Contents

Cover

Hammers of Sigmar: First Forged – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

CHAPTER ONE

THE POINT OF THE SPEAR

Darkness. Cold and silent. He was alone.

He had the sense of a vast and airy space around him, a hall of stone and marble, but he could not even see the hand in front of his face. He could feel the cold, dry flagstones under his feet, and there was a faint ripple of air against his skin. He drew in a breath, released it, heard it echo softly in the distance. He felt again for the channel of air and moved cautiously towards it, his arms extended.

Darkness, cold and silent.

But I am Ferant Tidebreaker, he thought. I am not afraid. I fought the orruk reavers on the Blistered Coast single-handedly. Their grey ships filled the horizon from end to end, bleak as a winter storm, but the sea ran red with their blood by the time I fell. I defended my village. And then my soul was an ingot of gold hammered on the Anvil, and my heart was the heart of the tempest. I am Stormcast Eternal, lightning-borne. I am Hammers of Sigmar, first to be forged…

And I am alone.

He wore only a loose loincloth, but otherwise he was naked. He had no armour and bore no weapons, no shield. All the training in the Gladitorium was behind him now, the long months and years of preparation – the simulated deaths, the endless combat drills performed until every movement had been honed to perfection. Side by side with his comrades, he had trained until his very dreams were dreams of war. None of that would help him now. All of that was in the past. Ahead of him there was only the darkness. Beyond, if his heart was pure, there would be the light.

Ferant stepped forwards again, his feet edging across the flagstones. He reached out with his left hand for obstructions while he held his right up high in a fist beside his head. The darkness writhed around him, cold as deep water. Unconsciously he had adopted the fighting stance of the Liberators’ first rank: the shield raised, the hammer held high against the shoulder, right leg back to brace for the first blow. He could almost feel the slab of sigmarite hanging from his arm, the heavy warhammer solid in his grip.

‘I am Ferant Tidebreaker,’ he muttered. ‘I am Stormcast Eternal. I am Hammers of Sigmar. As a man, I fought the reaver orruks on the Blistered Coast.’

In truth, he could barely recall his last fight as a mortal man. Had it killed him? Or had he been snatched up by Sigmar’s grace at the very moment of death? It hung there in his mind like a dream, or like a tale he had once been told, so vivid that it formed burnished images in his mind as real as memories. The weight of the spear in his hand, the sea like circles of ice around his calves, the waves capped with trails of foam. The ships crashing through the water, the harsh bellowing of the orruks on board, their tattered black sails crackling in the wind. He remembered their oars chopping against the tide as they came in to shore, the glint of their weapons, the knowledge that they would give no quarter. A strange calmness had descended on him as he met his death, spear in hand, enemies dying at his feet. He had stood long enough – the villagers had escaped. He could give no more. And then the light, the endless light of Sigmar, calling him home…

Ferant felt a drop of sweat creep down his forehead. He brushed it away with the back of his wrist and reached again for that narrow channel of air. He followed it like a bloodhound tracking a scent. Around him, the dark, silent hall echoed to the scrape of his footsteps and the thunder of his heart.

His fingers brushed against stone. The air billowed softly from his right now, and he followed it along the length of the wall until he came to a narrow flight of stairs. He thought of the sea again, of where he had grown up: the long view of the slate-grey water, the corrugated waves, the clouds massing on the edge of the sky. He could remember the rains marching like an army across the ocean towards the shore, but it was like a veil had descended between that moment and this. It was all behind him. He had been a man then. He was a man no longer – and the Hammers of Sigmar did not look back.

He reached his foot down to the first stone step. He felt for the narrow confines of the open door and entered a stairwell no wider than his bare shoulders.

You could not enter this place in your armour, he realised. You must go unclad, as vulnerable as the day you were born.

The steps descended, flight after flight, a spiral twisted into the very bowels of the earth. After two hundred of them he stopped counting. He knew it should be warm this far beneath the ground, but the air had grown colder and colder the deeper he went. The stone on either side trickled with moisture and he knew that if he could have seen it in the darkness, his breath would have been a plume of steam.

There was only silence beneath him, but as Ferant strained his senses he could feel something there in the dark places ahead. A presence, something like the sharp, unruly air on the edge of a thunderstorm. The hairs on his forearms lifted and he felt a brittle, coruscant sensation at the back of his skull. He was not alone.

