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  ~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

  THE GATES OF AZYR

  An Age of Sigmar novella

  LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR: OMNIBUS 1

  An Age of Sigmar omnibus

  HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  NAGASH: THE UNDYING KING

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  SOUL WARS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  ~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

  WAR STORM

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  GHAL MARAZ

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  HAMMERS OF SIGMAR

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  CALL OF ARCHAON

  An Age of Sigmar anthology

  WARDENS OF THE EVERQUEEN

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  WARBEAST

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  FURY OF GORK

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  BLADESTORM

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  MORTARCH OF NIGHT

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  LORD OF UNDEATH

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  ~ LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

  CITY OF SECRETS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  FYRESLAYERS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  SKAVEN PESTILENS

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  BLACK RIFT

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  SYLVANETH

  An Age of Sigmar novel

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  Warhammer Age of Sigmar

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Soul Wars’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

  Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

  But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

  Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.

  The Age of Sigmar had begun.

  Chapter One

  Sunlight trickled down through the canopy of violet leaves and crystalline tree trunks to cast a shimmering amethyst glow across the jungle floor. Shev Arclis knelt, stretched out a hand and let the light play across her fingers. Around her, a cacophony of life screeched, clicked and howled. Disc-shaped beetles buzzed by, mandibles twitching. She waved a hand to shoo them away, and their iridescent bodies flashed from blue to a bright red as they zoomed off into the treeline.

  Truly, the jungles of the Taloncoast would be a beautiful place, if they weren’t quite so intent on killing her. She reached back and unclipped a flask from her belt. It was worryingly light in her hands. The journey had taken far longer than she had hoped, and the sweltering heat had hardly helped. She let several drops of precious water drip onto her tongue.

  Scuffed footsteps sounded behind her, and a familiar stench of stale sweat and gunji-smoke wafted through the trees. She sighed, and turned. There he was, of course. Her shadow. His beady, rheumy eyes narrowed in a suspicious frown, while he panted like a hound worn out from the heat, exposing a row of blackened teeth.

  ‘What’re you sneakin’ off for, aelf?’ he hissed. ‘Tryin’ to leave us behind, I reckon.’

  ‘Where exactly would I run off to, cretin?’ she snarled back. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Howle, there’s several hundred leagues of lethal wilderness between us and any scrap of civilisation.’

  Howle’s eyes narrowed even further and, as if by magic, a crude, saw-bladed dagger appeared in one hand and a barbed hook in the other. He trembled with barely contained rage.

  ‘You speak to me like that again, I’ll carve up the other side of your face,’ he said. ‘You won’t be even half pretty by the time I’m done with you.’

  Shev rose slowly, moving one hand to her belt and the dagger stowed there. She smiled through the cold rage that filled her, and felt the familiar tautness on the left side of her jaw, where a web of scarred flesh met her upper lip. She’d had just about enough of Howle’s taunts, muttered threats and stares. Shev didn’t know quite why the old brute had it in for her so badly, but her patience was at an end.

  ‘You don’t frighten me, Howle,’ she said. ‘So why don’t you–’

  ‘Enough,’ interrupted a voice, soft and measured. Not a threatening sound, but both she and Howle took a step back nonetheless.

  The Golden Lord stepped into the clearing. Despite the stifling heat, he still wore thick black robes and an undercoat of leather, revealing not a hint of bare skin. An impassive death-mask of gold gazed at them both as the figure leaned upon his bla
ck-iron staff. Not for the first time, Shev felt a shiver of unease trickle down her back.

  ‘We are near,’ said the Golden Lord. ‘I require you to be alert and attentive, not with daggers at each other’s throats. The city of Quatzhymos awaits. Madame Arclis, please lead the way. Howle, sheathe your blade.’

  The man had never once raised his voice in her presence, never threatened or struck anyone. And yet a murderous piece of filth like Howle, a thug who’d spent his entire life killing others for profit or enjoyment, obeyed the order at once. That disturbed Shev more than any grandiose posturing or outburst of sudden violence could have.

  More figures appeared, filtering through the crystal trees. Her companions. Thieves, fugitives and killers to a soul. They were dressed in a variety of hides, leathers and scraps of metal, and doused in sweat and grime. The journey from Maggerhorne had been long and hard, and only around fifty or so specimens remained – the toughest­ of the Golden Lord’s band. They were among the most repulsive men and women Shev had ever had the misfortune of encountering, and in her line of work, that was a truly impressive feat. Not for the first time, she questioned her wisdom in agreeing to this commission before striding off through the wilds.

