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Beastgrave – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

The stink of burning flesh slammed against Ludvik’s senses and drove the last wisps of sleep from his head. He was roused from exhausted slumber by the blaring of the watchtower’s trumpet, and the foul stench was enough to snap him into full awareness. No mistake, no idiot’s jest. Calamity had befallen Locmalo, and every inhabitant of the town was being called to action.

As he rushed from the earthen barracks he shared with twenty other men, Ludvik saw flames leaping up into the night. They threw eerie shadows across the clustered timber buildings. Several of the structures were alight, with fire flashing from their windows and doorways. Plumes of smoke rushed up from beneath crumbling sod roofs – long grey fingers that spilled upwards into the sky.

More than the roar of the flames and the blare of the trumpet assailed Ludvik’s ears. Screams rang out from the burning homes. He saw a ragged figure emerge from Marek the cooper’s house. The fire-wrapt shape took a few stumbling steps and collapsed in the muddy street. Steam sizzled off the dying frontiersman’s smouldering clothes.

Ludvik’s first instinct was to run for the nearest well and seize one of the buckets laid there against the threat of fire. As he turned to do so, another sound impressed itself on his awareness. A sound more frightful than the shrieks of people trapped in burning houses. Inhuman howls and bestial war-whoops rose from beyond the log palisade that encircled Locmalo. Ludvik felt cold horror rush through him. He knew the sort of creatures that made that savage din, just as he knew the doom that now reached out for the settlement. A doom the humans had long thought to defy.

The children of the forest had come. Come to punish this invasion into their domain. Come to sweep away the creep of civilisation into the wild places and stamp out the human trespassers.

Ludvik’s hand fell to the long-bladed hunter’s knife that was always strapped to his arm. The frontiersmen had learned to their cost to never be without some means of protection, even when in the safety of their own beds. He had seen Udalrich’s body. He had been murdered in the night by a stealthy prowler. The inhuman killer had cut him open to eat his liver, all without waking the other dozen men in the barracks.

‘They have broken through the outer wall!’ The shout carried down from the frantic sentinel up in the watchtower between blasts on the trumpet. The reaction of the men around Ludvik was a mixture of despair and anger. For himself, he felt only a kind of sickness in his belly, a sour churning of the soup he had for supper.

Two palisades defended Locmalo – an outer and an inner fence of sharpened logs. Between these was a cleared pasture where the people grazed their herds. Ludvik himself had two cows out there, animals he had purchased with the pelts he had captured through the autumn. It was his first step towards becoming independent, establishing himself so he would not have to brave the forest and the beasts that yet lurked beneath its boughs.

Ludvik heard the agonised wailing of the cattle. The attackers were in the pasture and slaughtering the livestock. For a moment, all he could think of was his own loss. Then a cold chill swept through him. If the attackers found a way through or over the inner wall, it would be men not kine that would be massacred.

Ludvik ran towards the walls. He saw the beadle with a cartload of spears handing weapons to anyone who came near him. Men and women, old and young, anyone with the strength and heart to carry a bow or swing an axe, were hurrying to the palisade to take up the fight. Ludvik hurried to the beadle and snatched a spear from the cart. He took only a heartbeat to judge its quality before he was moving again. The muddy streets of Locmalo were a bedlam of fright and confusion. As the defenders ran towards the walls, fiery objects came hurtling down into the settlement. Ludvik saw one of them splash in a puddle of mud. It was an old skull stuffed with dried dung and sealed with pitch. He saw the crude glyphs daubed on the skull in streaks of blood. He trembled. Their enemies had called upon witchcraft to aid the attack.

More of the skulls came flying over the wall. They burned with an ugly orange glow as they sailed through the air. One of them struck the roof of the tannery. It shattered like an eggshell and splashed its contents across the roof and the nearby walls. Timbers were instantly set alight. Ludvik felt there was an unholiness about the way the flames spread. The fire’s hunger was more than natural.

‘To the wall! To the wall!’ The command was shouted by Squire Dytryk himself. He stood near the main gate, Locmalo’s five militiamen arrayed around him in a compact bloc. Only one of the soldiers wore his armour. The others had been stirred from their sleep with barely enough time to grab helmets and shields. The squire himself only had a bearskin robe on, though he’d picked up his sword before dashing out into the street.

