Contents

Cover

Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Chapter one

UZKUL

The dust-barques of Caddow traders were well known in Shadespire, and even the ports of the Bitter Sea…

Tuman Wey
The Shadow-Routes: Trade in Eastern Shyish

Shyish was a place of bitter endings and silent decay.

Graveyards that had once been cities dotted a landscape broken by war, their streets lost to shadows and dust. Carrion birds circled the high places, and jackals haunted the low. And everywhere was dusty silence.

The city of Caddow was no different. It sprawled across the Sea of Dust like a broken corpse. Its once-mighty eyries were reduced to jagged ruin, and the stones of its high walls had fallen and lay scattered for leagues. Dust-barques that had once carried holds of spices and damask lay forgotten in dune-swallowed docklands, and the palaces of the mighty were home now only to night-birds and hoofed beasts. A forest of stone rose where once a city had thrived. Silent and forgotten.

‘Uzkul-ha!’

As the cry echoed over the broken city, the night erupted in fire. Long dragon-tongues of red-and-orange flame licked out, scoring the darkness. Startled flocks of carrion birds rose skyward.

‘Uzkul-ha!’

Another crash of voices, another ripple of fire. Broken, twisted shapes slumped or were thrown back into the dust, their unnatural flesh steaming. Nightmarish creatures, part man, part animal, clad in rotting damask and tarnished gold, fell back from the high, steep steps of the black pyramid. They howled and gibbered as they retreated, sounding much like the beasts they resembled.

‘Gazul-akit-ha!’ A single voice bellowed, as the echoes of fire faded.

‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’ came the shouted response, echoing out over the shattered grandeur of the city. Fifty duardin voices, raised in defiance. Raised in prayer. The constant thump of a pommel stone against the inner rim of a shield accompanied the words. Funerary bells began to ring, slow and dolorous. Iron-shod feet stamped in a mournful rhythm.

The Gazul-Zagaz began to sing. A dirge of mourning, for the dead yet to be. Singing their souls to the deep caverns of Gazul, the Lord of Underearth, who was dead himself. All things died and walked in the deep, even gods. That was the way of it. But what was death to a god? ‘Dust, and less than dust,’ Gnol-Tul said softly, as he stroked the thick spade of salt-and-pepper beard that spilled down over his barrel chest.

Like all duardin, he was built like a cask of ale, with thick arms and legs. Age had not dimmed his vigour, though he’d seen more centuries than he had fingers. He looked on in satisfaction as his kinband shouted their song into the teeth of the enemy. Though there were only fifty of the Pyredrakes, they were worth three times that.

Clad in coats and cowls of burnished gromril, each of his warriors wore a steel war-mask wrought in the shape of a skull, and carried a baroque drakegun. Besides the hand cannons, each duardin was armed with a square pavise shield, which doubled as both bulwark and firing stand, and a heavy, flat blade, suitable for butchery and little else.

At that moment, the shield wall stretched across the southern tier of the ziggurat, protecting two lines of Pyredrakes. The first line would fire then step back to reload, allowing the second rank to take their place. A hoary strategy, but effective. Tul thought the old ways of war were often the best, and served against the disorganised rabble below well enough. Beastkin had little in the way of tactical acumen. They were savage and strong, but strength alone was as dust against iron and fire.

So had it always been, so would it always be.

Tul and his bier, his chosen companions, stood behind the firing lines. Armed with round shields, wrought in the shape of a scowling countenance, and carrying heavy runeblades, his bier was composed of proven warriors, those who had already sung their death-song and consigned their souls to the Underearth. Unlike the Pyredrakes, they wore white robes, and their masks were of silver rather than iron.

Tul himself wore the golden mask of an elder, and beneath it his skin and hair were marked with the sacred ashes of his ancestors. He carried a double-handed runeblade cradled in the crook of his arm. It was an old thing, hungry for death, and nameless, as was proper. To name a thing was to give it a will of its own, and a wilful weapon was one that could not be trusted. There were many named blades in the shadow-vaults of the Gazul-Zagaz, and there they would remain, until Shyish sank into the twilight sea.

