Gotrek Gurnisson
Ghoulslayer
(Darius Hinks)
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 creations.
The Age of Sigmar had begun.
Prologue
One by one, the lights began to fade. They burned brighter for a moment, like votives kindled by a breath, then blinked into oblivion. All across the Eventide they slipped from view, and a shroud spread over the sea, mobile and impenetrable, consuming everything.
‘What is it?’ whispered Veliger. He was at the uppermost rib of the Twelfth Prominent, resting his elbow on the head of his scythe, leaning out from the battlements. He had manned the walls for decades, but he had never seen anything like this. ‘There’s Lord Samorin,’ he whispered as, several leagues away, the Sixth Prominent pulsed brighter, its shell-like whirl illuminating the waves before the fortress sank from view, adding another pool of darkness to the growing void. Before the light faded something shimmered over the Eventide. It looked like gossamer caught in the breeze. ‘Rain?’ said Veliger, but there was something odd about how it flashed and banked.
Veliger wore the uniform of the Gravesward – a thick cloak of glossy white feathers clasped at the neck with an iron skull brooch and draped over lacquered black armour. He pulled the cloak closer as a breeze whipped through the shadows, even colder than usual, tightening around his chest and snatching his breath.
‘And there goes Lord Ophion,’ replied the figure next to him as another temple grew suddenly brighter. Meraspis wore the same uniform as Veliger. He was also carrying a scythe and a tall white shield designed to resemble a wing. Like Veliger, his head was gaunt, pale and hairless, but he was older, his forehead networked by lines and locked in a permanent frown.
They watched in silence as the fortress blazed then sank into the sea.
Veliger turned to look at the walls behind them, half expecting the light of their own temple to be fading. The Twelfth Prominent was unchanged. It was a mountainous edifice – a crumbling, spiral curve of bone, perched at the crest of an ancient, dusty wave. Souls burned at its heart like purple fire, bleeding through its walls, spilling amethyst over the peaks and troughs of the Eventide, and the fortress’ outline was clouded by white moths, circling in their millions like sea spray crashing over a hull. Light shimmered across the moths, radiated through the walls and flashed in Veliger’s eyes as he looked at Meraspis.
‘What’s happening?’
Meraspis did not seem to hear. He kept his gaze on the horizon. ‘What if they all vanish?’
Veliger looked up at the heavens, imagining a world without light. The stars would not help – they were ghosts, echoes of the living realms, with no interest in illuminating the underworlds of Shyish. Without the light of the prominents, the Eventide would be in darkness.
As he stared into the growing darkness, Veliger heard an unfamiliar sound. It was like pebbles clattering across a table. At first it was distant and gentle, but as the minutes passed it grew louder, becoming a roar.
The two men looked at each other in confusion as millions of white shards rattled across the Eventide. The sea that had never moved suddenly looked storm-tossed, and as the downpour moved closer it crashed violently against the fortress walls, filling the night with a deafening roar.
Meraspis stepped forwards and reached out from the embrasure. ‘Is that hail?’
Then he cursed and whirled away from Veliger, hissing in pain and clutching his hand.
‘What?’ cried Veliger, rushing over to him.
Meraspis shook his head, hunched over and gripping his hand. ‘By the Shroud,’ he muttered.
Veliger helped him stand, then gasped. Meraspis’ flesh had been torn apart. The rain had punched through his skin and bone, tearing the ligaments so badly that his hand looked like a scrap of bloody meat.
Meraspis cradled his butchered hand in his good one, groaning, cursing and staring at the rain.
Most of the shards had punched straight through his palm, but one of them was still wedged between his knuckles, gleaming white against the dark, exposed flesh.
Veliger gently plucked it from the wound and peered at it. ‘Bone?’
They both looked out at the storm, baffled.
Veliger dropped the shard and quickly bandaged Meraspis’ hand. The cuts were deep. He doubted the hand could be saved. But he could at least stem the bleeding.
Meraspis grimaced as Veliger worked, but did not cry out, despite the terrible pain he must be in.
‘We should go to Lord Aurun,’ he said hoarsely.
Veliger looked south to their nearest neighbour, the Barren Points. It was still smouldering with a steady, unruffled light.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Lord Aurun will know what to do. He’ll know what this is.’
Meraspis straightened up and clutched his broken hand to his chest. ‘Look,’ he said, nodding out across the battlements. ‘It’s stopping.’
The storm was already fading, the bone shards hitting the walls with less violence as the clouds rushed off to the south.
They watched the storm move away across the Eventide, still shocked by what had happened, then Veliger fastened his helmet and checked that the rest of his armour was fully attached, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs. ‘Aurun will know what this means. It will only take a couple of hours to get there.’
Meraspis shook his head. ‘We can’t leave the Unburied unattended. You go. I would slow you down anyway. I will wait here and tend to my wounds.’
Veliger hesitated, looking at Meraspis’ hand, then nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll find a Cerement priest. I’ll bring him back with me.’
Meraspis waved to the stairs. ‘Just go. And go quickly.’ He looked up at the clouds. ‘Even your armour might not protect you for long if that storm comes back.’
Each fortress was linked to its neighbour by a bridge, miles-long walkways slung from the gates like iron tendrils. The bridges were called wynds, and they stretched over the Eventide in graceful arcs. Some were only wide enough for five men to pass down them side by side, others were vast highways, and all of them were illuminated by the light of the temples at each end. As Veliger sprinted down the south wynd, his boots clanged against the ancient metal, scattering dust and moths. It was a long time since anyone had passed this way. Each fortress was almost self-sufficient, able to feed its garrison for months before requiring new supplies from the capital. The guards at the Barren Points would be shocked to see him rushing towards them. No, he realised, correcting himself, they would not. They must have seen the lights fading too. They would know exactly why he was coming.