giving them even more space. Za’loc-ta blocked the fire with his mystic shields, but before the smoke cleared Junnrik was there, each blow of his hammers shattering a shield as quickly as the host could erect them. But this time Junnrik was the distraction, and Kaia shot forward, jaws clamping over the skink’s neck and snapping it.
With the enemy’s main force drawn to Junnrik’s position, the Boltbreaker’s infiltrators could finally act. Varinja-Grimnir herself had an important role to play - protecting her charge, Ikitt Greynip and the Acolytes of Ruin. Her twin axes rose and fell in blazing arcs, Brakaz-Thur and Dum-Grim splitting flesh made of remembrance and spilling guts the color of moonlight. The Perfected’s rage was an echo of a memory, while Grimnir’s fury burned hot upon her skin.
“The cults came to our land,
And we fought them hand to hand.
Sweat and blood,
Turned the ground to mud,
Duardin and Chaos in strife,
Sought to vanquish every life,
When the hammer falls.”
Ikitt and the Acolytes fell out under a withering hail of covering fire and scrapbombs by Golruk Geartoof’s orruks, and the unlikely group slipped away in the confusion of battle, working their way deeper into the Forgeheart. The Perfected were terrifying foes, each warrior more than a match for the best of the Union, but they lacked observation, ingenuity, adaptability - all things the Union had in spades.
Golruk was more than adept with machinery, and Ikitt an old hand at warding magic, yet as they emerged within the roaring inferno at the center of the Forgeheart, they knew the task at hand would test them far beyond their skills. All the Union’s hopes rested with Ikitt and Golruk, now; defeat in battle was a foregone conclusion, and the two were well aware of the price in lives paid every minute they delayed, for even in those moments Wyrdtoof and the Ogresuns were suffering grievous losses. Soon, however, Ikitt and Golruk realized the battle outside to be the least of their worries as Acolytes and Geartoofs began to spontaneously immolate from exposure to this place, their flesh igniting as they screamed in agony.
“When the hammer falls,
Then our victory calls,
When the hammer falls,
Songs of glory fill the halls,
When the hammer flies,
Mighty heroes now arise,
With the hammer’s sound,
Live the Duardin down underground,
When the hammer falls,
When the hammer falls!”
Finally the Kintsugi Droth-lords played their hand as a molten Infernoth larger than a carnosaur erupted amidst the Perfected’s ranks, Brynifor-Grimnir’s berserkers close behind with their battle-song on their lips. Any pretense of a line of battle fell apart as the cavernous hall and the chambers around it became a desperate melee, the Union fighting more to keep from being routed than to carry the day. All of them knew that time was running out, for them and the Vale, precious seconds bought by the blood of those brave enough to face Za’loc-ta head on. It was the sound of silence that finally turned the tide, silence as the Forgeheart ceased its roaring beat. The air cooled dramatically in moments, and the Perfected fell back, disengaging from their enemies and giving the Union forces a moment of respite.
Despite the information Wolfram Industries had passed along, Ikitt and Golruk did not possess the mastery nor the time to harness the forge and take control of the Ohlmlings, but breaking a machine is often far easier than operating it. Fully aware of their precarious position, the Acolytes of Ruin and the Geartoofs had stripped the wards and jammed the mechanisms. For a moment, disaster seemed imminent, but the impossibly deliberate Ohmlings ceased their labor and vented the furnace, extinguishing its great flames. Unable to continue, the Ohmlings just simply… stopped, as if to await their next command. Perhaps, in time, with great effort and more study, the Forgeheart could be ignited once more and the Ohmlings put back to work, but for now, it was enough to have denied Za’loc-ta’s machinations.
Their cause lost, the Perfected quit the battle without malice nor panic, instead simply melting away like stars before dawn. Suddenly alone, Junnrik and the Kintsugi led a rousing cheer as the Union army regrouped upon the threshold of the Forgeheart. Those who had gone with Mogrek had bought them enough time to thwart the slann, and that was victory enough this day.
***
The Aurothermatic Wilds
Somehow, in the cavern’s gloom, the jungle steamed. Despite the fecundity of the environment, the forest was enveloped in eerie silence as the warriors trudged through the undergrowth. For the first time in the long campaign for the fate of Eklysium, the March of Thunder and the Valeguard found themselves united in common purpose, though they continued to eye each other uneasily through the mist and shadow. At the head of the column, a cohort of Ert Glimmerwyld’s shambling zombies were spurred forth with the hope that they would trigger any traps or ambushes that might be concealed ahead. Still, as they made their way deeper into the tangle, the tension continued to grow unabated, and the ghasts shuffled on unperturbed. An orruk of the Shadowsplittaz, leading his protesting Gore-Grunta by the reins as the foliage grew too thick to ride, suddenly found the leather strap falling slack in his hand. Turning, he found not his porcine mount, but a set of enormous slavering jaws dripping with bloody saliva. With a roar, the Dread Saurian lunged forward, and the jungle sprang to terrible life.