Tul and his kinband had fought their way through the ruins and up the steps of the ziggurat over the course of several days, leaving a trail of dead and dying beastkin in their wake. The ruins were full of the creatures – thousands of them, breeding in the dark – and the duardin had roused them all as they advanced deeper into the city. But what were beasts, to the warriors of the Gazul-Zagaz?

‘The gor flee, elder,’ Hok, his tolvan, said. ‘Our fire warms their bones overmuch.’ His subordinate held a heavy stone tablet, upon which the names of the honoured dead would be carved upon victory – or just prior to defeat. Either way, their names would be recorded, and added to the Long Dirge of the Gazul-Zagaz.

‘They will come again and in greater numbers,’ Tul said, tugging on his ash-streaked beard. ‘They are brief things, and determined.’ The warriors of his bier nodded sagely at this. They were all veterans of a thousand similar skirmishes, their birth-swords grown dull on the bones of gor and ik – beastkin and daemons, as the Azyrites called them.

As he thought of their allies, a flash of silver, somewhere out in the dark below, caught his eye. He heard the sound of a hunting horn, and the shriek of one of the Azyrites’ great beasts. Then, cerulean light sparked, and he heard the whipcrack of a boltstorm pistol.

‘The Swiftblade is close,’ Hok said, his disapproval evident.

Tul smiled sourly. Hok was referring to their ally, Lord-Aquilor Sathphren Swiftblade. Tul’s mind tripped over the unfamiliar title. It had too many words, and unnecessary ones at that. Why advertise the swiftness of your blade to the enemy? Surely it was better for such things to be a surprise. Then, there was much about the Stormcasts, and Sathphren in particular, that was confusing.

‘As he promised,’ Tul said. Hok bowed his head, accepting this chastisement with grace. Confusing or not, the Azyrite was an ally. He had helped the Gazul-Zagaz, and so, they would help him. An oath for an oath, a debt for a debt. ‘By sorrow fail, and by sadness bound,’ he murmured, reciting the ancient oath – the first oath and the last – made to the Lord of Underearth by his folk, in the days before the coming of the Undying King.

‘An oath for an oath,’ Hok said, and the others murmured agreement.

‘As it was, as it must be,’ Tul said, finishing the oath. He glanced up towards the pyramid’s summit, where a massive, four-sided archway of carven stone topped the edifice. Shaped to resemble nothing so much as a great flock of birds, rising skywards to a single point, the archway sat atop a circular dais of curious construction, marked by runic sigils unfamiliar to Tul’s eye.

Sathphren had called it the Corvine Gate. Once, the realmgate had linked this part of Shyish to somewhere in Azyr, the Realm of Heavens. Tul let his gaze rise to the stars overhead, where Azyr bled into Shyish, and every other mortal realm besides. The Gates of Azyr had been sealed long ago, as the Ruinous Powers spread their baleful influence through the realms. Now, at last, they were opening once more.

Tul could not say whether that was entirely a good thing or not. But an oath was an oath, and he would pay his folk’s debt, as he must. ‘They’ve caught the gor,’ Hok said, drawing Tul from his contemplation of the stars. Hok leaned over and spat. ‘Will they drive them back to us? It is only fitting.’

Tul shook his head. ‘No. They are selfish and careless, these Azyrites.’ Then, that was often the way of stars – heedless of all that they shone on. One could not expect them to hold to the niceties of civilised folk. ‘Sathphren will take them for himself.’

His warriors grumbled at this, equal parts annoyed and amused. The Azyrites – these Stormcast Eternals, as they called themselves – were powerful allies. And faithful, in their own way, to their own god, Sigmar. The Gazul-Zagaz knew him as the Starlit King, and it was said that he had walked among them often, in days of antiquity. Before Gazul had fallen silent, his temples cast down and his folk scattered.

Powerful, yes, and faithful, to be sure. But like children. Careless and eager. But that was no bad thing, perhaps. For children soon grew up. Then, perhaps, they would truly be allies worthy of the Gazul-Zagaz, in fact as well as in deed.