‘To the wall!’

The cry was taken up. The direction gave the defenders focus, something to fixate upon before fear and confusion could break their resolve. Ludvik joined the line of spears that formed about the base of the wall. He jabbed upwards at the dark shapes trying to climb the palisade. He felt grim satisfaction when a horned figure fell back into the shadows and a thin rivulet of blood trickled down the shaft of his spear.

A few hunters with bows moved among the spearmen, adding their arrows into the mix. Ludvik wished he had gone back for his own bow as he watched his comrades ply their deadly skill. Whenever an enemy presented itself, an arrow would speed towards it. Even when they missed, the threat from the archers was enough to make the attacker drop back.

Behind the line of spears, those settlers with axes and swords clutched their weapons with anxious fingers. As much as Ludvik envied the hunters with their bows, he was thankful he had at least a spear to drive the attackers back. If all he had was an axe or his knife, he’d be forced to stand idle with the others. Watching and waiting. Dreading the moment when he would be called into the fight. The moment the beastkin forced their way into Locmalo.

Ghroth watched the fires rise, their glow illuminating the inner palisade. The herdchief wiped the string of saliva that dripped from his fangs. The smell of cooking human was almost intoxicating, far more than the scent of slaughtered cattle. It did not take much to goad the brays and ungors of his warherd into charging the wall. The real test of his authority was getting the larger gors to restrain themselves. Few beastkin understood patience or had the discipline to plan for the future, however immediate it might be.

Ghroth was one of those few. His craftiness and his ability to delay gratification, were what set him apart. It was why he had supplanted the old herdchief, waiting until after a vicious fight with the tree-fiends of Thornwyld before challenging him for his position. He wore the horns of his rival, bound around his left hand like a spiked gauntlet. It was a reminder to the rest of the beastkin of his strength. When the warren of humans was crushed under his hooves, that too would serve as a reminder to the warherd. It would be a display of his wisdom. An example of his power.

The ungors and brays threw themselves at the walls. Smaller and slighter than the more bestial gors like Ghroth, their lack of bulk was something of a benefit to them as they tried to clamber up the logs. Covered in fur, with hoofed feet and nubby horns, these beastkin were closer to humans in appearance than others in the warherd. The brays in particular had manlike faces and builds – Ghroth even employed them to decoy humans in the forest by making them think the brays were men like themselves.

With their present task, there was no question of the brays being mistaken for humans. The frontiersmen were attacking anything that tried to get over the walls. At the edge of panic, their desperate efforts were fending off the beastmen. Many of the ungors fell into the pasture with ugly gashes and cuts. A few of the brays collapsed with arrows through their chests.

‘Small horns never get in.’ The comment came as a sullen growl from the armoured brute that stood beside Ghroth. A full head taller than the herdchief, Kruksh had adorned his black-furred girth with metal plate looted from dead humans and orruks. Even his goat-like face was banded with strips of mail. The grotesque greenskin cleaver he carried would have been impossible for most gors to wield.

Ghroth glared into the bestigor’s beady yellow eyes. Kruksh grunted in contempt. There was no cunning in his gaze, only the impertinent confidence of a creature that relied solely upon his brawn. ‘Small horns not need get in,’ Ghroth stated. He gestured at the injured ungors and at the tips of the spears that could be seen waving behind the wall. ‘Small horns fight. Show where manflesh fight. See where manflesh strong.’ He gave Kruksh a piercing look, trying to find some awareness there. ‘See where manflesh strong, see where manflesh weak.’

Kruksh slapped his chest and snorted. ‘All manflesh weak,’ he asserted.

Ghroth bared his fangs at the implied insult. He raised his arm, ensuring Kruksh could see the sharpened horns of the old herdchief. The bestigor lowered his head and averted his eyes. There was no challenge there. At least not yet. Ghroth resisted the impulse to tear out Kruksh’s throat. Right now killing the humans was more important. Besides, it was more practical to kill a rival in front of the entire warherd. That way all of the beastkin would know their place.

The sharp tang of smouldering dung made Ghroth turn. He watched a pair of ungors run towards the palisade with smoking skulls in their hands. Loops of dried gut were wound about the skulls and, as the beastmen drew close to the wall, they swung the weird missiles in an arc. When the arc reached the right speed, the ungors let go and sent the skulls flying over the wall. A moment later there was a loud whoosh and flames erupted from the settlement.

