Oaths and Conquests Read online

  Collections

  THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1

  Various authors

  Contains the novels The Gates of Azyr, War Storm, Ghal Maraz, Hammers of Sigmar, Wardens of the Everqueen and Black Rift

  THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2

  Various authors

  Contains the novels Call of Achaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, ­Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

  LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR

  Various authors

  An anthology of short stories

  RULERS OF THE DEAD

  David Annandale & Josh Reynolds

  Contains the novels Neferata: Mortarch of Blood and Nagash: The Undying King

  WARCRY

  Various authors

  An anthology of short stories

  GODS & MORTALS

  Various authors

  An anthology of short stories

  MYTHS & REVENANTS

  Various authors

  An anthology of short stories

  Novels

  • Hallowed Knights •

  Josh Reynolds

  Book One: PLAGUE GARDEN

  Book Two: BLACK PYRAMID

  EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS

  Josh Reynolds

  • Kharadron Overlords •

  C L Werner

  Book One: OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON

  Book Two: PROFIT’S RUIN

  SOUL WARS

  Josh Reynolds

  CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD

  Nick Horth

  THE TAINTED HEART

  C L Werner

  SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY

  Josh Reynolds

  BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK

  Andy Clark

  HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS

  David Guymer

  WARCRY

  Various authors

  SCOURGE OF FATE

  Robbie MacNiven

  THE RED FEAST

  Gav Thorpe

  GLOOMSPITE

  Andy Clark

  GHOULSLAYER

  Darius Hinks

  BEASTGRAVE

  C L Werner

  NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES

  David Annandale

  THE COURT OF THE BLIND KING

  David Guymr

  Novellas

  CITY OF SECRETS

  Nick Horth

  THIEVES’ PARADISE

  Nick Horth

  CODE OF THE SKIES

  Graeme Lyon

  THE MEASURE OF IRON

  Jamie Crisalli

  Audio Dramas

  • Realmslayer: A Gotrek Gurnisson Series •

  David Guymer

  Boxed Set One: REALMSLAYER

  Boxed Set Two: BLOOD OF THE OLD WORLD

  THE BEASTS OF CARTHA

  David Guymer

  FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK

  David Guymer

  GREAT RED

  David Guymer

  ONLY THE FAITHFUL

  David Guymer

  THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN

  Josh Reynolds

  SANDS OF BLOOD

  Josh Reynolds

  THE LORDS OF HELSTONE

  Josh Reynolds

  THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS

  Josh Reynolds

  WAR-CLAW

  Josh Reynolds

  SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS

  Various authors

  THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS

  Nick Kyme

  THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES

  Various authors

  Contents

  Cover

  Backlist

  Title Page

  Warhammer Age of Sigmar

  The Fist of an Angry God

  The Garden of Mortal Delights

  Shriekstone

  The Serpent’s Bargain

  A Tithe of Bone

  Beneath the Rust

  The Unlamented Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus

  The Siege of Greenspire

  Ghosts of Khaphtar

  Bossgrot

  Ashes of Grimnir

  Blessed Oblivion

  Blood of the Flayer

  About the Authors

  An Extract from ‘Profit’s Ruin’

  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 creations.

  The Age of Sigmar had begun.

  THE FIST OF AN ANGRY GOD

  William King

  All around, the buildings pulsed. Tall crystal towers flickered from pink to orange to lime, then for an eye-deceiving moment looked like ordinary stone before beginning their kaleidoscopic shimmering once more. Their ever-changing radiance transformed the underbelly of the red storm clouds of Aqshy into something far more sinister.

  Balthus had a moment to notice this after he dispatched the blue horror with his blade. The thing burst asunder in a shower of ­magical sparks, the last of its foul kind to fall in this skirmish. A sense of relief filled him. No matter how many times he faced these creatures of Chaos, he always feared the things might go on splitting and repli­cating forever.

  He wondered whether the city’s unnatural light served any purpose other than to confuse the eye and make the mind wander, then realised that as far as the worshippers of Tzeentch were concerned that was probably enough.

  Thunder boomed. Lightning slashed the sky then struck the nearest tower. At the point of impact, the shimmering lights went out, their colours frozen at the instant when Sigmar’s wrath descended. On the rooftops and battlements, the lightning coalesced into the massive armoured forms of Balthus’ fellow Stormcast Eternals. A Judicator unit seemed born of the storm, crackling missiles pouring from their shockbolt bows, raking the oncoming wave of acolytes from above and to the flank, smiting them with the chained ­lightning of Sigmar.

  The Chaos worshippers fell, only to be replaced by tzaangors – horned and beaked beastmen who howled and shrieked as they advanced, brandishing their massive blades in challenge. Still, fewer of them were
sallying forth to face the wrath of the Stormcasts. Was it possible that their reserves were finally running out?