Roars and thundering footsteps erupted from all sides of the advancing column as Dread Saurians and other colossal warbeasts revealed themselves, but if their handlers had expected this nightmarish ambush to bring a swift end to the incursion, they were sorely mistaken. Lorelith Brightsoul of the Deepwood Copse cast her mind into the roots and boughs of the jungle, directing the very foliage that had concealed the giants to tangle about them, stifling their colossal advance. Bellowing, Kuugax’s Goroans began to hack at the limbs of the struggling beasts while Baal’Oot’s Skinks scrambled up their flanks to bring the fight directly to their brethren above. Baal’Oot himself, disgusted by Za’loc-ta’s perversion of the Great Plan, led the charge to the top of a colossal beast with a neck longer than all but the largest of the jungle’s great, gnarled trees. Snarling, he and his fellows set about returning their Starborn cousins to the heavens.
Elsewhere, atop the scaled spine of a Dread Saurian, ghouls surged forth with abandon, stabbing and biting their way through a horde of skinks. Silanore’s Screaming Court and Princess Lyrei’s Purulent Expedition, once bitter enemies from opposing factions, revelled now in shared delusion as together they ripped through the Saurian’s scales and into the meat beneath, bringing the creature howling to its knees. Another beast toppled nearby, brought down by the Vyrkos vampires under Markela, the Vampire Lord using fell Shyishian magics to bring the thing back, creaking unnaturally as its broken form hauled itself to its feet to turn against its former masters. It was not the only one of its kind to be subverted against the Perfected however: the Sylvaneth Alder Autumnspite held down another Dread Saurian while the Sphiranx Raisin stole the creature’s mind, twisting it to her own purpose. It seemed that what had once been an assured win for the Perfected Seraphon had turned into an unmitigated defeat. Dolgul the Wise summoned enormous Feet of Gork to kick Saurian beasts to the ground, while Baal’Oot and his own Skinks nimbly clambered aboard the reeling creatures to bring death to their riders. All seemed lost for the Perfected until a screech sounded from above.
From out of the gloom soared hundreds of Terradons led by a creature so vast it was a wonder it could stay airborne. With each beat of its wings it sent a crushing gust of wind to the ground below, sending its foes reeling. The Dread Terradon stretched out its claws and raked them through Baal’Oot’s warband, the Starpriest speared on one of its razor talons before sliding lifeless to the ground as it took to the air once more, sending many more skinks to fall to their own deaths. All across the battlefield warriors were wrenched into the air only to be sent plummeting to the earth, no air left for them to scream. Already the Dread Saurians and their Perfected riders had begun to rally while the forces of the March and the Valeguard scrambled to retreat back to their own collapsing lines. Just as all seemed lost, a barrage of explosions rocked the Dread Terradon, the thing struggling to stay airborne as payloads exploded against its leathery wing membranes, tearing holes in the flesh. Rygra Darkkin’s Khardaron Fleet, allied to the Boltbreakers Union, had arrived to fulfill her oath to the March. Alongside her came a wave of reinforcements from Wolfram Industries, Gibbering, howling things that surged along the ground or flapped through the air on grotesque bioengineered wings. The two mad scientists behind these monstrous creations, Vreeche Maggottail and Corvikki Pitchheart, cackled as their creations tore into the saurian creatures on both the ground and the air. This was enough for the scattered forces of the March and the Valeguard to rally, sallying forth with the March at their head. With so much of the jungle flattened in the fight, the Shadowsplitta Orruks were finally able to mount their steeds, the great snorting hogs tearing into what was left of the Perfected ranks. They set about killing with gleeful abandon, leading the charge towards the great tree at the centre of the decimated forest.
Though each of the coalitions had contributed to the Perfected’s defeat, it was clear that the March had won the day, and that the ancient, climate-controlling technology at the heart of the unnatural forest would fall into their hands. To the suspicious minds of those within the March, the Valeguard and Wolfram troops looked ready to contest their claim, but hesitated when Rygra Darkkin’s battered fleet seemed to back their enemies. Little did they know only the duardin had broken ranks with her fellow Boltbreakers to support the March here, but none wanted to test their tense alliance, and so the Valeguard and Wolfram forces departed the area, leaving the Ward to the March of Thunder. Whether it would be used for good or for ill remained to be seen, though the March’s temporary ‘allies’ within the other coalitions were filled with a deep unease. And perhaps it was not without reason.