Ghroth stalked over to where the ungors had received their macabre weapons. His nostrils flared in revulsion at the unnatural scent of the creature crouched beside a stack of skulls. Useful as magic might be to the warherd, none of the beastkin liked to be near something as steeped in the arcane reek as the shaman Sorgaas. The cloaked mystic was daubing glyphs on the skulls with the severed head of a serpent. He dipped the reptile’s blunt nose into a bowl of blood and painted the sorcerous signs on the bones. Normally the smell of blood would excite Ghroth, but the shaman’s activity had corrupted the scent, made it somehow rancid.

‘More flame for manflesh,’ Ghroth growled, trying to make the words more of a command than a question. He was chief of his warherd – even the giant bullgors obeyed him – but he still felt a tremor of fear when the smell of Sorgaas was in his nose.

The shaman looked up from his labour, the hood of his cloak drawing back to expose a lupine muzzle covered in blue-black fur. A single horn rose from above his nose, branching out into two sharp points. The entirety of the horn was stained with glyphs, and talismans dangled from its bifurcated tips. Cold eyes, yellow and slitted like those of a serpent, stared up at Ghroth. Sorgaas lifted a hand that was scaly, with black talons at the tip of each finger, utterly unlike the slender gloved member that held the snake’s head.

‘All will burn,’ Sorgaas said. He turned his talons towards the pile of skulls. ‘Magic enough for all of these. This is why I tell you to wait.’ He thrust his claw skyward and pointed at the stars. ‘Now is the time when my magic is strong. Now is when the gods of men are weak.’

Ghroth glowered at the shaman. ‘Ghroth herdchief,’ he stated. ‘Victory mine.’

Sorgaas tapped the snake’s head against the skull he was painting. ‘Yes, and these will bring you victory. You will be a mighty herdlord. If you listen.’ The ophidian eyes strayed from Ghroth and focused on the two ungors who had come creeping back to retrieve more of the fiery skulls.

Ghroth followed the direction of the shaman’s gaze. The ungors cringed away from him. He grunted his satisfaction and motioned for the beastmen to continue. Whatever awe they might feel for their shaman, they did not forget it was their herdchief who ruled.

‘Burn the manflesh,’ Ghroth snarled. ‘They know fire. They know fear.’ He turned and looked at the palisade, drawing the smell of humans from the wind. ‘They know death,’ he declared. ‘Good feast for warherd.’

Ghroth studied the way the ungors and brays were driven back. He fought against the impulse to simply charge the fortification. There had been other attacks against the humans before, attacks that had failed because the beastkin did not restrain their bloodlust. Ghroth would show the warherd. He would show them why he was their leader. This attack would not fail.

The packs of ungors and brays rushed the walls, pressing the defenders to divert fighters to oppose them. The gate itself was only lightly challenged, just enough so that the humans would not become suspicious. If they were too wary they would try to reinforce it, but if they could be gulled into believing the warherd was threatening the whole of the palisade it would cause them to move where the danger was greatest.

After a few moments of study, Ghroth turned to Sorgaas. ‘Give signal,’ he told the shaman.

Sorgaas set down the snake head and rose to his feet. He clasped his mismatched hands together, pressing them tight against his chest. The slithery eyes rolled back, the pupils vanishing beneath the orbits of his skull. An eerie chill gripped Ghroth as dark energies were drawn into the mystic’s body. The dangling talismans clattered against the bifurcated horn as Sorgaas shivered.

‘Urugu,’ Sorgaas suddenly shouted. He thrust both arms into the air and from between his hands a stream of green light flared up into the night.

Ghroth did not need to see the dark shapes that scurried up the side of the watchtower, the slinking spies that had entered the settlement hours before the attack. He could tell they had accomplished their purpose when the blare of the trumpet was silenced. The only men who could have seen far enough into the pasture to warn of what was coming were gone.

‘Gate!’ Ghroth shouted. ‘Bash gate!’ He swung the brutish axe he carried overhead, its jagged blade reflecting the fires of the burning town. Out from the darkness a score of goat-headed gors charged towards the palisade, each helping to bear the weight of an immense log. Tied to the front of the log were half a dozen of Sorgaas’ incendiary skulls. Ghroth pointed his axe at the gate as the gors ran past.

