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The Harrowed Paths – Extract

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THE FIRST CIRCLE

The Unturning Wheel

The truth is revealed to you. Decline is stagnation, stagnation is decline. You are not safe. You will never be safe again. You will never know security again, nor the comforting delusion of hope.

You will never take another breath that is not stolen. You will never make another memory that is not rooted in sadness. Memories of better times are now memories of memories.

The path you are set on for the rest of your life only descends. Where once you felt it might raise you towards better things, know now that it will only decline. The path descends. You descend with it.

The wheel does not turn. Decline is stagnation, stagnation is decline.

You are not safe. You will never be safe again.

The man wakes to the sound of distant thunder. His body aches. He is no longer young, and he has slept poorly on stony ground. It takes a few moments for his thoughts to find clarity through the fog of sleep and then he realises the sound is not thunder, but the crashing of waves against the cliffs below, loud now that the tide has turned. Loud enough to wake him. And there is something else, another noise.

In the city across the bay a tower topples from the cliffs and falls into the sea below. There is a cheer from the engineers working the demolition, a faint chorus carried by the wind. He climbs to his feet and wraps his cloak around him. It is coarse grey wool in a style unfamiliar to this region of Shyish, wet from sea spray and the morning dew. In the distance, great sandstone blocks tumble from the cliff into the churning waves, lost in the fury of the ocean. He stands there for a while longer, steadying himself against the wind; it is strong enough to snatch away his breath. The thunder of the waves along the coast is hypnotic. A primordial sound. A sound from before the ages of men and myth, when the land he now stands upon was thrust up from the depths of the endless midnight ocean like the clenched fists of a drowning god.

The people of this city were judged and found wanting. The Stormhosts commit holy murder against an enemy that appears more human than their executioners. Faceless giants born of thunder and lightning. The God-King’s wrath made manifest.

We are sick, he thinks. There is some sickness in us, in all of us, even those who appear untainted by horrors. Rot and decay hides in the folds of a flower when its season has passed, and innocence is only skin deep. He has learned this harshest of lessons. Flesh can be deceitful, even your own flesh and blood. Chaos is a sickness upon the soul.

A flock of hundreds of small grey birds takes to the sky above what remains of the coastal city, disturbed by the devastation below. The sudden movement startles him and catches his attention through unfocused eyes, blurred and teared by the wind. He realises he is on the edge of the cliff, the very edge. Far below him the waves break against the shore in ceaseless crashing percussion. The winds buffet the tiny birds and yet they move as if with a single consciousness, like fish darting from a predator. Such small, fragile things. Such short lives. He has never learned what they are called. It does not seem worthwhile. He is leaning into the wind.

A voice calls out from somewhere behind him. He does not look around but steps quickly back from the precipice. He had heard no one approach.

‘You are the historian?’ the voice calls out again. A strong voice. The words carry above the noise of the waves, of the wind.

He does not reply.

‘I seek Alessander Cellarius, the historian. They told me to come here to these ruins. To speak to the grey-bearded man who stares at rocks.’

He does not look around. He feels like he has been caught in the middle of a shameful act though he can’t think for sure what that is. Instead, he feigns preoccupation with the ruins that surround him. They pre-date the city by hundreds of years at least. The stone is much darker than the pale pink sandstone of the distant towers, veined with tiny purple crystals, the edges worn smooth with the passage of centuries. Nature has long since reclaimed whatever was here. Buried among the long grass there are stones, ensnared in the amethyst ivy that is so prevalent in the northlands. He traces his thumb around the edge of the engravings. They are indistinct, their meaning lost to the ages.

‘They said you would not speak to me, that you do not speak to anyone. And so, from your silence, I shall assume I have the right person.’ The voice is clear and resonant. Confident, yet not unkind. ‘I’ve travelled across the realms to find you.’

The man gestures at the rocks. ‘I am… engaged with my work. Not to be disturbed.’ His own voice is weak from disuse and his speech is croaky, his words mostly lost to the gale. How long has he been here, among these stones, he wonders? Two, three days? How long since he has last eaten? Since he last had something to drink? He fumbles at his belt, looking for the wineskin. It is not there.

