Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The golden knight has done this to me. Something about him has turned me into a little girl again. I look down at the floor to give myself a reminder of the truth. The Anvil is hundreds of miles long and every inch is carpeted with shattered human teeth. This, I remind myself, is the true story of the Kharvall Steppe.

Hakh spends ten minutes or so inspecting his defences and berating Vhaal, but I can see his mind is elsewhere. His violence is cursory and half-hearted. Barely a dozen sentries have felt the sharp end of his sword tonight and, as soon as he reaches a watchtower, he heads back inside, taking me with him.

He leads the way through a series of skull-choked passageways and corpse-strewn antechambers until we come to a large, barred door. Guards step from the torchlight to challenge us, then quickly salute as they see Hakh’s bulk.

Vhaal steps forward and shoves one of them towards the lock, and we are shown into a long, rectangular chamber. The guards rush to light the torches, disturbing clouds of dust as they clatter back and forth. It’s clear nobody has been in here for a long time. As the flames sputter into life I see why — this is a repository of knowledge and learning, which are not Hakh’s favoured subjects. Maps and charts cover the walls and there are tables piled with obscure astrological devices and books.

Hakh catches my surprised expression and looks even more furious than usual. It almost seems that he is embarrassed.

‘Where is he?’ he grunts, waving his sword at the maps.

I realise that I’ve not been clear. Whoever this Tylos is, he is about to present himself at the foot of the Anvil. Hakh has no need to go trekking across the steppe to find him. I’m about to explain this when I realise how stupid that would be.

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ I lie. ‘But I know where he’s headed.’

Hakh nods, tapping his sword impatiently against the floor.

I stroll across the chamber to the window and beckon him to follow. There I point at the butchered landscape that lies beyond the Anvil.

On this side of the wall, the steppe leads to a blinding expanse of lava. It stretches three miles to the east, where it spits angrily onto a distant, fume-shrouded shore — a black horseshoe of basalt that rises even higher than the Anvil. Even from here I can glimpse our destination — the prize that the lake protects. Even through the smoke I see a flash of bronze; a brazen warning beneath the gathering clouds.

Hakh nods slowly. ‘Of course. The Crucible of Blood. The golden warlord seeks a route to Khorne. He seeks daemonhood.’

Even after all I’ve witnessed, I’m momentarily stunned by how moronic he is.

‘He isn’t going to find Khorne,’ I explain. ‘He doesn’t worship your god. Think of how he looked in all that golden finery. He’s dressed in tribute to the other gods — beings who ruled before you came. He imagines himself as a hero from some older, nobler age. He hasn’t come to pass through the gate — he means to conquer it.’

I see rage growing in Hakh’s eyes as I dare to lecture him, so I change tack quickly. ‘Just think of what it would mean if you could stop him. The Blood God would see without a doubt who should be lord of the Kharvall Steppe.’

Vhaal nods with his usual ironic smile. ‘Amakhus and the other warlords would have no choice but to kneel to you.’

Hakh grips the lintel so tightly that his gauntleted hands start to crumble the masonry. He glares at the captain. ‘They would never kneel. Nor would I give them chance. Once my lord has made me a prince, I’ll use their skin for banners.’

I nod. ‘Heroes forgot this kingdom a long time ago. I don’t know what brought Tylos here now, but you could wait an age and not see his like again. If you seek a chance to prove your worth, this is it.’

Hakh takes a ragged breath and backs away from the window. ‘When? How long will I have to gather my armies? They’re scattered along every mile of this wall. When will he reach the crucible?’

I frown, genuinely unsure. I barely touched Tylos’ mind, but I sense that he understands the Crucible of Blood. I think he knows what will happen when the sun rises. ‘He means to reach it before dawn.’

Hakh spits. ‘Dawn? That leaves me no time at all. Dawn is a few hours away.’

‘What time do you need?’ I ask, surprised by my growing confidence. ‘What do you need to stop one knight and a few of his men?’

Hakh stares at me, and I curse myself for overplaying my hand. Vhaal steps closer, lifting his axe.

Hakh throws back his head and laughs. ‘You have more guts than any of these worms, Vourla.’ He waves at Vhaal. ‘If you were a man and less of a runt, I’d give you his axe.’

I shrug, hoping he can’t see how close I was to running.

‘The golden warlord can dress up as any god he likes,’ continues Hakh. ‘It won’t fix his head any tighter to his neck.’

He turns to Vhaal. ‘Gather the Blood Creed.’

‘All of them?’ Vhaal’s cheeks glisten as his smile widens.

There’s a clicking sound as Hakh rolls his head back around his shoulders. I presume he’s about to take the captain’s head, but he just laughs. ‘No. I’ll take half of them. That will be enough. You wait here with the rest of them. Someone needs to guard this place against old women and peasants. And you can prepare my victory feast.’ He waves at the window. ‘There must be a few hovels left. Find me some new meat.’

Vhaal’s grin freezes on his face. After a pause, he gives a stiff bow and departs. I hear him barking out the call to muster as he strides down the passageway and before long I hear the braying of tuneless horns echoing along the battlements.

‘Will you leave straight away?’ I ask.

In reply, Hakh drags me out into the courtyard and within half an hour we’re mounted up and riding east across the steppe, with the spires of the Anvil disappearing into the haze behind us. We ride on huge, iron-clad monsters and I can feel evil simmering through the metal saddle beneath me. Death is rushing towards me now, but so is my chance; my one chance to strike a blow.

The voice is still there, whispering urgently at the back of my thoughts, but its power is gone. I’m no longer Drus Unaki, the man who let Ghuldiz burn; I am Drusus Unbound. I have been given a second chance. Sigmar’s heralds follow my command and I am trusted. Tylos has given me duty and hope and, by all the fire that burns in my wings, I will give him victory.

We’re flying so high that the Anvil looks like a nest of knotted serpents — a poisonous tanlge of guardians encircling the entire steppe with their crest of spine-like towers and countless crimson eyes. I lead my men into a dive and as the ground rushes towards us it’s hard to remain calm. These are the towers that encircled Ghuldiz and Tersoos. These are the fires that burned down those ageless, jasper halls. These are the serpents that took my life.

The voices in my head grow louder, but I refuse to listen.

As the final wisps of cloud part, I see the Anvil appear in lurid detail. It’s actually two walls — we are flying towards an outer curtain wall protecting a space like the outer ward of a castle. A hundred feet beyond that, a taller, inner wall rises up into the clouds. Two parallel lines of impenetrable rock. The whole structure is mind-numbingly huge and the towers that punctuate it are built around slender white spires, like huge, petrified talons. I remember my purpose and look back at the outer wall.

This will be easier than Tylos imagined.

The guardians of the Anvil are spilling out of their fortress. There are hundreds of the bare-chested berserkers we fought on the bridge — bloodreavers, Tylos called them — but they are striding out into the darkness as though preparing for a hunt. From my vantage point I can see my brother Stormcasts advancing through the Field of Blades towards them, but the bloodreavers are oblivious. I have to stifle my laughter.