The log slammed into the iron-banded timbers of the gate. The skulls fitted to its front exploded in a dazzling burst of flame. A pillar of fire, forty feet high, licked across the gate and threw smouldering drops into the town beyond. The gors nearest the explosion bleated in agony, their bodies engulfed. The others hastily dropped the log and retreated.

Ghroth could imagine the humans inside the town were even more shocked by the explosion. Some were certain to abandon their places at the wall to defend against an attack on the gate. As they did, they would confuse those who tried to hold the palisade. Fear and confusion – the allies that would bring the warherd victory.

‘Kill!’ Ghroth howled. The vicious cry rose above the crackle of flames and the screams of the dying. It was taken up by dozens of bestial throats, repeated with the savagery of warriors finally set loose upon their foes. Until now only the smaller beastkin had assaulted the walls. The larger gors and bestigors flung themselves into the attack. Driven amok by their pent-up bloodlust, they rushed the walls with berserk fury. Their impetus carried them over the sharpened logs and they plunged down to the confused defenders below.

Ghroth savoured the sight. He enjoyed the shrieks from the humans as his warriors fell upon them. He relished the smell of blood that wafted back to him on the wind. His fingers tightened on the haft of his axe and all restraint left him. He charged towards the wall, froth dripping down his fangs. No longer did he think of victory or maintaining his place as herdchief. He did not think of ploys and tricks or the magic of Sorgaas. There was only room in his mind for hunger and wrath, the scent of blood and the taste of flesh.

It took Ghroth only a few heartbeats to reach the wall. Like a charging tiger, he leapt at the palisade. His axe came flashing down between two of the sharpened logs. Using the weapon for leverage, Ghroth pounced down into the settlement. All around him was bedlam. Humans lay butchered in the mud. Beastkin were spitted on spears. Unchecked fires roared, their flames an orange glow. The stink of smoke assailed his senses, blotting out all other smells. Screams and moans, the desperate cries of men and the murderous growls of beastkin formed a savage medley.

Ghroth rose from the mud and stamped his hooves in eagerness as a spearman lunged at him. He twisted aside as the weapon stabbed at his stomach. A chop of his axe broke the shaft and left the man gaping at him in horror. Before he could flee, Ghroth sprang at him. The sharpened horns tied about his left arm raked across his enemy’s face, turning it into crimson ribbons. He collapsed into the mud, screaming in pain.

Ghroth moved to bring his hoof stamping down on the maimed human, but as he did another defender came charging at him. Like the first foe, this one bore a spear, but unlike his ill-fated comrade he was not so easily disarmed. He avoided the downward sweep of the herdchief’s axe and raked the edge of the spearhead across Ghroth’s ribs. It bit just deep enough to draw blood, slashing through the shaggy hide.

Instead of stamping down, Ghroth brought his leg cracking against the prone man with such force that he was kicked into the path of the spearman. His assailant reeled back to avoid being tripped by the very comrade he had thought to protect. As he did, Ghroth sprang at him. A sideways sweep of the sharpened horns tore the spear from his enemy’s hands.

The foeman stumbled back and drew a long knife from the sheath lashed to his arm. He whipped the blade back and forth, forming a deadly circle between himself and the herdchief. Even with the longer reach of his axe, Ghroth knew he would not be able to penetrate that defence with impunity.

Ghroth glared at his enemy and spat in the human’s face. For an instant the man was blinded. The knife wavered. It was all the advantage the herdchief needed. Lunging forwards, Ghroth brought his axe cleaving down into the man’s chest. It was a killing blow. He was dead even before the axe was ripped free and his body crashed to the muddy street.

Ghroth licked the blood and bone splinters from the edge of his axe. He turned back to finish the screaming wretch the knife fighter had tried to save.

Fear always provided an extra savour to manflesh.

Ghroth sated his bloodlust. His axe had become dull from the number of humans it had killed. His mouth was filled with the taste of butchered foes.

All across the settlement he heard the triumphant howls of his warriors. A triumph such as the beastkin had not known before. Always they had raided the humans, stealing away with a few cattle or a few hapless settlers. Never before had they been able to accomplish such a conquest. Never before had they brought so large a town to ruin. The beastkin would remember this, and they would remember it was Ghroth who had won this great victory.