He squinted, catching sight of more silvery flashes in the dark. Eerie cries echoed up from the ruins. The Swiftblade fancied himself a hunter, Tul knew. Well, he would find plenty of prey this night. He smiled: a hard, merciless expression.

Beast howls filled the night. A tide of filth flowed up the steps of the pyramid, surging forwards on hooves and claws. They made a great noise as they came, almost joyous in its intensity. As if they knew the oblivion that awaited them, and welcomed it.

‘Uzkul-ha,’ he said, softly. He lifted his sheathed blade over his head. ‘Uzkul-ha!’

‘Uzkul,’ came the response from his warriors. Death.

‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’

Ghosteater lurched into the lee of a fallen pillar, his white fur smouldering. He snarled and rubbed at the bloody graze that marked his arm. He brought bloody fingers to his muzzle and sniffed, taking in the stink of fire powder. The stunted ones fought with iron and fire. There was little to be done against that, save die or drown them in bodies.

The only two tactics your kind knows, a voice within him hissed. One of his ghosts. They always felt brave when he bled. He growled softly and hunkered down as slugs of iron and lead whined off the stones around him. He would wait until they had stopped shooting, then see what there was to see.

Yes-yes, clever-clever, another ghost whined. Ghosteater snarled, silencing the chittering spirit. Even dead, it was afraid of him. They were all afraid of him, as they should be. He had eaten them, and they were his, now and forever. When he died, he would drag their souls with him to the scented bowers of the Absent God, and there, in the Glades of Silk, he would devour them again, for an eternity.

But for now, they served him in other ways. Range is the key, a harsh voice said, at his mental prodding. They have it. The steep slope of the ziggurat slows advance, allowing them to deploy multiple volleys in the time it takes your warriors to recover from one.

Another voice chimed in, A mass rush might carry the day. Throw more bodies at them than they have shot for. Then it’s just a matter of butchery. Even beastkin can do that.

Ghosteater shook his head. ‘Not enough warriors,’ he growled. ‘Not yet.’

But soon, perhaps. When a few more ghosts had been bent to his will. When a few more rivals had fallen to his blade and teeth. He glanced down at the sickle-like khopesh he carried. It was an old thing, made from beaten bronze in a time when such weapons had been valuable. He’d found it in the dust, alongside the bones of its owner. There had only been the tatters of a ghost left, clinging to those bones – just enough to teach him how to wield the khopesh with some skill.

Ghosteater studied his reflection in the curved blade. He stood head and shoulders above even the tallest gor, and resembled one of the dust-lions that haunted the deep canyons of the south, with a square head the colour of chalk, surrounded by a shaggy mane of the same hue. Red eyes blazed above a wrinkled muzzle, studded with thick fangs. Six bud-like horns rose through his mane, like a twisted crown of bone – a sure sign that he was blessed by the Absent God.

A daemon’s blessing is nothing more than a curse, a voice said, weakly. Ghosteater ignored it. What did the dead know of blessings and curses? They were beyond such things. He lowered his blade and looked back at the ziggurat.

The stunted ones were chanting again. He heard the howling of the northern tribes in response. He caught sight of hairy shapes loping through nearby streets, bellowing and striking their blades against their wooden shields. He didn’t need the ghosts to tell him that they would have no more luck than his own kin.

If you go, you die. Simple as that, gor. This ghost had a harsh voice, like metal on stone. A duardin, perhaps. Run, like the beast you are. Live for another day.

Ghosteater snarled, silencing the voice. Sometimes, the ghosts forgot who was meat, and who was the eater-of-meat. He watched as the northern tribes scaled the face of the ziggurat and were met by a deluge of fire. More bodies fell, rolling down the steps to join the charnel piles growing below. He felt a pulse of satisfaction at their failure. If his folk could not have victory, then neither should those they had spent years killing.