  Think of the prize, she reminded herself. Quatzhymos – the ancient library-city, final resting place of Occlesius the Realms-Walker. It was here, somewhere in this valley, and she never would have found it without the Golden Lord’s knowledge. How the reams of dusty tomes and yellow maps had entered his possession, she could not say, for they were relics of a bygone age. Combining these priceless treasures with her own research, a lifetime’s worth of exploring ruins and long-abandoned tombs across the wilds of the Shattered Coast, of studying, recovering and analysing, they had pieced together the truth – the true location of the Realms-Walker’s tomb.

  It had not been easy. These lands had changed so much, even in the last few hundred years. It was the way of things along the Taloncoast, far to the north of Excelsis, outside the great city’s sphere of influence. Mountain ranges erupted from the land like enormous fangs, breaking the verdant earth then swallowing it beneath their rocky mass. The raging seas gnawed at the coast, opening new tributaries and headwaters. Maps became hopelessly outdated in only a few decades as this endlessly predatory realm devoured then reshaped itself.

  Yet some things survived. Like this hidden valley, encircled by jagged cliffs, locked away from the world. Quatzhymos, where great scholars from across the Mortal Realms had once gathered to store and disperse their knowledge amongst peers. Where the body of Occlesius, the most prestigious thinker, scientist and inventor of his age was interred.

  Shev’s steps grew lighter as she thought about the secrets that awaited her. The fresh mysteries that would inevitably arise from her discoveries.

  ‘I apologise for the quality of servants I must rely upon,’ came a voice at her side. It was the gold-masked lord. ‘Reliable souls are a rare breed these days, and so we must… compromise.’

  Shev shook her head. ‘You’re clearly a learned man. How did you ever find yourself working with this scum?’

  There was a muffled choking sound, and Shev glanced at the man. She realised it was laughter – coarse and painful.

  ‘I ask myself that very same question every day,’ he said. ‘The truth is that we do not live in an age of enlightenment, Madame Arclis. Reasoned, thinking people such as we are so few. Killers, however? They abound. We live in an age of war and bloodshed. In such times, we must be realistic.’

  He rested a hand on her arm. The metal was icy against her bare skin. This close to the man, she could smell scented oils and a faint whiff of smoke, as if someone had stirred the ashes of a dead fire. She glanced into the black recesses of his mask’s eye sockets, and despite herself, she couldn’t suppress a shiver as she glimpsed a pair of cold, flint eyes staring back. She had never dared to ask why the Golden Lord did not reveal his face. She presumed he bore the scars of a hard life, much as she did. Yet Shev had never felt a desire to hide her disfigurement from the world.

  ‘These brutes will earn their gold, and go back to their wasteful, cruel lives a little richer,’ he whispered. ‘You and I will discover the truths that are buried here. And then we will move on, seeking the answers to the next mystery. This is how we change the world.’

  Chapter Two

  For hours, they walked on through the stifling humidity, too hot and miserable to speak. Shev struggled up steep slopes of stinking clay, trying to ignore the barbs and thorns that tore at her clothes and flesh. That same clay came in particularly useful when they passed a dozen bloodwasp hives, smearing the stuff all over their bodies to avoid the insects’ agonising stings. Of course, once out of danger they were forced to endure the itching as the stinking mess dried on their skin. Shev counted herself in good health, but soon even she was panting as she hacked her way through the tangled undergrowth. Howle kept close, as he always did, and she was uncomfortably aware of his dead-eyed gaze despite the fact she never turned to meet it.

  After some time, they heard the trickle of running water. Some of the others sighed in relief, and she heard the clinking of metal as they retrieved their flasks and waterskins, hoping to refresh their dwindling supplies. Shev paused, hunched down and surveyed their surroundings. The thickest of the jungle had recently given way to a sparse woodland, dotted with tall, thin blackwood trees. Purple and red leaves pooled around their ankles. They were traversing a shallow incline, at the foot of which ran a brook of crystal-clear water. The air was entirely still – quiet save for the occasional avian trill. Too quiet.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, softly. ‘We should take care here. Check the area before we–’

  Guirre, the big Sayronite, shouldered her aside. His great, bald dome of a head glistened in the sunlight, and he hefted his great poleaxe as he strode towards the stream, waterskin in hand.