***
The Astramere
Those few Valeguard who marched upon the Astramere knew the burden of their task, but not yet the cost. Soldiers of the Soot Hounds and the X Fretensis marched shoulder to shoulder as the aelf treasure-seeker Radhiron Silversquall guided them through the chamber. The still air became charged as they breached the Astramere, and they felt their teeth begin to itch. The sight before them was breathtaking: stalactites made of silver starlight reaching down from a dizzyingly high ceiling to scrape against a vast lake of unbroken quicksilver. Impossibly, the ripples of the surface reflected in the stalactites, and many found themselves looking quickly away as the incomprehensible sight awarded splitting headaches and churning stomachs.
Decuriarch Marcus Aurelian was ill at ease for a different reason: where was the foe before them? Why would these star-seraphon abandon their prize after so many battles? His answer came in the form of a fireball and the screams as soldiers burned alive. More blasts hammered down upon the forming Valeguard line, which began to waver before the unseen assault. How were they to do battle with an enemy they could not perceive?
The sapsong amulet to hand, Radhiron stepped forward and drew upon more Ghyranic energy than he’d ever before attempted. Empowered by the Astramere, the cavern floor churned like a pit of snakes and great thorned brambles erupted upward before the disordered Valeguard line, quickly catching ablaze as the Perfected’s arcane barrage hammered down upon it. Captains and sergeants re-ordered their soldiers, the powerful saurus Baldor of the X Fretensis ever leading from the front.
“Valeguard, hold fast!” Prefect Pelham shouted over the roar of explosions and fire. ‘The Unready’ had been reforged many times over in the months leading to this moment, sitting atop his massive wyvern in beaten armour that now looked natural upon his shoulders. Pelham had earned many titles: Defier of Storms, the Hope of Eklysium, but he treasured the one bestowed by his soldiers the most: Pelham the Wyverntamer. “We will unveil these cowards yet, and show them our mettle!”
After-images danced behind Radhiron’s eyes as he struggled to rejuvenate the living wall as quickly as it was burned away. Searing smoke hot in his lungs, blinking away sweat and tears, he saw them. A line of skink starseers sat upon stone palanquins, held aloft as if by unseen threads. Such was the power of their deception that no Valegaurd without his gifts could have seen them - and Radhiron did not know if he had the ability to tear down the Seraphon’s illusion. Perhaps if Kall had been here - but no, he knew the wizard was needed elsewhere.
Abandoning the bramble-barrier, Radhiron locked his fingers before his face and closed his eyes, the tongue of Ulgu upon his lips. The barrier ablaze and failing about him, Decuriarch Marcus and Captain Garth realized too late the aelf’s mortal danger, and rallied to his defense - only to be brushed aside by the long, loping stride of King Leopold. The towering Abhorrent leapt between the aelf and their enemies, acidic fireballs splitting apart above him upon a mystic shield of Hyshian light. With a final barked incantation, Radhiron collapsed, and their foe lay revealed.
Spawn of Chotec lay half-submerged in the lake’s silver waters, belching their caustic artillery at the attackers. Towering over them lumbered great horned lizards with stone howdahs upon their backs, each brimming with cavorting skinks. Dull-eyed shell-beasts sloshed through the shallows as well, strange machines or cocoons upon their backs. The details did not matter: the X Fretensis had an adversary they could get to grips with.
Captain Garth bellowed commands as the Soot Hounds gunline dug in, pounding the seraphon beasts with shot and cannon. King Leopold rushed forward and outpaced the X’s charge, making little more than a stepping stone out of a Perfected howdah-beast in order to hack one of the skink starseers out of the air. The King had come alone to spare his people; he would have to be enough.
Dogged in their assault, the X Fretensis corralled their larger but fewer adversaries, separating them and dragging them down one at a time. The Perfected responded in kind; the silver waters churned with serpents that slipped up the X Frentensis’ legs and dragged them below the surface, thrashing and screaming, and blinding beams of sunfire from the artillery-beasts incinerated others. The saurus Baldor fought with a fury that would make a Khornate Deathbringer blush, hacking apart each Spawn of Chotec in turn before they could wreak more havoc.