‘Weak,’ he growled, watching them flee. All the tribes were weak. They had made themselves weak, hiding in this forest of stone. They had been content to war among themselves, rather than seeking out worthy foes. Content to scrabble in the dust and drape themselves in tatters of carrion, rather than hunt living prey.

Ghosteater was not like the others. He was strong. He had fed on a hundred ghosts, and their voices lent him wisdom. That wisdom had let him rise, as surely and as swiftly as one blessed by the Absent God could do. His first ghost had been that of Twistjaw, his littermate, who’d tried to crush his skull in the dust for the offence of being an albino.

He had killed Twistjaw in the traditional fashion, and offered up his corpse to the Absent God after anointing himself with his littermate’s blood. After Twistjaw had come Twisthoof, the tribe’s shaman, who’d been resentful of his blessings. He had bitten through Twisthoof’s skull and eaten his twisted mind, one handful at a time.

Every death after that had added to the sweet chorus in Ghosteater’s head. Not just beastkin, but men as well, and duardin, ratkin and greenskins. The only foes whose ghosts he could not eat were the twice-dead – their souls were already claimed by another. But that didn’t matter to the gor. There were plenty of ghosts to devour without scavenging Nagash’s scraps and risking the ire of the God of Death.

He had taken his tribe and made them strong. They had eaten the other southern tribes, and grown large, adding the survivors to their ranks. He had abased himself before the Blessed Ones, who waited on the city’s outskirts, and joined the fate of his tribe to theirs. Before the stunted ones had arrived, he’d thought to sweep west, and consume the tribes there. In time, the forest of stone would have belonged to him, and all the ghosts within it. And then, he might have turned his gaze south, to where the Blessed Ones lounged…

But no. The Absent God had chosen a different fate for his child. Ghosteater could feel the portents on the air. Twisthoof’s ghost whined within him, showing him the myriad skeins of possibility – of what might be, and what must be. A door was opening, and a silver tide would spill down the sides of the great ziggurat, to flood the forest and drown his folk. Ghosteater shook his shaggy head, trying to clear it of the vision, and Twisthoof’s whimpering. ‘Be silent,’ he snarled, cowing the ghost.

Stones shifted behind him. He turned and saw a group of his followers creeping towards him, shamefaced and muttering. He had been the last to retreat, and they knew it. Many of the beastmen bore wounds, but all of them still held their weapons. That was good. His folk were not cowards, whatever else.

‘You live,’ one growled. He did not sound happy. Wormeye was big, and built thick. A true gor, with high, spiralling horns and a long, goatish muzzle. One eye was covered in a filmy cataract, and many scars covered his tawny hide. He gripped a crude blade, neither spear nor sword, and wore a tattered tabard, stiff with grime.

‘I live.’ Ghosteater bared his fangs in a smile. Wormeye thought he should be chief. He was wrong, but that did not stop him thinking it. Until now, he had not acted on it, but Ghosteater could see him sniffing, tasting blood on the wind. ‘How many?’

Wormeye glanced back, eyes narrowed. More beast-shapes crept close, regrouping among the fallen pillars and shattered walls. It had not taken them much time to regain their courage. Ghosteater was pleased.

‘Enough,’ Wormeye grunted. ‘Many hands, still.’ He twitched his fingers, for emphasis. ‘We go again?’

‘No,’ Ghosteater said. ‘Too much fire.’ He slapped his chest, bloody from a glancing shot. ‘No war-plate. We go, we die, like the rest. Nothing else.’

‘Coward,’ Wormeye snarled. The others murmured and shrank back. The accusation was as good as a challenge. Ghosteater looked at him and licked his chops, pleased by the outburst. Wormeye twitched back, suddenly realising what he’d said. He bared his fangs in what might have been an attempt at apology, but Ghosteater was in no mood for such gestures. Not now that he had an excuse.

He lunged, jaws wide, and bulled Wormeye back against a pillar. His fangs sank into the other beastman’s hairy throat, and with a convulsive jerk of his head, he tore Wormeye’s jugular open. Blood sprayed over him like a fountain as Wormeye gurgled and thrashed.