  Balthus gestured for his men to follow, sweeping his sword downwards and pointing with its lightning-lit tip to where the strongest enemy loomed. Just for a moment, he felt a sense of deja vu. He had made the gesture a score of times since his reforging, but it always felt like the thousandth time, as if he were repeating something from a previous life.

  He raced forward, broken shards of crystal turning to powder beneath his armoured feet, releasing the smell of incense, lovely at first but with a sickly aftertaint – a smell he had come to associate with the cultists of the Changer of Ways and their sorcerous rituals.

  ‘Onwards, brothers! We’re almost there. Just one last push!’

  The Liberators responded to their Prime’s shout, their war cries torn from their throats: ‘For Sigmar! For the storm eternal!’ They raced towards the daemonic horde, determined to take revenge for the enslavement of their realms and the killing of their kin.

  It would be soon now. This was the last of the nine great fortresses of Azumbard. Over the past eight months, the others had fallen one by one to the fury of Sigmar’s faithful, their sorcerous defences cracked, their fanatical occupants slain, and their souls sent tumbling to ­eternal damnation. Now the last citadel loomed. It had held out longest, its approaches trapped, its walls seemingly insuperable, protected by the mighty magics bound into every stone.

  There had been times when Balthus had almost despaired. Almost. They had fought for every stride of their advance. Slowly, pace by pace, they had taken the surrounding territory. It seemed at last that victory was within their grasp. This area would be cleansed, purified and freed from the taint of Chaos.

  He lengthened his stride, determined not to let any warrior of his chamber plunge into the melee before him. He leapt a low crystal wall and aimed a blow at the twisted, bird-beaked features of a tzaangor, his blade arcing down, splitting its skull and splattering brain stuff in the faces of the surrounding cultists.

  He stormed through the ranks of the Arcanites, killing a score, their weapons bouncing off his armour, each blade making the heavy sigmarite ring.

  He fought his way into an open square, flanked by defensive towers. Once again, he was struck by the resemblance of the place to somewhere he had once known. There was a sense of having been here before, but he could not say why.

  Perhaps it was the resonance of the incomprehensible sorcery of the Tzeentchians. They often worked strange spells, the purpose of which no sane mind could understand. Over the long months of fighting, there had been moments when Balthus had seen the shouts of his foes and felt the sounds of their battle cries in his bones. Of course, Sigmar protected him, and such lapses were soon overcome. Perhaps this was just another effect like those.

  His Liberators smashed their way to Balthus’ side, moving into tight formation around him.

  ‘We have them on the run now, Liberator-Prime!’ Tulius’ bellow carried across the din of battle. Balthus heard the confidence in his voice and the sense of inevitable victory. Today, they would win! Today this accursed place would finally fall!

  Balthus pushed the thought to one side. Victory was never certain until the last foe had fallen or fled the field. Nothing could be taken for granted, particularly not here and now. The warlord who held the tower had proven the most cunning of foes, the most tenacious of defenders. Too often in the past month, they had lost comrades when victory seemed assured. Traps had sprung. Ambushes had enveloped them. Destructive spells had torn defeat from the jaws of victory.

  ‘Perhaps they have finally run out of reinforcements,’ Pindar said, descending from above on golden wings to join his friends in the eye of this storm of sigmarite. The Prosecutor sounded cool and calm, as if he had spent the past hour soaring above quiet farmlands instead of the killing grounds outside a citadel of humanity’s greatest foes. The stormcall javelin in his hand showed his readiness for combat.

  ‘I would not count on that,’ Balthus said. ‘They always seem to be able to summon more.’

  ‘No sorcerer possesses inexhaustible reserves of energy, no citadel holds an infinite number of guardians,’ said Tulius.

  ‘It feels like this one does,’ said Balthus, wondering at the despondency he felt. Perhaps there was sorcery in the air, subtle and demoralising. He should not feel this way when the light of victory glowed in his comrades’ faces.

  ‘Look, the Towerbreaker comes. Its day has finally arrived,’ Tulius proclaimed. Balthus glanced back and saw the great battering ram carried forward by a hundred Stormcasts. Lightning glittered around its tip. ‘Let’s clear the way. No Hallowed Knight is going to beat the Knights Excelsior through the Final Gate of Azumbard!’

  They charged forward before the arcane siege engine, hewing through the last of the beastmen and clearing a red road of ruin to the pulsing gate of the citadel. A one-eyed symbol of Tzeentch blazed like the sun on its crystal frame. The heavy, regular tread of the ram bearers announced their arrival. Balthus looked up, fearing hot oil or crystal lava or noxious spells, but he saw only a scant few ­defenders, lobbing missiles desperately.