Ghroth strode through the devastation. Bodies were strewn about the streets – the carcasses of those who had fled from the walls and those who had never joined the defence. It did not matter to the beastkin whether the humans fought or not. They were intruders one and all, trespassers in the warherd’s domain.

A domain that would grow. Word of this victory would spread when the other herds gathered at the herdstones. Ghroth’s name would be known through the forests. More warriors would join him, and as they did he would expand his territory.

Flames from the burning houses continued to flicker all across the settlement. Ghroth found his gaze drawn to one of the fires. Purple shadows seemed to dance among the blaze, weaving in and out of the smoke. His hand curled around his axe and a trickle of drool fell from his mouth.

Ghroth stalked towards the fire, ready to launch an attack on whoever was moving around behind the flames. As he came nearer, however, he felt an increasing uneasiness. The shadows he was looking at were strange. They did not resemble humans or even beastkin. He stopped and stared, perplexed as increasingly distinct images manifested within the flames.

Ghroth saw a mountain appear amid the flames. Immense and imposing, with gnarled forests dotting its slopes and craggy cliffs stretching across its face, there was something about the mountain that filled his heart with dread. It was like gazing upon some slumbering monster, impossibly vast and terrible. He could feel a brooding malignance becoming aware of him, stirring from its ancient sleep to focus upon him.

Ghroth tried to look away, but as he turned his head he was drawn back to the image in the flames. His perspective was changing, speeding closer to the mountain. The forests resolved themselves into individual trees, the cliffs into piles of boulders. He felt himself being dragged against his will towards the black maw of a cave. He was delving down into the darkness, flying along subterranean passages with horrifying swiftness. His surroundings became a blur, alternating flashes of light and dark. He caught blurred glimpses of underground chasms and cavern pools. He saw the glow of volcanic vents and the rubble of forgotten ruins.

Deeper and deeper Ghroth was drawn, plummeting through the tunnels down into the bowels of the mountain. With a sickening abruptness he came to a stop, and all sense of motion was gone. He found himself in a gargantuan cavern lit by a weird orange light. The stony teeth of stalactites and stalagmites filled the vastness. Scattered among the natural formations were cyclopean blocks, immense beyond belief, hoary with age.

Ghroth’s attention turned from the ruins, drawn to something he could sense but not see lying in the darkness. The moment his focus was diverted, the herdchief’s perspective flashed across the cavern. Now he was standing upon some indistinct bulk. He felt it stir beneath him, could smell its musky odour as it filled his lungs. Compulsion seized him and Ghroth lunged at the giant hulk on which he stood. Sharpened horns and his gleaming axe ripped into the huge body, carving down through flesh and bone. His arms closed around a pulsing mass of tissue and with a howl he tore it free. Ghroth stared at the dripping trophy, a still-beating heart almost as large as his entire body. He pressed his face against the gory organ, his fangs savaging it as he began to feed.

The vision in the flames changed. No longer was Ghroth deep beneath the mountain. Instead he was standing atop a strange herdstone. All around the dolmen were piled the mangled corpses of humans and the splintered husks of tree-fiends. Weapons of steel and iron were heaped around the corpses – offerings not to the herdstone’s watchers but to the leader who stood above it.

Ghroth gazed deeper into the flames and saw the multitude that surrounded the herdstone. It was a gathering of beastkin beyond reckoning, an army greater than any warherd from legend. He heard the savage voices rise, chanting his name, hailing Ghroth as beastlord. And beyond the masses of his followers, beyond the dark boughs of the forest, he saw lights shining in a human city.

Primordial power pulsed through his being. Ghroth felt his pitiless hatred of men swell inside him. He would lead the numberless hosts of his army against that city. He would pull down its walls and raze its towers. He would crush man’s vile civilisation beneath his hooves and initiate a slaughter that would inspire the gods themselves.

He, Ghroth, would be the mightiest beastlord to walk the domains of Ghur. He would be the one who would drown the rule of men in a tide of blood.

Ghroth could not say how long he was gripped by the vision in the flames. He might never have broken away had some instinct not snapped him back to reality. He sprang aside just as a huge orruk blade came slashing down at him.