Ghosteater shoved the twitching body down. ‘Eat. Quick.’ As the others fell greedily on the body, he turned away, back to the ziggurat. Another tribe climbed the blood-slick steps, trying to fight through the fire, and failing. He watched the bodies rain down, and growled softly. What were the stunted ones up to?

They can’t keep it up forever, one of his ghosts murmured. No supply lines, for one thing. No support.

None we can see, another added.

Ghosteater blinked, and growled low and long. Of course. It was a tactic his own folk used, and often. Let the prey fasten its jaws on bait, and pounce on them from behind. He turned, searching. If there were other enemies abroad, when would they strike? Now?

No, a ghost said. They’ll wait until most of you are in the trap – look!

He did. He saw the broken remnants of several tribes gathering nearby, in what had once been a plaza. Chieftains snarled at one another, and came together in a flurry of blood and steel, each seeking to take command. Ghosteater considered following their example, but the whispered warning of his ghosts held him back.

A moment later, a flash of silver alerted him to the arrival of the enemy. He heard an eerie crackle, and saw beastmen drop. Bolts of snarling energy erupted from all around the plaza and cut through those gathered there. They died without seeing what killed them. Horns blew, somewhere in the ruins – not the crude instruments of the tribes, but something else. Clarion notes sawed through the clamour, and his head ached with the sound. Shapes moved in the distance – bestial, but not familiar. Strange cries sounded, and he felt his hackles stiffen. The wind turned, and he could smell them now – like clean water, and sand after being struck by lightning.

Something large and incredibly fast leapt down among his warriors a moment later. Silver war-plate flashed in the gloom as a crackling axe removed a warrior’s head. His kin howled in surprise, and fell back. Ghosteater lunged towards their foe, khopesh raised. The attacker turned swiftly, lightning erupting from his hand.

Ghosteater howled in rage as bolts of azure pain struck his flesh and sent him stumbling into a broken pillar. He shoved himself back around with a roar, just in time to parry a blow meant to remove his head. His great khopesh shuddered in his claws as his opponent’s axe whistled off course, to gouge the pillar.

The silver-armoured warrior leaned back, away from Ghosteater’s rejoinder. He snorted and resisted the urge to fling himself on his foe. Safely, softly, one of his ghosts murmured. He is strong-strong-strong…

‘Not stronger than me,’ Ghosteater growled. His warriors circled them, growling and shouting, watching but doing nothing – if he failed, they would flee.

The silver warrior cocked his head, as if puzzled. ‘No. But I am better,’ he said, simply. He spun his handaxe in a tight circle and stamped forward. The axe hissed out, leaving a trail of blue sparks. Ghosteater swayed aside, agile despite his bulk. He reversed his khopesh, and let the barbed curve dance across his opponent’s side. The silver warrior staggered and one of his ghosts snarled, Now, beast, see – his leg is extended. Strike!

Quickly, Ghosteater swept his blade down on his foe’s knee, where there was a gap in the silver war-plate. There was a sound like breaking rock, and his opponent cried out. Instinctively, he sagged and reached for his shattered limb. Ghosteater caught him by the back of his helm and drove him face first into the pillar, hard enough to crack the stone. The silver warrior flopped down, unconscious.

Ghosteater raised his blade, ready to remove the fallen warrior’s head. No-no, a ghost chittered. Question-torture him, yes-yes! Information is useful-valuable, fool-fool! He snarled in annoyance, banishing the shrill voice, even as he acknowledged the wisdom of its words. He looked at the others. They whined in confusion. As always, they needed his wisdom.

‘We go – south,’ he growled as he reached down, catching hold of the silver war-plate. His claws and palm tingled unpleasantly at the touch of it, but he ignored the sensation as he heaved his prisoner up onto one broad shoulder. Strong as Ghosteater was, his foe made for an awkward burden. ‘To the camps of the Blessed Ones.’