  ‘Heave,’ shouted Sacristan Engineer Sextus, positioned at the head of the ram. The Towerbreaker swung forward and hit the gate. The lightning stroke of impact blinded Balthus. When his vision cleared, he saw that the gate still stood. The air stank of ozone and incense.

  ‘Heave,’ shouted Sextus. Once more the Towerbreaker crashed into the portal. The lightning was so bright this time that Balthus feared more than temporary blindness. It took longer for his sight to return, but when it did he saw that the gate had buckled, the crystal had fractured, lines of fire spreading through a web of cracks.

  ‘Heave, brothers!’ The thunder was so loud it was deafening, the lightning so intense it felt like the end of the world. The earth trembled and the towers shook. There was a shattering sound, and the echo of a thousand tinkling bells. When Balthus opened his eyes, the gateway was gone as if it had never been.

  ‘I told you it would be so,’ said Tulius.

  Pindar was already soaring forward into the tunnel. Balthus raced after him, eyes scanning left and right, looking for murder holes, or trap runes, or arches through which their foes might pour. They encountered no resistance and emerged into a vast courtyard, and an eerie silence.

  Ahead, another archway pierced a great gatehouse, but this one had no door. It yawned before them like the gateway to Death’s realm. Balthus liked the feel of this less and less.

  He strode forward and the warriors of his chamber surged around him, racing towards the gaping entrance. Behind, he heard the feet of the Towerbreaker’s bearers as they advanced in unison, even though there seemed no gateway ahead for them to shatter.

  He wanted to shout at his companions to wait. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but they all seemed caught up in the exaltation of victory, of achieving their long-awaited goal of invading the final citadel. They rushed forward headlong, seeking foes to slay.

  Were they right to? Had the cultist attack been merely a last, suicidal sally – an attempt to drag their foes down to death with them? Balthus thought it unlikely. Their foes had shown nothing but cool cunning and determination previously. He could not believe that they had transformed into mindless berserkers in their final hours.

  Why not? part of his brain whispered. Tzeentch is the master of change. He wondered whether that thought was his, or if it had entered his brain wafted by the perfumed breeze and the sparkling air.

  Perfumed breeze? Sparkling air? His troops glanced around bewildered. Were they also victims of subtle sorcery? He clutched the amulet on his chest and the confusion receded from his mind, as the cool, clean power of Sigmar flowed into him.

  Behind him he heard the tinkling of bells, and something else, something that sounded like a portcullis dropping. He saw th
at the doorway, so recently shattered by the Towerbreaker, had reformed. The way out was blocked. Thin horns sounded. Colours swirled, forming mandalas in the air from which capering daemons spewed. From the towers around the courtyard, hordes of acolytes emerged.

  ‘Form up on me,’ Balthus shouted, rallying his men into a shield wall against which the Chaos horde would break. He knew that it would not be enough. There were too many foes and they were cut off from their own allies. For every cultist who fell, another charged forward. When a Stormcast died, they discorporated in a flash of lightning, returning to Sigmar and the storm.

  Balthus fought on till he stood atop a pile of cultist corpses. In the distance, he heard a woman’s voice cry, ‘Do not kill them all. I want one alive, for my experiments.’

  Something slammed into his head. Sparks flickered across Balthus’ field of vision. He twisted to strike at his attacker and another blow crashed into the back of his skull. He tumbled forward into darkness.

  Consciousness returned slowly. As always, fragments of dark dreams drifted up with it. He fought against a pack of daemons inside an oddly familiar palace. A shrine was defiled by the hordes of Chaos. Friends and family fell, and finally he died in a blaze of lightning. The nightmare was always the same, and he knew it was significant. He shook it off and tried to rise.

  Something restrained him. Looking down he saw he was shackled by chains that bore the sign of Tzeentch. They glowed with magical energy. The bars of the cage that surrounded him did the same. Overhead, trapped lightning crackled in a gigantic crystal sphere. On all sides mirrors echoed his motion endlessly. A look of horror flashed across his thousand faces for a moment, to be replaced by a mask of stoic calm.

  Rage rose within him, banishing the last fragment of nightmare. He remembered the trap and the strange sorcery that sprang it. He remembered his fallen comrades, returned to the storm, borne by the lightning. He threw himself forward, tugging against the chains with all his superhuman strength. They grew tight, resisted, and he tugged harder.

  ‘By all means strain against the shackles,’ said the female voice he had heard before. Its tone was cool and amused. ‘Show me how strong you really are.’

  Balthus glared around, seeking the source of the mockery. He found it below him. She looked little more than a teenager. A mass of black curls covered her head, the hair so lush and thick that it almost concealed the tips of the small horns that peeked through. Her diaphanous gown barely concealed her slim figure. A silk slipper covered one foot. Her other leg ended in a hoof that was shod in silver and marked with runes.