A flask lands at his feet, thrown there by his visitor. He picks it up, removing the fired clay stopper, and takes a mouthful of the watered wine. He turns to face the newcomer.

The Stormcast Eternal stands half again as tall as the man. A giant, a soldier in the wars of gods and daemons. A man to be feared and worshipped, clad head to toe in golden armour forged by the artisan warsmiths of Azyrheim. Under his arm he carries a death-mask helmet. At his hip, a single-handed hammer of such size that no mortal could wield it. The old man hesitates.

‘Do not be afraid.’ The giant steps closer. ‘You have met my kind before, I am certain. Ah, though perhaps not with armour of gold. My name is Ra’Xephael. I am a knight of the Hammers of Sigmar, foremost of the God-King’s hosts. I have need of your help, historian.’

A distant rumble – the unmistakable dull thump of duardin munitions, felt as tremors through the ground. The Stormcast and the historian turn to watch as across the bay the engineers commence the demolition of another tower. The spire of the roof falls down into the crumbling levels below, swallowed by a cloud of pale, pink dust. Around the base of the tower, pulleys and cables tighten, controlling the angle of the collapse, and the building leans, then slowly falls over the cliff, into the churning sea below.

Clouds of dirt and smoke rise from the rubble, quickly carried away by the wind. Barely perceptible figures move through the ruins and begin casting anything that remains into the sea.

Soon there will be nothing of this place left, he thinks. They believe the stone of the land itself is tainted, that it must be reconsecrated. But there are always traces. These rocks… these stones are all that remain of a tower, long since fallen. A tower to watch over the bay. He pulls back the thick grass to reveal more of the ruins, half buried in the damp earth, blackened by the passage of centuries. His hands are shaking, black with dirt, his fingernails are bleeding. Foundations sunk deep into the cliff. Deep roots buried and remembered now only by restless spirits. The dead in this place are watching, but for now they tolerate his intrusions.

The giant takes the old man by the arm. There is concern in his voice.

‘Come with me, historian. You are half starved. Let us find some food. These stones will still be here when you return.’

A gentle grip. The Stormcast guides him to his feet. He does not resist.

He walks in silence to the camps at the outskirts of the city. The golden giant follows, a pace or two behind, the heavy tread unfaltering despite the treacherous coastal trails – little more than goat paths – that skirt around the edge of the bay. The armies of Sigmar have already moved on, leaving behind earthworks and palisades as the only signs of the investment. Engineers remain within the ruin of the city walls. Of the people that once lived here, at first there is no sign.

After a time, they arrive at the first of the mass graves. The smell of freshly dug earth. Sods of loamy soil. Blackened vegetation where sometime in the night, fire has been set to burn those things that needed to be burned, because burial in Shyish is not always desirable and the dead are persistent.

In the bay there are more bodies that have fallen from the cliffs or have been thrown over. Eels thrash in the water, writhing coils of slick black rope tangled together in a feeding frenzy. Some days past he had seen an eel as thick and round as his thigh reach out from the surf to take a goat in its jaws and drag it into the sea. Now they have other food. Blood stains the foam pink as it washes up on the grey of the beach, and further out a black shadow moves beneath the surface, vast and sleek, trailing spindly legs behind it. An eater-fish venturing into the shallows, drawn by the scent of blood.

He sees the body of a young man, barely into adulthood, bloody and broken upon the shore. Limbs splayed unnaturally, tossed and turned by the rolling waves. From this distance it is not possible to make out any uniform or insignia. He watches for a time, standing at the edge of the cliff. The Stormcast beside him, towering over him. A mismatched pair. The stinging salt wind blowing in from the sea causes his eyes to tear.

‘This is not a sight to linger on.’ The Stormcast’s voice is gentle; he is watching the historian with concern. Kind eyes, blue like electricity.

‘You see him too? The young man?’

The Stormcast nods. ‘There are horrors here,’ he says.

The historian thinks: when Sigmar abandoned these people, hundreds of years ago… when the God-King closed the gates of Azyr, they had to find their own ways to survive. What choice did they have? What choice do any of us have but survival? And now the God-King returns. Like a disappointed parent, he returns to punish those that had the indecency to try to live without him.

The Stormcast is silent for a while longer, watching the old man.

