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Harrowhand – Extract

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Harrowhand

Evan Dicken

Shakana Goldenblade had never seen a more perfect spot for an ambush. Mist curled among the moss-draped trees of the valley below, jagged cliffs giving way to a carpet of ivy and snakegrass. Like the blade of some vengeful god, floods had carved a channel through the Neverpeaks of Ghyran.

Three great burial mounds dominated the gorge. Rising from the fog like primordial monoliths, the Hollow Hills were enormous, but their rounded crests were low enough not to block Shakana’s view. The perfect spot for an ambush, indeed.

If Shakana could keep her comrades restrained.

‘Still nothing,’ Neave Blacktalon said, squinting down the ridge and gripping her axes as if they were the only things keeping her from drifting away into the sullen sky. Although unstated, Shakana could hear the accusation in her voice.

They were wasting time.

Shakana glanced to Hendrick for support. The former leader of the Blacktalons was a hunter, too. He understood the need for patience. But the grizzled Stormcast Eternal said nothing, grey eyes fixed upon the valley, his expression as grim as the statues that ringed Sigmar’s fortress in Azyrheim.

‘Harrowhand will come,’ Shakana said, sighting her hurricane crossbow at the activity below. Several hundred Deathrattle skeletons were working at the door of the largest mound, punishing the rune-inscribed stone with hammers and bronze wedges. Some of the undead looked as old as the Hollow Hills themselves, their ancient bones almost colourless in the muggy afternoon light.

Others were far newer.

Raised from the Dawnbringer Crusades Isavir Harrowhand had slaughtered, they still wore their Sigmarite trappings. The livery of Greywater Fastness and Hammerhal Ghyra glittered on scarred breastplates, blazing hammers and twin-tailed comets streaked with blood. Shakana could not help but glance over her shoulder, down towards the wide ravine where yet another crusade would soon march. Although she might question their foresight in advancing once again upon the Hollow Hills, she could not fault the mortals for their tenacity.

‘If that damnable wight takes any longer, this heat is like to do the killing for her,’ Rostus Oxenhammer said, shifting uncomfortably upon a flat stone, a massive warhammer resting across his knees. He blew out a long sigh then turned to Lorai, a grin on his broad, bearded face. ‘How do you keep so cool, Idoneth?’

The soulscryer favoured him with an icy glare, her eyes like chips of obsidian in a face that seemed only to be made of hard angles. ‘I remain silent.’

‘Enough of this.’ Neave stood, rolling her neck with an audible crack.

‘We don’t even know where Harrowhand is,’ Shakana said, hating the note of defensiveness in her voice. It had been her plan to wait the Wight Queen out. Prey always moved. Except, Shakana had not accounted for the ageless patience of the undead.

‘She is in there.’ Neave gestured towards the second burial mound, one of her axes raised as if to chop the thing down.

‘It’s the size of a palace,’ Shakana replied.

Neave ignored her. ‘Lorai, if we get inside, can you find her?’

‘Perhaps.’ The Idoneth’s reply was as flat as a frozen pond. Lorai’s hands remained folded in her lap, the razored allopex fangs tipping each finger lending her a predatory air. ‘Those mounds are ancient. I cannot say what wards they might possess. And there are the realm lines.’

Neave bared her teeth. Shakana knew the leader of the Blacktalons would have preferred to simply appear next to Harrowhand on a bolt of azure lightning, but the Hollow Hills were situated on a geomantic nexus. The same power that made the valley so attractive to the Sigmarites rendered it difficult to penetrate through arcane means.

‘We have little time as it is,’ Neave said, her gaze shifting to Shakana. ‘Unless you want another crusade added to the Harrowhand’s ranks?’

She was right. There was no time. There was never any time. Sigmar’s enemies were beyond counting, and it fell to the Blacktalons to remove them, leaping from realm to realm, kill to kill.

Death to death.

Shakana wanted to argue, to have Anda scout the valley one more time. Perhaps the star-eagle might spy something. But she could see Neave had made up her mind. The Blacktalons would follow her commands, even if it cost them their lives.

Again.

‘Shakana, take the lead.’ Neave’s tone brooked no insubordination. ‘Rostus, Hendrick – with me. Lorai, see if you can turn this mist to our advantage.’

Orders given, they slipped down the ridge, taking care to stay in the shadow of the cliffs. It was a taxing descent, and the sharp slope made for treacherous footing.

Shakana didn’t look back. She might question Neave’s judgement, but she harboured no doubts concerning the Blacktalon’s skill. As Sigmar’s elite killers, together they had slain more foes than she could recall. Even Rostus moved quietly as a whispermoth, with barely the slightest shift of stone beneath his heavy boots.

Drawn forth by Lorai’s whispered incantations, mist rose to greet them, the silken streamers of fog further muffling their footfalls.

If the ridge had been hot, then the valley was oppressive. Sweat trickled along Shakana’s neck, the air like a damp cloth across her face. She pushed the discomfort down, eyes sharp as she drifted between gnarled branches and curtains of dangling moss. This heat was nothing compared to the fires of her birth realm, though Aqshy never conjured such miserable humidity.

She made for the smallest of the three burial mounds.

A dozen skeletons stood before the wide stone entrance. While these undead soldiers were armoured in scraps of ancient finery, their weapons had the glint of new steel. With disgust, Shakana noted the clockwork emblem of Greywater Fastness stamped on the stolen blades.

It would be a joy to destroy these thieves.

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A Black Library Publication

This eBook edition published in 2022 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Nuala Kinrade.

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