He was up in moments, fists raised. His breath came fast, but there was no echo. He felt enclosed suddenly, hemmed in. He reached up and felt the dimpled rock of the ceiling, slick with moisture. There was a chamber ahead of him, he thought, a narrow space filled with that electric presence. He could sense the dormant crackle of lightning, a hundred stilled spirits waiting to see what he would do next.

‘Ferant,’ a voice called out from the darkness. There was something parched and sorrowful about it, Ferant thought. But something as cold and hard as a gravestone too.

‘Ferant,’ it said again, ‘called the Tidebreaker. Do you approach this place with arms and armour?’

Ferant lowered his hands. He stood straight and raised his jaw. The blackness swirled around him like a living thing.

‘I do not,’ he said.

‘Do you seek a place amongst us, to be as we are?’

‘I do.’

‘And are you willing to dedicate yourself to Sigmar’s cause from this day on, to give unstinting service unto the end of your ability, and to see in your death only another opportunity to serve?’

‘I do,’ Ferant said, his voice ringing out.

‘Then know that you will live from this day forth without family, without property, without the common joys and tribulations of a common life. Know that you will achieve the impossible, that you will fight beyond the limits of your strength and the sinews of your soul. Know that if you were alone against a horde of your enemies you would still fight through and win. Know that you do this not for glory or reward, but only because it is expected of you.’

‘I know this.’

A spark was kindled in the shadow, no more than a taper glowing at the other end of the chamber. In its wavering light Ferant caught a glimpse of bone, the soft glint of gold. The taper came to rest against the far wall. So small was its light, and so dark were the shadows around it, that he could not judge how far away it might be. It could have been a dozen feet or a hundred miles.

‘Then you must be the Point of the Spear, Ferant Tidebreaker,’ the voice said. ‘Here in this chamber, far beneath the Perspicarium, you must aim yourself at the light before you, and you must strike true no matter what might be in your way.’

The taper flared slightly. As his eyes adjusted, Ferant could see the altar on which it lay in the distance. And then he saw what lined the path towards it.

There were dozens of them standing there at attention – Stormcast Eternals in full armour, Hammers of Sigmar in their golden plate. They formed a corridor towards the altar, thirty on each side and a narrow passage between them. Every head was turned towards him, every blank mask of those golden helmets. Ferant met their gaze.

He was not afraid. He was the Point of the Spear.

The first blow caught him on the temple. He crashed to the side, felt a knee drawn sharply up into his stomach. A fist came sailing from the shadows and cracked across his jaw, sending him to the ground. Ferant got to his knees, instinctively raising a hand to block the next blow. He lashed out, jabbed an elbow against hard sigmarite plate, threw off the arm that tried to circle his throat. He spat blood as he ran forwards, stumbled again, caught a vicious punch to his ribs, ducked another fist as it lanced towards his face. Still the ember glowed and sputtered ahead of him, a fragile point of light in the midst of the relentless dark.

His legs were shaking but he forced himself on. He held his fists up on either side of his head, stamped his bare feet against armoured greaves, ducked and weaved and surged his way through the scrum. Blood was sheeting down his face. He would not stop. He would fight on, he would achieve the impossible no matter the odds against him.

‘First to be forged…’ he muttered through cracked lips.

Still the blows kept coming. His head rang with them and his breath was as ragged as a broken bellows. He couldn’t tell how far through the gauntlet he had run – the light seemed no nearer. He held out his hand but he may as well have been reaching for the sun.

‘Is this what you bring us, Lord-Relictor?’ a voice called out. ‘Standards have fallen since my day, if so.’

‘Aye,’ said another, with mocking laughter. ‘This one is not worthy of the chamber. Hammer and throne, he is barely worthy to be Stormcast.’

‘Send him back, Lord-Relictor! A few more rounds in the Gladitorium, then perhaps we will see.’

Ferant gritted his teeth. Head down, he barrelled onwards, ignoring the pain, his bleeding feet sliding on the flagstones. He pushed and shoved his way through, turning the blows aside where he could and merely taking them where he couldn’t. In the darkness, still lit only by that faint flame on the distant altar, the golden armour that surrounded him seemed as dull as brass. He punched and kicked, hurtling himself through the press, sweat and blood like a mask against his face. He tore the grasping hands in their armoured gloves aside. He ripped the fingers from his throat and kicked the feet away that sought to trip him. He took each strike and jab as it came and shook his head clear when he could. They would not stop him.