‘They say you travelled with the Anvils of the Heldenhammer,’ he says. ‘That you travelled the length of the Reach alongside them. They are known to be grim. Ruthless. And sieges are the worst of all the horrors of war.’

The historian says nothing. He watches the waves.

‘I will not pretend that I have not participated in my share of horrors. But know this – we Stormcast Eternals are not all alike.’ The Stormcast places a hand on the historian’s shoulder. A golden gauntlet. He leads him away from the edge.

They follow the smell of cooking to the engineers’ camp where a cauldron simmers on a crackling fire, the damp wood hissing and spitting. Eel stewed in bitter herbs, served in a wooden bowl with a piece of flatbread. The historian’s stomach is too empty to be hungry and he does not know if he can eat. The cook stirs the pot with the haft of a broken ghostwood spear. He is bearded, his unwashed hands black with soot, a twin-tailed comet tattooed on his forehead and old scarring on his arms from alchemical fire. An engineer, a veteran. He serves the Stormcast with an expression of holy awe.

They eat in the shadow of the ruined city. They eat without speaking, and share wine from the flask, poured into wooden cups. The historian’s strength is returning. The sun is waning in the misty sky, the light it casts is ethereal and sickly. Black-winged gulls and carrion birds feud with the eels on the shore at the foot of the cliffs, their grating cries and shrieks unwelcome but easily ignored. He has heard worse cries lately.

‘You will not follow the Anvils as they continue their purge of the north,’ says the Stormcast, and it is not a question. ‘This leaves you without purpose or direction. A man must have a purpose.’

The historian says nothing. The Stormcast watches him as he eats.

‘I am heading to Kuan’Talos,’ he says. ‘The Anvils have not yet reached that far. For now, it is a place undisturbed by Sigmar’s great war of liberation. From there you could arrange for a ship to Sendport, then on to the Innerlands, or to a Realmgate. Journey away from Shyish, if that is what you wish.’

Again, the historian does not reply.

‘They said you would serve as well as any local guide,’ says the Stormcast. ‘That you know the hidden paths and the history of this land. Did they speak true?’

‘I have rarely been this far north,’ the historian says at last, ‘though I have lived most of my life in Ora.’

‘I have wandered these lands for some time,’ the Stormcast says. ‘But I am an outsider and an agent of the God-King. Few will talk to me. Even fewer have anything worthwhile to say.’ He pauses, gestures to where the sun is already beginning to set behind the devastated city, clouds of dust glow in the last light of the day. ‘What can you tell me of this place?’

The historian sits with his back to debris that had once been part of the city wall, devastated now until only rubble remains. He thinks for a while. He is unused to talking, but it comes back to him: the role of tutor is familiar. He tells the Stormcast of the history of the land.

‘It is a place much like any other in Shyish. Cities are born from the need for defence,’ he says. ‘Tribes gather, raise walls, try to keep the darkness at bay. Some places grow, some others are lost. Without Sigmar,’ he says, ‘some turned to other gods.’

His speech is halting, his voice rough. Behind him the skeletal remains of buildings cast long shadows across the scorched earth.

‘They called this a free city,’ he says. ‘They resisted the worst of the depredations of the Ruinous Powers. No – I do not say all. They did not resist all.’ The historian takes a drink from the cup. ‘The history of this land is not unique,’ he says. ‘But these people kept their own records and they had their own libraries. That is a rarer thing. I had the chance to study some small part of these before they were thrown into the ocean. So much knowledge lost. We do not learn from history.’

‘The books in places like this are forbidden,’ the Stormcast says, ‘along with all the works of these people, corrupted works. The knowledge contained within is dangerous.’

‘All knowledge is dangerous when you have too little,’ the historian snaps. ‘I believed the risk was worth it, to learn of this place, these people. We have no other way to learn from the past. The Stormcasts, the Anvils – they choose to remain ignorant. To your kind, there are only absolutes.’

Nearby, men are lighting pyres so as to continue their demolition work in the half light of evening. They build fires made from driftwood and scavenged timbers from the ruins. The historian watches as they carry an ornately carved wooden centrepiece depicting some strange deity or daemon from a temple or shrine and heave it into the burgeoning flames. In the city countless small fires still burn. The smoke is lost in the darkening sky as the sun falls beneath the horizon.