Descending from above, the skink starseers engaged in a blistering ranged battle with the Soot Hounds, conjured comets hammering down upon gunners who returned fire with skill and grit. Ten men were annihilated before they had time to even realize the danger, moments before a cannonball obliterated an offending starseer and smashed its palanquin out of the sky. Pelham’s wyvern swept through the skies to devour another, the Prefect working his novice wizardry as hard as he could to protect the troops below him from further enemy magicks.
The Prefect’s presence drew the attention of another, and Za’loc-ta assumed control of another starseer. Pelham’s magics were unbound as if he were a child and even his battle-honed magecraft could do nothing to unravel Za’loc-ta’s spells, the Prefect’s mortal dabbling unable to compete with immortal dedication to a single craft. But as ripperdactyls descended upon him and his wyvern, he kicked his heels into the ferocious mount to spur it onward and drew his blade. Pelham was not the finest rider of his generation, nor its best blademaster, wizard, or even commander. But he drew upon his varied skills, honed by the many who joined the Valeguard and sought to make him into a better leader, and he survived against Za’loc-ta’s and the Perfected’s onslaught. Drawing their attention away from his beleaguered forces, giving them the time and space they needed to find a solution he trusted them to find.
The Soothounds would not abandon their leader, their gunners providing what covering fire they could to keep Pelham safe as he and his wyvern weaved through the air, tearing apart ripperdactyls and dodging the starmaster’s spells. But any gunfire they directed at the possessed starpriest plinked harmlessly off mystical shields, including an explosive cannon round. Until Pelham shot through the cloud of ripperdactyls towards the marked spot, his wyvern’s fearsome jaws skidding off the possessed skink’s shields. Pelham pulled the rifle Marshal Serpanya had gifted him and fired while the shields were directed elsewhere, striking the starpriest and disrupting its spells. Then his wyvern’s spiked tail whipped around and shattered the palanquin. The starpriest fell from the sky, scales melting as the wyvern’s venom coated it, but Za’loc-ta’s puppet still moved, weaving more spells to regenerate itself and turn the tides once more. But Captain Garth tracked its descent, and fired a round that took the skink’s head off seconds later.
Coming to his senses at the ragged cheer that erupted, Radhiron took in the battle raging about him. He’d meant only to divert and delay, to stay back and tend the wounded. It did not take a Scinari Enlightener to see that there would be no wounded left to tend if victory did not come swiftly. Swallowing his caution, Radhiron staggered forward, collapsing to his knees in the silver waters now blossoming radiant red.
Starborn Seraphon were, by their very nature, not mortal beings. The innate, arcane energy of Azyr sustained them, and if they had drawn upon it to empower themselves, then it could be drawn upon to weaken them. Plunging his hands into the water, he began to spit a second incantation, blood foaming at his lips. King Leopold, hacking the head from stegadon after butchering its riders, felt the Astramere’s alignment shift. Drawing his own sorcery about him once more, the King leapt into the water, dragging his axe through it in a great furrow. Where the water split behind him, something formed and rose, bucking and heaving- great equine shapes of blood and quicksilver.
The starborne’s magic temporarily suppressed, Radhiron heaved up his breakfast as the Astramere’s energy shifted once more, the King’s corpsemare stampede manifesting and stampeding through the Seraphon warbeasts. Wings of metallic gold sprung from their shoulders and as pegasi they took wing, hunting the scattering starseer palanquins. The Perfected flickered like a disturbed reflection upon water and were no more, leaving the bewildered Valeguard fumbling for a foe they had only moments before been in a life-or-death struggle with.
The reprieve was momentary as all the light in the Astramere seemed to flicker and dim, coalescing in a single point high among the stalactites. Staring upward, the recovering Valeguard recoiled and covered their eyes as it burst with the intensity of a supernova and came crashing down with all the force of a comet. The stalactites shattered and fell, and the wave of their impacts bowled over any still standing in the water, before rushing up toward those still on the shore before dragging them back in a riptide.
Where the light had come crashing down stood a single saurus champion. Those Valeguard who could still fight gaped, wondering the meaning of this final turn of events before Baldor roared in fury and charged.
“VOICE-OF-EMBERS!” the saurus warrior roared.
“Damn fool,” Decuriarch Marcus spat under his breath, rushing to join his fellow. As before, King Leopold was faster, catching up to Baldor just as the Perfected sunblood swung on the smaller saurus warrior. Marcus wasn’t far behind, but the sunblood seemed unperturbed even facing three skilled combatants. Baldor was smashed away, the memory of Voice-Of-Embers staving in the coalesced’s chest with his massive warclub. A shield bash sent Marcus sprawling and knocking his senses from him, allowing the vicious adversary to focus all his fury on King Leopold.
