The scroll fizzled under my nose.
Now, it has never been any secret that I find the written word disturbing. Trapping a man’s words and thoughts, his soul even, on parchment or tablet still seems to me like witchcraft and I avoid it where I can.
An awkward second passed between us in which neither moved or spoke.
‘Urgent was Akturus’ word, lord,’ said the Prosecutor, the formality of his address slipping. ‘Not mine.’
I sighed.
If in doubt, bluff it out.
‘Read it to me as we go.’ I turned my back, picked a direction from the frostbitten scabgrass and sand-coloured rushes of the Nevermarsh in what I was sure was an authoritative manner and started walking.
‘Yes, lord.’
The sounds of hammering and sawing and the strains of an ogor working song faded quickly as I strode into the marsh, swallowed by the chirp of predatory birds and biting insects. I idly swatted at a few. Largely out of habit. Most things in Ghur would try to eat you one way or another, but there wasn’t much out there that would willingly make a meal out of the storm-fused flesh and blessed sigmarite of a Stormcast Eternal.
The realm’s erratic sun was just pushing over the horizon, kissing every leaf and frond with amber lips. It was beautiful. From behind me, there came a faint crack as the Prosecutor broke the lightning seal and unrolled the scroll.
‘Brother Castellant,’ he read aloud. ‘Praise Sigmar, for he has noted your abrupt absence and seen fit to reinforce the Seven Words until your prompt return. Lord-Veritant Vikaeus Creed did arrive this morn at the head of the Drakwards, Exemplar Chamber of the Knights Merciless, to–’
I grumbled under my breath, missing whatever it was that the Prosecutor said next.
Vikaeus and I had what you could call a history.
She thought me foolhardy and arrogant. Actually, she still does, and nor is she exactly wrong. Foolishness and arrogance are two of my finest qualities, virtues to which too few amongst the Stormhosts can lay claim. I, for my part, have always been underwhelmed by the Lord-Veritant’s much vaunted gift for prophecy. While it is true that she accurately prophesied the coming of the White Pox to the Valdenmoor, and foretold of Skulla Gashamna’s ascension to daemonhood months before Lord-Ordinator Vorrus Starstrike read it in the stars, her warnings of my imminent self-inflicted demise had thus far all come to naught.
‘Still waiting for that vermintide she foresaw swallowing the Seven Words, I imagine,’ I said.
‘The Lord-Castellant did not impart that detail, lord.’
‘I bet he didn’t. Did he impart anything else?’
‘Yes, lord. He asked me to tell you that he prays for your swift return, and to remind you that the slight raised against his honour still stands.’
I said nothing to that.
Akturus Ironheel commanded a warrior chamber known as the Imperishables, a force numbering some four hundred souls. As a Lord-Castellant, we were equivalent in rank, but utterly dissimilar in character. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer, the Stormhost to which the Imperishables belonged, were a force of black repute, assembled from the heroes of empires long-dead and hammered into being while the Mallus turned under a darksome phase.
Or so their lords-relictor claim, and good luck to them, for no one knows better the power of a fearsome legend than I.
‘It was meant in jest,’ I said. ‘He enjoys it.’
‘He has already prepared the ring for ritual combat, lord. All of the Seven Words are eager for your return.’ It could just have been me, but I was certain I heard a smirk in the winged warrior’s voice.
Akturus might have preferred sitting in a castle to taking one, and despised the untamed Ghurlands as much as I hated being bottled up in the Seven Words, but he was the most vicious and underhanded fighter I have ever had the misfortune to cross in all my centuries of war. I swear, he knew the weaknesses of aegis armour and the pressure points of a Stormcast Eternal’s body the way a Lord-Castellant should know bricks and mortar.
And he was touchy about the honour of his war name, as I had recently learned.
‘Not nearly as eager as I am,’ I said, though I would have rather challenged the entire Drakwards Exemplar Chamber than entertain Akturus in the ring. If there’s one thing people admire more than a victor, it’s a bold loser, and being batted around the Seven Words by a Dracoth or two would at least be a moral triumph of sorts.
The Prosecutor chuckled, which I took as more comradely than mocking. It was easy to forget sometimes that the Imperishables were as human beneath their armour as I.
I sighed. I supposed that my reputation could afford to suffer a knock or two, taken in good spirits.
Suddenly, I stopped walking, holding up my hand as I stared into the endless marsh. It was called the Nevermarsh for a reason.
‘The thought occurs. I have no idea where I’m going.’
The Prosecutor gestured back the way we had come. ‘This way, lord. I am not the only bringer of news.’
Chapter two
Augus Ayr Augellon, King of the Aetar, turned his hooked bill to me and shrieked. The two eagles perched awkwardly on the solid earth behind their liege scraped their talons through the frozen mud and bobbed their heads in agreement. The Eagle King stamped his feet, throat ribbing up and down, and issued a volley of scathing cries.
Ears ringing, I glanced at Barbarus.
In another life, the Knight-Venator had been hetman of a mountain tribe. He had called himself King in the Sky, demonstrating in abundance the vainglory that I look for in my Bear-Eaters. He had made allegiance with the birds of the air for tales of the world below his fastness. It had been the star-eagle, Nubia, who had come to him in that bygone age to warn him of the dawning of the Age of Chaos. The Celestial eagles enjoyed something akin to genuine immortality, and she was beside him still, pecking deliberately at the side of his helmet as Augus scraped at the ground and cawed.
‘He says that the enemy is less than half an hour away,’ Barbarus translated for me, hesitantly. ‘I… think he means flying, however. I’d say we could be on their encampment by evening. Unless night falls early today.’
That wasn’t as improbable as it might sound. Ghur’s amber sun was a wild beast, always looking to slip its leash. The experienced Ghurite knew to give sunrise a couple of hours’ grace either way.
Augus delivered another blasting shriek, which I took for a ‘yes’.
Barbarus pointed towards the hostile, climbing sun. ‘Both the Blind Herd and the Legion of Bloat are to be found that way. In strength.’
‘How many?’ I asked, directing my question at Augus. The aetar king gave an aggrieved caw.
‘Strength,’ said Barbarus, apologetically.
The aetar have many fine qualities, but high number counting is not one of them.
‘What of their leaders?’
Manguish, the Bloatlord, was a recent arrival in my territory. Hearing of the destruction of the Gorwood’s incumbent war bands he had brought his forces across the Nevermarsh in an attempt to carve out his own territory. He was nothing. If he had been unable to assert his will amongst his rivals, then he was certainly not going to start asserting it over me. Brayseer Kurzog on the other hand was an entirely different animal. Touched by the Changer of the Ways, he was a wily old goat. Literally, as it goes. He had been giving me the runaround for almost a year. Not that I wouldn’t rather be chasing his beast herds through the Gorwood than finding new ways to dodge Akturus or irritate the Listening Order back in the Seven Words, but enough was enough. I had a reputation to look to, and had finally driven both of them across the river and into each other’s arms.