You must aim yourself at the light before you, and you must strike true no matter what might be in your way…

It was there in front of him, pale as a winter flower, a spark of light clutching the tip of a candle, coiled around the wick. All he had to do was reach out and touch it.

An arm hooked around his neck, twisting him back.

‘You can do it, my friend,’ a voice whispered in his ear. ‘I believe in you.’

Ferant slammed his elbow back, breaking the hold. He twisted like a fish on a line, bucked and thrashed until he was free. The light was there, it was right there in front of him…

With a bellowed roar, he threw himself forwards. He reached out, fingers grasping for the flame.

He had given enough. He had saved his village. There was only the light, the endless light of Sigmar, calling him home.

He felt the fire burn his fingers. He closed his fist – and the chamber was plunged into darkness.

Torches flared against the walls. The hall was flooded with light. He felt strong arms helping him to his feet. There was laughter, cheering, the deafening clatter of applause. Helmets were removed to reveal proud faces, and wherever he looked Ferant could see them smiling at him. One great Paladin, his helmet cast aside and his scarred face bright with laughter, took him in a bear hug and kissed the top of his head.

‘Ferant!’ some cried. ‘Ferant Tidebreaker, the Point of the Spear!’

He staggered against the altar as he stood, head reeling. Someone passed him a cloth so he could wipe the blood from his face. Another held out a cup of wine and he drank it greedily. He could not take in the sea of faces before him, but every one of them rejoiced at what he had done.

And he had done it. He felt the pain fading on his palm from where he had grasped the flame. He had passed the rite. He was Hammers of Sigmar now. He was of the Hammerhands themselves.

Lord Sigmar, he prayed. You have blessed me with this honour. I will hold true to it always, I swear.

A Stormcast stood before him, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. His dark hair was cut close and brushed forwards, and his face looked carved out of stone. His green eyes were slightly sunken, as if the cares of his duty kept him from sleep. He wore the plain plate armour of the Redeemer Conclave, a sculpted lion decorating his left pauldron.

‘Liberator-Prime,’ Ferant stuttered. His jaw ached from where he had been struck, and as he spoke the cut on his lip broke open. He sucked the blood from it and tried to stand up straight. He was aware that the Liberator-Prime was holding out his gauntleted hand. Ferant took it in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.

‘Well done,’ the Liberator-Prime said. ‘I am Barro Callinicus, and I would be honoured to have you in my retinue.’

‘The honour would be mine, Liberator-Prime,’ Ferant said. He shifted his weight from where he was leaning against the altar. Though he tried to disguise it, he could not mask the pain that spasmed across his face.

Barro laughed. ‘We have all been where you are now, Ferant, remember that. From the highest amongst us to the simplest Liberator, as you are now, we have all been the Point of the Spear before we joined the chamber.’ He rubbed his jaw, as if remembering a distant ache, and smiled. ‘Believe me, my friend. This rite is who we are, what we have become. All the armies, all the Stormhosts Sigmar has at his command, and we must be the unbreakable point on which it all depends.’

One by one the other warriors came up to shake his hand or to clap him on the back. There were Liberators and Paladins, even Stormcasts in Thunderstrike armour milling around the altar now. Another cup of wine was pressed into his hand.

‘You’ll never know how lucky you are,’ one warrior said, another Liberator who was big enough to have been in the Paladin Conclave. He slung his arm around Ferant’s shoulders and jabbed a finger into his chest. ‘The Hammerhands are the elite, never forget that. The first of the first, the best there is. You should thank Sigmar every day that you didn’t find yourself in the Goldenmanes.’ He gave an exaggerated shudder and shook his head. ‘Lord, or even the Thunderbolts…’

‘Now now, Castos,’ Barro said, drawing Ferant aside. ‘Don’t frighten the lad.’

‘Those cravens don’t deserve a heart so pure as our Ferant’s here!’ the one called Castos cried. He gave Ferant a staggering punch on the arm.

‘How came you by your name?’ another warrior asked him. She was tall, her skin like bronze in the torchlight, her head shaved. Ferant saw that she was from the Redeemer Conclave too, with a white lightning bolt on the blue plate of her pauldron. ‘“Tidebreaker”, the Lord-Relictor said?’

‘My enemies gave it to me, from what I know,’ he said. ‘I stood against the tide of them, until I could stand no more.’

‘It is well earned,’ the Liberator said. ‘I am Deuteria, called the Dawnlight. We will fight together, in Barro’s retinue.’