‘The people here survived for countless decades,’ he says. ‘They survived warring tribes, disease, famine… and each day they looked to the sea, dreading that they might see the sails of the plague fleets returning. And then instead, your kind arrived. To judge them and find them wanting. And so, this…’

‘War is ever thus,’ says the Stormcast. ‘I did not seek to be admonished, historian.’

‘No? What other lesson do you hope to learn from history besides admonishment? Look around you. You and your kind could learn from this. Or not. History does not care either way. I do not care either way.’

‘You forget to whom you are talking,’ says the Stormcast. ‘Among the Stormhosts walk those who lived in those times, reborn now. If you seek lessons from the past you can ask one who was there.’

The historian thinks on this for a moment. ‘And have you learnt lessons from your past?’ he says. ‘Will you share these lessons, or sequester them away in secret vaults? I was with the Anvils of The Heldenhammer for months. They are soldiers, not scholars, and for a solider knowledge is a weapon. They hoard secrets lest they provide some advantage in the prosecution of endless war. They taught me no lessons save for those in barbarity.’

They sit without speaking for a while, listening to the sound of the gulls and the wind and the distant shouts of the engineers in the ruins of the city. Dust from the demolitions blows through the camp, carried on strong winds so that it stings the historian’s skin and he pulls his cloak up around his face.

‘I concede that you are unique among the Stormcasts I have met before,’ he says eventually. ‘I never heard those bastards say more than a few words in all the months I was with them. I was to be their chronicler. In the end I was only a witness.’

The Stormcast smiles. It is a sad and gentle expression, incongruous on one dressed for war. The historian thinks it is the first kind thing he has seen for some time.

‘They say that you mistrust others,’ the Stormcast says. ‘They say you would rather be out here alone, with nothing but dead things for company.’

The historian shrugs and wraps his cloak more tightly around him. Dead things. It is strange, he thinks, how you can make such meaningful choices, such important decisions. To entangle yourself in the life of another, to have a child, a family, a home. To build a life with love and purpose. And then one day it is all in the past and all that remains is the company of the dead. Dead things, and I among their number.

‘You prefer the company of the dead,’ says the Stormcast. His smile holds kindness and sorrow. His eyes are old and knowing, and within them there is perception and recognition. ‘This is not a problem,’ he says. ‘I have died. Many times.’

A man must have a purpose, thinks the historian. Life has come to an end. Though I keep on breathing. Life is change and meaning and I have none of those things. Life is hope and love and I am without those things.

The Stormcast takes a book from his pack and offers it to the historian. Small, bound in red leather and tied up with twine. On the cover is an etched circle of thorns, embossed with flaking gold leaf. It is weatherworn, the leather faded to pink and orange along the spine and at the tattered edges. It is hard to glean its age.

‘A gift for you,’ he says. ‘More forbidden knowledge. Something from a long time ago. I sense that you enjoy mysteries.’

The historian undoes the twine. The book is full of symbols in cramped handwriting. Each brittle page so densely inked as to appear almost black. Water has smudged the script in places. Old symbols that he knows, but not a language he recognises.

‘Where does it come from?’

‘A past life.’ The Stormcast shrugs. ‘Washed up on a shore. I do not truly know. I have had it for as long as I can remember.’

‘What language is this? The symbols make no sense.’

The Stormcast shakes his head. ‘My hope is that you are able to translate it,’ he says. ‘Some symbols are familiar, but the meaning eludes me.’

No, not a single language, but a pattern. The historian is lost in thought. A cypher. A common enough practice among the esoteric cults and sects of Shyish, the key to the translation would be a repeated sequence of symbols, most likely. Perhaps this first sequence. He turns each page carefully, engrossed. Eyes straining with the dense text in the half light of the pyres.

‘There are mysteries in this land, secrets I would know,’ says the Stormcast. ‘I think you might be a key to those secrets, and this is a part of it. Read the book, historian. Tell me what you find.’

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Warhammer horror

A BLACK LIBRARY IMPRINT

The Colonel’s Monograph first published in 2019.
‘Bone Cutter’ first published in Black Library Events Anthology 2019/20 in 2019.
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