Kruksh snarled in rage as the herdchief dodged the murderous blow. He swiftly charged after Ghroth and sent the cumbersome blade flashing for his head.

The blow clipped the tip off one of Ghroth’s horns as he ducked beneath the sweeping attack. Growling, he dived at Kruksh and brought his axe slamming into the bestigor. The weapon banged into his foe with bone-rattling force but its edge had been dulled in the fight against the humans. It didn’t cleave through the armour Kruksh wore. The brutal impact made him stagger, but he did not fall.

‘Ghroth die. Kruksh lead,’ the bestigor spat.

The herdchief glared back at his rival. He did not answer Kruksh’s boasting with words. He hurled the dull axe full into the bestigor’s face. Kruksh stumbled as his nose was mashed by the flung weapon. Ghroth lunged, raking the sharpened horns down the challenger’s arm. They bit deep, slashing through the heavy hide and into the meat beneath. Kruksh bleated in pain as his arm was shredded from elbow to wrist. His injured hand fell away from the heavy orruk blade. Ghroth swung around and wrenched the cleaver from the weakened grip of the remaining hand.

‘Ghroth lead. Kruksh die.’ The herdchief threw the words back at the bestigor. He brought the orruk cleaver chopping down with both hands. The brutal blade crunched into Kruksh’s skull, splitting the mail coif he wore and embedding itself in his head. A blood-flecked gasp rose from the stricken rival. One hand reached for the cleaver as though to tug it free. A fierce shudder coursed through Kruksh’s body. The bestigor pitched forwards into the mud, his hooves digging into the earth as life ebbed away.

Ghroth kicked the carcass and set his hoof down upon the bestigor’s neck. Slapping his chest, the herdchief roared his victory to the smoke-filled night. If there were others of his warherd who knew Kruksh was going to challenge him, they would know something else. They would know that Ghroth had overcome his challenger. They would know that he was still herdchief.

He swung around. There was someone near. Ghroth bared his fangs in a snarl. Another rival, waiting to see if Kruksh succeeded, or to attack the weakened herdchief after the bestigor failed? It was the sort of underhanded tactic that would suit another of the warherd’s bestigors, the sly Chagrak. ‘Come,’ Ghroth shouted and slapped his chest. ‘Come to Ghroth and die!’

Out from the blackened ruin of a demolished hut someone stepped into view. Not the brutal Chagrak. It was the cloaked figure of Sorgaas. The shaman held his crooked bray-staff, the arcane glyphs carved down its length glowing with occult power. He glanced at Kruksh’s corpse then fixed Ghroth with his serpentine gaze.

Ghroth met that cold stare, lips curled back from his fangs as he stepped towards Sorgaas. ‘You,’ he snarled. ‘You tell Kruksh challenge Ghroth.’

The shaman tapped one talon against the sharpened tip of the bray-staff. ‘I told Kruksh nothing. I only watched. I wanted to see what would happen.’

‘Kruksh die,’ Ghroth snapped. ‘Ghroth stay herdchief.’

‘Then you are worthy,’ Sorgaas said, unconcerned with the fury in Ghroth’s eyes. ‘If you were not, Kruksh would be herdchief.’

The shaman’s superior tone provoked Ghroth. Sorgaas might have thought his magic was enough to protect him from the herdchief’s anger, but he had underestimated the rage that thundered inside Ghroth’s chest.

Ghroth rushed the shaman. A few running steps and he leapt at the wolf-faced mystic. Sorgaas raised the bray-staff to fend off the enraged attack, but a sweep of the trophy-horns tied to Ghroth’s arm sent it flying across the street. He slammed into the shaman and bore him down into the mud. One hand pressed down on Sorgaas’ chest, pinning him there. The other closed around his muzzle, silencing any curse he might cast upon the chieftain.

Ghroth tightened his hold on the lupine snout. The talismans dangling from the horn clattered together as the shaman winced in pain. ‘Ghroth mighty,’ he growled at the mystic. ‘Ghroth strong. Not herdchief. Not warchief. Ghroth beastlord of great gorherd.’