Sathphren Swiftblade, Lord-Aquilor of the Swiftblades Vanguard Auxiliary Chamber, smiled as he watched duardin fire lance the night. ‘As they promised, eh, Gwyllth?’ He leaned forward in his saddle and patted his gryph-charger’s feathered neck. The lean, cat-like beast gave a quiet chirrup of what he took to be agreement. Sathphren wasn’t certain how much the beast understood, but he suspected it was a great deal more than most.

‘Do we go now, brother?’ Feysha murmured. The Pallador-Prime sounded eager, and Sathphren couldn’t fault her. They were close now. He could feel it in his bones and in the air. It was the same sensation he got whenever he completed a successful hunt. The surge of triumph at seeing his quarry brought low.

But there was a time and a place for everything, and celebrations were best saved for after victory was certain. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Third volley. Then we go.’ Thalkun and his Vanguard-Raptors would be in position by then. As would Gullat and his Vanguard-Hunters. ‘Precision, Feysha… It’s all about precision.’

‘As you say, Swiftblade.’

He glanced at his subordinate. ‘Is that amusement I hear?’

‘Light mockery, my lord.’

‘Permission granted,’ Sathphren said. It was his own fault. He’d never been one for chains, even those of command. He looked around, checking that the rest of his conclave was ready. The gryph-chargers of the Vanguard-Palladors crouched low in the ruins, waiting for their silver-armoured riders to give the signal to run. It had been no easy thing, sneaking through the broken city without attracting attention. Luckily, the Gazul-Zagaz had been willing to make plenty of noise.

Even luckier, the beastkin that inhabited the ruins were utterly disorganised, little more than squabbling packs. They had claimed the city centuries ago, and had, from what he could tell, spent most of the time since fighting over its dwindling resources, and eating each other. But the beastkin weren’t the true threat in Caddow.

That would be the army camped on the far southern edge of the city. Gullat’s scouts had reported hundreds of garish pavilions, scattered across the stony shores of the Sea of Dust, a forest of stakes encircling them. The stakes were heavy with the broken bodies of beastkin, and the grounds were stained black from spilled blood. Sathphren didn’t know who they were, but he knew that there were more of them than his small force could handle. Even with the help of their allies.

He straightened in his saddle, peering south, wondering if they would have the time they needed to do what was necessary. Feysha caught his glance and said, ‘Gullat would have alerted us if there was anything to be concerned about. They haven’t so much as twitched since we got here.’

Sathphren shook his head. ‘They’re too close to the city for my liking. It doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t investigate.’

‘Maybe they’re lazy. Or just used to the beastkin making noise.’

Sathphren gave a snort of laughter. ‘Maybe so. It wouldn’t surprise me.’ He let his gaze ascend the black ziggurat, where the object of this entire exercise stood, uncaring of the slaughter carried out in its shadow. Legend said that the ziggurat had been carved in honour of the great pyramid of Nagashizzar, a sop to the ego of the Undying King by Caddow’s rulers, in ancient days. And at its top, the Corvine Gate, one of the dwindling number of realmgates that directly connected Shyish to Azyr.

Most had been destroyed during the War of Heaven and Death, but there were a few left, scattered throughout the various underworlds – the Shimmergate in Glymmsforge, and the Lychway in the City of Sighs. The Corvine Gate was the last of these to remain in the hands of the Ruinous Powers, so far as Sathphren knew.

They had to take it. Hold it and fortify it. The honour of that task had fallen to the Hallowed Knights Stormhost. A full three warrior chambers waited on the other side of the gate, ready to pour forth and take the ruins of Caddow from the enemy, in Sigmar’s name. If Sathphren Swiftblade could but clear them a path.

He grinned tightly, feeling old scars and new pull taut. He and his warriors had dared much to win this far. Memories of hard riding and dusty camps came to him, as well as other, darker recollections. Of desperate battles with the living and the dead alike, as well as things that had never been alive at all. Barely two-thirds of those who’d set out with him from Glymmsforge still rode at his side. The rest had returned to Azyr, there to be Reforged anew.

Shyish was deadly, even to those who meant it no harm.