On the defensive for the first time, an overhead swing of the King’s axe split apart the sunblood’s celestite shield. Discarding it, the Voice-Of-Embers took his club in both hands, deftly driving back the equally large Abhorrent. Leopold caught it, too, in the crook of his axe, and for a moment the two monsters struggled before wrenching the other’s weapon from their hands, which tumbled away beneath the silver water. They set upon each other then with fangs and claws, but not even the King of Ventoleo could long withstand the full might of Za’loc-Ta’s champion. With a savage kick, Voice-Of-Embers battered away his Abhorrent assailant.
Voice-Of-Embers grunted, disturbed for the first time since his appearance. A spider-web of thorned vines rose from the water, twisting and constricting, pulling the sunbloods arms back and dropping him to his knees. The sunblood’s eyes blazed with astral radiance and the vines began to blacken and burn. Nearby, Radhiron’s jaw was clenched so tight as to make his gums bleed, and the sapsong amulet felt like it had sprouted thorns of its own in his hand. He’d pushed his power too far, felt the energy burning at his soul.
The sunblood’s head bucked and Voice-Of-Embers roared as a gunshot connected, followed by another. Captain Garth advanced toward the Perfected champion, reloading his long-rifle time and again with deft speed and sending each placed shot hammering home. Holes of bleeding starlight pierced the sunblood’s shape and Voice-Of-Embers began to come apart.
The gunfire stopped, and supported by his Decuriarch, Baldor stood over the discorporating sunblood, Voice-Of-Embers’ own warclub coalesced in his hand. With blood foaming from his jaws and the sunblood’s own coalesced warclub in his claws, Baldor gave the Perfected champion a silent, bitter glare before he swung - but Voice-Of-Embers was already gone.
For the moment, quiet descended over the Astramere.
Pelham swooped down to the lake’s shore, landing with a jolt near Radhiron and the remnants of the X Fretensis. Focusing on the lessons Kall had taught him, and feeling the heavy weight of the Tome of Nyura against his hip, he reached out into the Winds of Magic. Around him, the surviving Valeguard with any magical talent did the same. Together, their minds shifted across the arcane geometries of the Ward, delving into its hidden depths and fractal passageways. There was still so much they did not understand about the magics that formed the Wards, but with the knowledge that Wolfram had shared Pelham at least knew what they were looking for. The Ward’s controls were aetheric things, laid into the weave of its spellform, but they could be accessed with strength and will.
Drawing from already exhausted banks of strength, the Prefect pushed. For a long moment, nothing happened. Pelham strained. He could feel a thin line of blood leaking down from his nose, feel his knees quaking, but it was like trying to move the mountain by hand. Then, he felt another will join with his, another set of hands push against the stone. More and more appeared, all around him, all pushing together, and with a sensation like a long-sealed window finally opening to the fresh air, he felt the arcane machinery of the Atramere turn. Power rushed through him and back out, surging along the leylines that tethered the Ward. Ancient spells laid down by gods, meant to keep any magics from getting into the Chamber, suddenly turned inwards.
Pelham sank to his knees. He could feel the power flowing into this place, flowing through all of the Wards that surrounded the great Chamber. The walls thrummed with power, the surface of the lake dancing in the silvery twilight.
They had done it. Each of the Wards had been taken. Whatever Za’loc-ta intended in the Chamber’s heart, they had turned the power of the Citadel into a shield for the Vale above. They had bought it a chance for life. They had succeeded.
Pelham had barely a moment to sigh in relief before the world exploded into light.
***
The Cataclysm
Za’loc-ta drifted down through the black waters at the center of the Chamber, long ungainly limbs floating with an alien grace. There, at the secret heart of the Citadel, the sarcophagus thrummed. The slann could feel the malignancy radiating out from it. The waters here were death, burning at Za’oc-ta’s skin and rending it apart at a cellular level almost faster than his magics could repair it. It was a sickening, repulsive feeling. While the touch of Chaos could twist the body and corrupt the soul, what he felt in these waters was worse. It was the unmaking of all things, without malice or intent. It was anathema to the very fabric of the Mortal Realms.
It was the Nemesis.
The slann raised a hand, and with a crack that was felt more than heard, the sarcophagus shattered.