  ‘You wait,’ he growled. ‘We’ve been walking for days. We stop here and drink.’

  Several others followed him, stowing blades and blackpowder pieces. The Golden Lord appeared by her side, grasping his staff tightly.

  ‘You see something?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Shev replied, frowning as she watched two sellswords laughing raucously and splashing water at each other. ‘But we should move away from here. This is the only source of water we’ve seen in two days. Every predator within fifty leagues will know of it.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we need water,’ said the masked man, addressing those who had stayed back. Many of the Golden Lord’s band had learned to heed Shev’s advice. ‘Let us refill our skins, but Madame Arclis is correct. Do not lower your guard.’

  More men and women bounded down to the stream. The Golden Lord stayed at her side, however, observing from a distance. Shev’s parched throat ached as she watched the sellswords gulp down handfuls of water, but she had long ago learned to trust her instincts, and right now every fibre of her being was screaming at her to leave this clearing.

  Two of the Golden Lord’s men began to trudge back up the hill to re-join the main group. They were chuckling at some joke and brushing the remnants of smeared clay from their bare arms.

  Out of the trees, a creature with a horned, quadruped form barrelled into them. Its horns locked under the first man’s legs, and the huge, grey-skinned beast bucked its head, sending him soaring a dozen feet into the air. It reared up and raked two great claws across the second man’s chest. There was a spurt of crimson, and the unfortunate sellsword toppled to the ground, ribs exposed through his torn overshirt. The beast roared triumphantly. Beneath its horned brow was a broad, flat snout and a maw filled with jagged teeth. It was large, but not bulky, instead possessing the sleek muscles of a hunting feline. Several strange, perforated chimneys made of bleached bone rose along its flank. They seemed to pulse with a dim orange light.

  A brachitor, Shev realised with a shiver. She’d heard trackers speak o
f the beasts often, and always with a tone of dread.

  ‘Don’t get close to it!’ she shouted.

  Guirre and his band already had their weapons in hand. If they heard her, they showed no sign of following her advice. They started to loose crossbow bolts at the creature, which pressed itself close to the ground and then bounded into the stream, battering one unfortunate woman with its great, curved horns. She flipped over in the air, then splashed into the water and did not move. Guirre ducked the swipe of a clawed forelimb, and hacked his poleaxe along the beast’s flank. It screeched in pained fury as more sellswords darted in to score slashes across its hind legs. More warriors began to sprint down the slope towards the melee, sensing an easy kill and perhaps a chance to claim a trophy.

  They were almost upon it when the strange growths lining the beast’s hide erupted, sending a great cloud of fiery dust into the air. The sellswords staggered to a halt. Gasping, they clawed at their eyes and throats. A number toppled to the ground where they rolled and twitched as if struck by invisible blades. Then the screaming started. Guirre, who had been immediately beside the beast when it had released its spores, was the loudest. He dropped to the soil and curled into a foetal ball, his weapon forgotten, bellowing like a frightened auroch. The brachitor lowered its head over the prone Sayronite, and there was an audible crunch of bone. His screams cut off abruptly.

  ‘Please stay here, Madame Arclis,’ said the Golden Lord, hefting his staff. It was an unnecessary order. Shev had no intention of getting in that thing’s way.

  As they watched, astonished, the masked man strode through the swirling spores, showing no sign of discomfort or pain. He stood there, amidst the orange haze, and slammed his staff upon the ground. Once, twice. Three times.

  The brachitor raised its great head and growled. Its jaws were smeared with blood, and its eyes, small and beady in the centre of that great maw, were pinpoints of blazing yellow.

  It sprang towards the Golden Lord, a flashing blur of grey. A dozen paces away, it leapt, soaring through the air with its razor-edged claws outstretched.

  The Golden Lord moved with almost unnatural speed, raising his staff in two hands and shouting a single word in a language that Shev did not understand. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. There was a crack like a gunshot, and a blinding flash of light. When Shev had finished blinking away the afterimage, she saw the small man standing there, totally unperturbed. The brachitor was several feet away, slumped on its side, its grey hide blackened and scarred as if left to char on a fire. Wisps of smoke rose from its broken body.