But they were close, now. He could feel the aether twitch in anticipation of what was to come. All they had to do was hold on a bit longer, and kill as many of the foe as possible. The gate would open, and the city would be theirs.

Just a bit longer.

A roar sounded. He sighed in satisfaction. Precision. ‘Third volley.’ He thumped Gwyllth in the ribs and the gryph-charger heaved herself to her feet. The others rose as well, as the Palladors readied their weapons. ‘Don’t stop, or slow. Keep moving at all times. If they flee, let them go – Gullat’s huntsmen will handle them. I want them broken and confused.’

A moment later, they were in motion. The gryph-chargers ran with a speed that put all other creatures to shame, even carrying fully armoured Stormcasts on their backs. The winds of Azyr flowed through their veins. Gwyllth leapt over fallen statues and bounded from broken pillar to broken pillar, her claws carving great gouges in the ancient stonework. Feysha and the others kept pace, spreading out around him in a crescent formation.

Around them, the ruins erupted with lightning. Thalkun was plying his trade from the heights, his Vanguard-Raptors forcing the disorganised foe into moving where Sathphren wanted them to move.

There were too many beast-tribes to break individually. Even the steady destruction rained down on them by the Gazul-Zagaz hadn’t been enough. But the duardin had drawn them all in to a central location, and one they could not easily retreat from. Sathphren saw the lines of the city in his head, as clearly as when Gullat’s scouts had reported back. Caddow revolved around the great ziggurat, like a wheel about its spindle. The city had grown outward from the massive edifice, and its main thoroughfares were shaped accordingly. And now, the enemy were caught by that wheel, trapped in its turning.

Lightning sparked and snarled, casting gouts of dirt and loose stone into the air. A tide of beastkin burst into view, fleeing their unseen attackers. Sathphren whistled sharply, and his warriors split up, the crescent breaking apart as individual Palladors readied their weapons.

‘Remember, bloody them, but do not pursue,’ he called out, loosening his starbound blade in its sheath. ‘Leave some work for our brothers and sisters, when they finally arrive. Who shall ride the wind aetheric?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the shouted response, as the Hallowed Knights fell upon the foe. Sathphren drew his blade and leaned low in his saddle. A beastman stumbled and fell, head tumbling from its shoulders as he swept past. He plied his blade like a scythe, letting the edge and his momentum do the work. He left a broken trail of bodies in his wake as Gwyllth leapt off the street and onto the top of a crumbled wall without slowing.

Silvery streaks carved through the massed beastkin, splitting the horde and funnelling the survivors down side streets and narrow pathways. Sathphren heard the whistle-crack of boltstorm pistols as Feysha and the others blocked off pathways and sent chunks of rubble toppling onto the street, further scattering the demoralised foe.

It was all about precision. Keep your quarry guessing, keep them confused, and then harry them until they collapsed – or turned to make a stand. Either way, the end result was the same. A broken body at your feet, and meat for the feast.

Sathphren’s smile was feral as Gwyllth pounced onto an unlucky gor, bearing the goat-headed brute to the street. The beastman squealed as the gryph-charger’s claws opened it from nape to navel, and then she was moving again, leaving the creature thrashing in its death agonies. Gwyllth had played this game before, and knew it well.

A roaring beastman lunged towards them, crude axe raised. Sathphren removed its hands at the wrists with a looping blow, as Gwyllth carried him past, towards the ziggurat. ‘Faster, sister,’ he murmured.

Beastkin still sought to climb the edifice, hurling themselves into the guns of the duardin – hundreds of them. Heaps of hundreds more lay at the foot of the ziggurat, their ruined flesh still smoking. Erratic rivers of blood splashed freely down the wide, slabbed steps, but the creatures did not falter or cease their assault. They covered the southern slope, clambering over the dead, driven into a frenzy by the stink of death on the wind.

Without waiting for the others, Sathphren urged his steed towards the base of the ziggurat. Angles and rates of fire played across the surface of his mind. The duration between volleys was more protracted, allowing the beastkin more time to recover. The duardin were conserving their ammunition. Gwyllth took the steps two at a time, racing like a zephyr. Blade in one hand, he drew his heavy boltstorm pistol with the other, and clamped tight to Gwyllth’s sides with his knees.