In the darkness of the depths, it is difficult to describe in physical terms what arose from the shattered tomb. It was a thing not of form, but of feeling. Heat, the blistering heat of a fever, washed outwards in oily coils snaking through the water. Waves of nausea spread in a haze, the physical mind revolting against this presence. To Za’loc-ta’s magical sight, it was like a tangleweed of razor wires, the fractal edges of its form infinitely expansive. It was not black, nor even the void of the Starborn - it occluded all light, an abscess in the physical world, a wound in reality.
Waves of magic washed outwards, vaporizing the pool in an instant. Za’loc-ta felt the fingers of his hand begin to split like over-ripe fruit and fall away, and he redoubled his focus to regenerate them.
The voice of the being was not a sound but a need, a feeling like a jagged hook scraping at the back of the teeth. It had no form, no language of its own, but the holes left in the slann’s mind to fill with intent.
FREEEE, it groaned. I AM FREEEEE. YOU HAVE RELEASED ME.
“Yes,” the reply of the slann echoed in the psychic maelstrom. “I have need of you.”
I RECOGNIZE YOU. YOU WERE AT THE LAKE, WHERE MY LAST HARBINGER FELL.
“Yes.”
YOU HAVE COME TO REPLACE HIM. TO BE MY NEW HERALD. TOGETHER, WE SHALL DO GREAT AND TERRIBLE THINGS.
“No.”
I SEE YOUR MIND. YOU SEEK TO UNMAKE. YOU SEEK ME!
“I have need of you, and I shall take what I need. Your assistance is not required.”
The being howled, a scratching, clawing, static sound that thundered in the mind, and leapt. Razor wire tendrils slashed out, closing around the slann like a spider.
Za’loc-ta’s mouth opened impossibly wide like some cosmic cheshire, and he began swallowing the wriggling, struggling entity whole.
* * *
Waves of magic burst outwards through the Chamber, coruscating blasts of arcane force intermingled with radiant unlife, ripping and tearing through the lowest levels of the Citadel. The surviving Coalition forces at each of the Wards were thrown from their feet as great, shimmering walls of white light sprung to life, channeling the powers of the ancient machinery. Power leapt and crackled, crawling up the sides of the bulwarks. Those unlucky enough to be caught outside the protective walls were gone in an instant, their bodies unmade by the radiant malignancy. The rest could do little more than huddle together. The walls shook, stone dust raining down from distant ceilings. Ancient masonry cracked in the echoing corridors above.
The bulwark shuddered under the strain of the arcane assault. Arcs of white lightning leapt from its sides, futilely trying to ground off the growing charge, and the magical barriers glowed hotter and brighter by the second. The coalitions’ desperate gambit had succeeded, as at least for a moment, the bulwark formed a dome over the magical maelstrom raging at the Citadel’s heart, shielding the Vale above. Yet it was clear it could not hold for long.
In the City above, the Ur-River raged. Its waters suffused the Vale, from root and soil, to the streets and canals of the City, to the bones of the earth far below, and everywhere felt the maelstrom of power below. White lightning crackled across city walls. It hummed through the dense undergrowth of the Snarl, echoed in its deep cenotes, and gleamed like corpselight across the weeping walls of the Gilded Palace.
Where the arcs of arcane fallout grounding themselves from the bulwark below collided with the realm-shifting magics of the Ur-River, a spiralling chain reaction began. Like hot and cold currents meeting in the air, a violent storm roiled into life. Arcane waterspouts bridged from the sky to earth. Flickering spectral fire in every colour visible to the eye leapt from rooftop to rooftop.
Up and down the length of the Ur-River, from the Sea of Shadows to the edge of Light, from the Scarlands to the ruins of Amasya, the Ur-River roiled, bucking and tearing at its banks.
In the depth of the Citadel, the bulwark wavered, its faces fraying under the strain.
In the Vale above, this Ur-River strained under the pressure, unstable portals flickering to life and dying in an instant as it sought to ground itself among the Realms.
With a hollow crash, the barriers collapsed. Magic surged upwards, its destructive force unleashed.
There was a pandemonium like the tearing of existence, and the Ur-River remade the realms.
In a flash, the Vale was gone, torn from Azyr and pulled somewhere new. Unable to ground itself anywhere along its course, the surging Ur-River ripped the City into the Aetheric Void, the space between realms, as the arcane cataclysm shattered the place where the Vale had once stood.
From its tallest spires, to the depths of the Wards, from the Signarch Basin to the Dreamer’s Gate, the City stood tall, safe at last from Za’loc-ta’s invasion- but cast into the shadow between realms carved by the Ur-River’s transit.