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The Iron Promise – Extract

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The Iron Promise

Josh Reynolds

Vos Stalis sighed as the shadow of black wings fell over him. Instinctively, the Iron Golem twitched his head to the side. A crude blade skidded off his cage-helm. As the fury swooped past, shrieking in frustration, Vos spun and caught the gangling creature’s ankle. The dominar dragged the struggling daemon to the ground and stamped on its back, shattering its spine. It wasn’t worth further effort.

The daemon’s leathery wings continued to flap for a moment, as it thrashed in helpless agony, but he was already turning away. There were more of the gargoyle-like vermin to kill. There were always more. The Skullpike Mountains were infested with them. And worse besides. ‘Be quick,’ he called out to the others. ‘Finish them. Before their screams draw something else down on us.’

His warband was only half a dozen strong – but they were worth twice that. He watched as his drillmaster, Varka, crushed a fury with a blow from her flail. Nearby, his signifier, Kolsk, bellowed orders at the trio of legionaries that fought in the shadow of his standard, their rounded shields raised against the darting attacks of their daemonic opponents. One of the legionaries tore a pair of weighted bolas from her belt and sent them whirling about a fury, grounding the daemon so that her companions could kill it.

Like Vos, the others were clad in the heavy war-plate of the Iron Legion, and carried weapons forged in the smithies of the Onyx Fist, the greatest dreadhold of the Iron Golems’ empire. They were the elite, and bore the tools of war with ease. No other warriors could so easily defy the dangers of the Bloodwind Spoil.

‘Fight, you puling bastards,’ Kolsk snarled, smashing a fury from the air with a sweep of his battle-standard. The heavy standard was topped by a shield of iron, strung with garlands of brass links. It clattered like a smithy with every twitch of Kolsk’s muscular arm. ‘Beat them and break them – they are weak, and you are strong!’

The bat-winged daemons swarmed about the Iron Golems, screeching obscenities in half-human voices. Vos did not listen. What would be the point? What could such weak things have to say to a man that was worth hearing?

He caught his warhammer in two hands and swung it in a wide arc. Dark flesh pulped and tore as he caught two of the beasts and sent them sprawling to the ground. As they tried to rise, he finished them with a quick succession of blows. Their forms sputtered and dissolved like fat on a cooking pan, sending up pungent wisps.

The furies had had enough. The remains of the flock rose skywards, screaming and wailing. They flew south, out over the wilds of the Spoil, leaving behind the dead and dying. Several of the beasts, too crippled to fly, tried to crawl away into the surrounding stones. Vos’ legionaries finished them off with swift efficiency, silencing their whimpers.

‘Crola, Garn – keep watch, in case they regain their courage,’ Vos said, gesturing to two of the legionaries. Garn nodded. Crola freed her bolas from the body of the fury she’d brought down and genuflected.

‘Aye, dominar.’

Vos looked at the third legionary. ‘Harsk, check the path ahead.’

‘As you command, dominar,’ Harsk grunted. He hurried away, armour clattering. Vos watched him go, and then turned to his subordinates.

‘Good fight, eh, Kolsk?’ Varka said, scraping ichor from her flail. ‘Just the thing to get the blood moving.’

‘You call that a fight?’ Kolsk snorted. ‘It was barely a scuffle. Furies are no better than beasts.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, I’d wager there are things aplenty in these mountains that would give us a tougher time. Don’t you think so, dominar?’

Vos shook his head. ‘A killing blow knows no master,’ he said. ‘A fury can kill you as dead as an ogor, if the circumstances are right.’

‘Be very embarrassing though,’ Varka said. Kolsk nodded.

Vos chuckled. ‘That I agree with.’ He climbed up onto a nearby outcrop of volcanic rock and looked into the setting sun. Past the red glare, and the hazy fumes rising from the porous slopes of the mountains, he could just make out their destination – the smithy-citadel of the duardin forgemaster Khoragh Ar-Nardras Has’ut.

‘Is that it, then?’ Varka asked, peering towards the sun.

‘Yes.’ A few more hours of hard travel, Vos estimated, and they’d be at the great stone bridge which led to the outer gates of the citadel. He could just make out the tops of the pillars that lined it, as well as the harsh glow of the magmatic river surging below.

‘It doesn’t look like much, from here,’ Varka said.

‘You betray your ignorance with every word, woman,’ Kolsk said. ‘A thousand fires feed a thousand forges beneath those peaks. The vaults of that place stretch down into the very roots of the mountains, each of them full of enough arms and armour to gird a legion. And all of it ours by right.’

‘And that is why we are here,’ Vos said. ‘To claim what we are owed.’ He stepped down off the rock. ‘Come. Let us go. We will reach the bridge by dawn’s first light.’

Despite this optimism, the path through the mountains was arduous, even for Iron Golems. Poisonous fumes rose from cracks in the stones at their feet, and the mountains trembled as distant peaks erupted in cascades of molten rock. These tremors brought with them avalanches that swept down in rolling cascades of tumbling scree, forcing Vos and the others to divert from the path or seek shelter – something that became more difficult as the sun set, and light faded.

As night fell, one of the boiling gales of gore that gave the Bloodwind Spoil its name swept over the mountains. Steaming abattoir droplets pelted the warband from on high, staining their armour and flesh a grisly shade of red.

Vos heard one of the others – Harsk, he thought – choke on the effluvia, but to his satisfaction the legionary stumbled on without falling. Only the strong were fit to serve the Iron Legion. Only the strong could journey into the Bloodwind Spoil and survive.

The Spoil lay between worlds. A wild, untamed place, clinging barnacle-like to the confluence known as the Eightpoints. At times, as they climbed up the steaming slopes, Vos caught a glimpse of the lowlands below. He saw the great fortified road that stretched like a black ribbon across the wastes, and the gleaming Arcway that led home to Chamon, and the Ferrium Mountains. Too, he saw the dust clouds cast up by armies marching to war, and the smoke of a thousand conflagrations.

This place was always at war. Peace was unnatural. If there was peace, you could be certain only that the Gods weren’t paying attention.

But that did not mean that alliances were not possible. The Iron Golems sat at the centre of a web of trading agreements and military alliances, spun steadily over the years by High Overlord Mithraxes. Not all of their partners were human – counted among their number were skaven warlords and ogor tyrants. And duardin.

Duardin such as Khoragh Ar-Nardras Has’ut. One of a twisted handful who chose to make their homes far from the hearths of their kin, in the Bloodwind Spoil and elsewhere. They were renowned for their artifice, as well as their cruelty and sadism. And Khoragh was among the cruellest of their number.

Long ago, he had made common cause with High Overlord Mithraxes and the Iron Golems. In return for slaves and protection, Khoragh had promised to deliver a tithe of raw iron to Mithraxes. An annual contribution of ore was owed to the Onyx Fist, to be forged into arms and armour for the elite of the Legion.

But Khoragh had broken his promise to the High Overlord. He had delivered the tithe without fail for a century – until this year. It was Vos’ duty to find out why he had not done so, and convince him to make recompense. Failing that, he was to take what was owed, with interest.

Vos was determined to see this done. Not merely out of a sense of duty, but because it would raise him high in the esteem of his blood-cousin, Mithraxes. He was not immune to ambition – no warrior worth the name was – and success would bring reward.

Failure, on the other hand, was best not contemplated.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Warcry: The Anthology 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 Paul Dainton.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-692-0

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