Gwyllth struck the rear of the horde like a thunderbolt, sending beastkin tumbling with the force of her arrival. Sathphren fired his pistol without bothering to aim. Lightning ripsawed through the enemy, hurling broken bodies away from him.

‘To the top, sister,’ he roared. An axe flashed, and he sent its wielder spinning away, headless. Beastmen turned as they became aware of his approach. Sathphren fired again and again into the howling mass of monstrous bodies. Gwyllth shrieked in rage, hooves and talons lashing out in a wide arc. Bones splintered and flesh was torn as she pushed forward, carrying him up the steps.

As they reached the uppermost tier, Sathphren saw that the Gazul-Zagaz shield wall was under threat. A wedge of beastmen, burly and battle-scarred, their hairy hides decorated with tattoos and trophies of battle, had managed to disrupt the line. A towering gor, with the head of a stag and a stone-headed maul in its talons, led the way, despite the bloody wounds that pockmarked its flesh. It smashed an unlucky duardin off his feet with a massive, sweeping blow, and turned as Gwyllth’s shadow fell over it.

‘Greetings, Tul,’ Sathphren shouted, as Gwyllth bore the brute to the stones. The beastman thrashed beneath the gryph-charger’s weight, squalling. Slowly, almost gently, Gwyllth bit her captive’s head off. Nearby duardin drew back, muttering. Sathphren pretended not to notice as he holstered his boltstorm pistol. ‘Good hunting, I trust?’ he asked, as the shield wall reformed behind him, and another volley thundered.

‘Hunting requires skill and effort,’ Tul said. ‘This requires neither. But our powder runs low. Soon we will be forced to kill them with our hands.’ The duardin did not sound displeased by this prospect.

‘So I see.’ Sathphren turned. Beastmen fell back in a haze of powder smoke, leaving a shroud of bodies on the edge of the tier. But he could hear bellowing in their ranks, and knew that the respite was only temporary. Another rush, and they might well overwhelm the duardin. He could not allow that. He looked back at Tul. ‘Retreat to the top of the ziggurat. I will buy you the time you need to regroup.’

Tul frowned but did not argue. A pragmatic folk, the Gazul-Zagaz. He shouted something in their grating tongue, and funerary bells rang out. The rear ranks of the duardin began to ascend. When they reached the midway point, they set their shields and levelled their drakeguns, creating an improvised gateway through which their fellows could pass.

A bird shrieked overhead. Sathphren looked up. Aetherwings circled overhead, trailing motes of starlight with every flap of their great wings. Thalkun was on the move. Sathphren nodded in satisfaction. It was a great comfort to him that his subordinates could act on their own initiative. Like him, they were hunters born, and knew their business.

Down below, Feysha and the other Palladors had reached the lowest tier of the ziggurat and were killing any beast they found. But there were still plenty between them and Sathphren. He grinned and slid from Gwyllth’s saddle. The gryph-charger grumbled and he stroked her neck.

‘Easy, sister, easy. Now is the time to meet our prey’s final charge with steel and claw.’ He unhooked his shock handaxe from the saddle and gave it an experimental swing. He turned, blade in one hand, axe in the other. Gwyllth growled and crouched behind him, tail lashing.

The last of the duardin stumped past, pulling back, leaving him alone on the tier, save for Gwyllth. The beastkin edged forward through the clearing haze of powder smoke. In a moment, their courage would return and they would charge. He did not intend to give them that moment. He scraped the edge of his axe against his sword, and laughed. Gwyllth screeched in challenge, her tail lashing.

Dozens of pairs of red eyes met his own. Sathphren grinned.

‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

As one, the children of Chaos lunged forward, fangs bared.

Sathphren Swiftblade sprang to meet them.

Click here to buy Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid.

For the Faithful.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Jon Cave.

Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid, 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.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78030-885-2

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.