She clasped his hand and stared deep into his eyes. Ferant almost had the sense she wanted to speak of her own moment, of whatever had brought her to the apotheosis of becoming Stormcast, but in the end she merely squeezed his hand and turned away. Perhaps it was too near, he thought. Or too distant, and the effort of recalling it too painful. It was different for everyone, he knew. Some had boasted of it as a badge of honour when he was training in the Gladitorium. Others held it as close as a secret shame, and they would not speak of it no matter what.

The gathered voices in that close and narrow chamber soon fell silent. Ferant was aware of the crowd that had surrounded him beginning to part, their golden armour sparkling in the torchlight as they drew reverently aside. He saw the Lord-Relictor who had spoken when he entered striding towards him, the pale, skull-faced helmet, the scrollwork of his cloak rustling like a grave shroud. Ferant held his head high. He still stood there half-naked, battered and bloody, but unbowed.

‘Welcome, Ferant Tidebreaker,’ the Lord-Relictor said as he stood before him. ‘You have passed the Point of the Spear and been initiated into the Hammerhands, Warrior Chamber of the Hammers of Sigmar. You have become the blade that Sigmar thrusts into the heart of his enemies. Though legions of the enemy stand before you, you will not falter. You will join the retinue of Liberator-Prime Callinicus and we all have no doubt that you will serve with distinction and honour, as befits a Stormcast Eternal.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Ferant said. In the corner of his eye he could see Barro bowing his head in assent.

‘There remains only one more thing,’ the Lord-Relictor said in that rasping voice. He looked to Barro and Castos. ‘Hold him.’

The two warriors took Ferant’s arms, gently but firmly. He did not struggle. Down the length of the hall, a Judicator came bearing a burning brand, its tip glowing with a white-hot flame.

‘Though the scar of this will fade,’ the Lord-Relictor said, taking the brand, ‘the mark will be unblemished forever.’

He pressed it deep into the flesh above Ferant’s heart. There was a crackle of burning skin, the crisp scent of scorched meat. Ferant grimaced, but did not cry out.

‘I mark you now as Hammers of Sigmar. Let this brand forever be a remembrance of what you are. First to be forged…’

Ferant looked at the skull-plate. He could feel the heart beating in his chest, the blood surging like lightning in his veins. He swallowed hard.

‘…Never to fail,’ he said.

As the Lord-Relictor drew the brand away, Ferant looked down. There, burned into his chest and no bigger than a coin, was the sign of the comet – the sign of hope and justice and holy vengeance across the Mortal Realms.

The sign of Sigmar.

He donned his armour as the rite came to an end, wincing against his bruises. Already they were beginning to fade, though, and by morning he would have regained his full strength. There was the feast of welcome to look forward to now and then the days of training with his new comrades. Beyond that, Ferant thought with a cold thrill in his stomach, there was the prospect of battle. He would march out with the Hammerhands to bring ruin to Sigmar’s enemies. He would take his position in the line and smite those who would bring death and destruction to the peoples of Sigmar’s dominion. He would be the point of the spear indeed.

There was a door behind the altar, wide enough for the warriors to leave while wearing their armour. Ferant looked back to the narrow doorway at the other end where he had first fallen into the chamber, lost in the darkness, cold, alone. He had been forged on the Anvil, trained in the Gladitorium, armed with purest sigmarite, but he knew that he had not truly been Stormcast until he had fallen naked to the floor, here deep beneath the Perspicarium. Until he had run the gauntlet and grasped the flame.

‘Strange,’ he said as he left.

‘What’s that?’ Barro asked.

Ferant looked back at the empty hall. The low ceiling, the rough flagstone floor, the torches still burning in their iron sconces along the walls.

‘Lord Vandus,’ he said. ‘I thought… I thought I would have met him here. That he would have initiated me into the Hammerhands.’

A look of sadness passed across Barro’s eyes. He took Ferant’s shoulder and ushered him through the door.

‘One day, my friend,’ he said. ‘One day, I’m sure you’ll see him.’

Click here to buy Hammers of Sigmar: First Forged.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

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

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Mauro Belfiore.

Hammers of Sigmar: First Forged © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2022. Hammers of Sigmar: First Forged, 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: 978-1-80026-820-3

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

the purchaser of a Black Library e-book product (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase a Black Library e-book (“e-book”). 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.

* 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.