He saw the disbelief in Sorgaas’ eyes. Somehow, more than any curse or spell, it was the shaman’s incredulity that gouged Ghroth’s spirit. Angrily, he rose from the prone mystic and dragged him back onto his feet. ‘Sorgaas see,’ the chieftain bellowed. ‘Sorgaas know Ghroth mighty.’

Still with one hand clamped tight about the shaman’s mouth, Ghroth dragged him to the burning building and the fire where he had seen the purple shadows. He dumped Sorgaas on the ground and pointed at the flames. ‘Look in fire. See. See Ghroth strong.’

Sorgaas did as Ghroth demanded and peered into the crackling flames. The herdchief started forwards when he saw the shaman’s gloved hand make a gesture. The faint whisper of a strange word hissed from the lupine mouth. Sorgaas did not finish his conjuration, but instead leaned even closer to the fire. He raised his nose, sniffing as he tried to draw some scent from the air. Again he leaned to the flames, thrusting his face into the dancing blaze. Ghroth expected to smell the tang of singed fur and burning flesh wafting off the shaman, but there was only a musky reek. A cold and clammy smell such as he had encountered in his vision.

The shaman drew away from the fire, his face unharmed by its heat.

‘Sorgaas see?’ Ghroth asked, pointing at the flames.

‘I saw nothing,’ Sorgaas said. He raised his clawed hand, motioning for Ghroth to wait. ‘I felt the magic that was here. Old and very powerful. What did you see?’

It took Ghroth some time to describe to Sorgaas the vision he had experienced in the flickering flames. The shaman interrupted him several times, asking him to elaborate on the details or to expand upon some feature he had observed. It taxed the herdchief’s patience to answer all of the questions, but he was smart enough to curb his impulses. Magic was the work of a shaman. If anyone could tell him the meaning of what he had seen, it would be Sorgaas.

‘What Ghroth see?’ Ghroth demanded when he had related the whole of his vision.

Sorgaas crouched down beside the burning house. The flames had subsided, leaving only embers and ash. Somehow the shaman had regained his bray-staff without Ghroth noticing. He jabbed its sharpened tip into the embers, stirring them as though some secret might be unveiled.

‘The mountain you saw is called Beastgrave,’ Sorgaas declared. ‘All who know of it hold it in awe and dread. The godbeasts of old are said to be buried under the mountain.’ He gave Ghroth an appraising look. ‘They say to eat the heart of a god is to take its power.’

Ghroth shook his head in wonder. ‘Ghroth see. Ghroth be strong. Ghroth be mighty.’

‘Beastlord,’ Sorgaas said. ‘Perhaps even greater than a beastlord if you eat the godbeast’s heart.’

‘Great! Mighty!’ Ghroth stamped his hooves in the mud. ‘Crush all manflesh. Rule all wood-places.’

Sorgaas tapped his claws against his bray-staff. ‘Even more,’ he suggested. ‘More power than you ever knew. Stronger than a hundred bullgors. Taller than a gargant.’

Drool fell from Ghroth’s fangs as his mind raced with the shaman’s words. He would do more than just smash the places of men with such power. He would go and destroy the tree-fiends. He would take their forests as his own. All the warherds would bow to him.

Ghroth listened to the bellows and howls of his warriors as they feasted amid the ruins of the human settlement. He would summon the warherd from their revels and goad them to this mountain Sorgaas called Beastgrave. They would scour its depths and find the resting place of the godbeast.

‘Sorgaas lead warherd to mountain,’ Ghroth ordered. He did not question that the shaman knew the way.

The shaman shook his head. ‘That would be unwise,’ he said. Sorgaas pointed at Kruksh’s body. ‘The treasure you seek could be stolen by a rival. You should only take a few followers with you. Those you can trust.’ His claws tapped against the glowing bray-staff. ‘It is not enough to be strong. You must be cunning as well if you would triumph.’

Ghroth digested the shaman’s caution. He wrenched the huge orruk cleaver from Kruksh’s skull. ‘Sorgaas cunning. Ghroth strong. Together find mountain.’

The herdchief raised the huge weapon over his head. ‘Sorgaas find godbeast. Ghroth kill godbeast. Ghroth be strong. Ghroth be mighty!’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019.
This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Rezunenko Bogdan.

Beastgrave © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Beastgrave, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78999-453-7

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For Hannah, who helped me see the forest through the trees.

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