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Lioness of the Parch – Extract

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First Marshal Tahlia Vedra was stalking soot scorpions when the news found her. Blindfolded, one hand roped behind her back, she edged around the caged enclosure, ears pricked for the telltale click of chitin that would presage a venomous sting or snapping claw. She had caught five of the cat-sized scorpions already, almost all of the barrelful Chief Vasyar had tipped into the cage, his teeth glinting in the smoky gloom of the long hall as he and the other Ash Vipers joked about Tahlia’s city-bred reflexes.

They were not joking now.

The long hall was silent but for the distant thunder of the industrial district, the boom and rumble familiar as a second heartbeat. Tahlia hardly noticed it, but to Vasyar and his tribe it was doubtless a constant reminder of their new home, and of what they had left behind. There were those in Hammerhal who saw the Reclaimed as barbarians, little better than the Conflagrites and howling Goretide that lapped at Hammerhal’s defences. But Tahlia knew better. When the Azyrites had fled, the Reclaimed endured, surviving not only Aqshy’s harsh terrain but a flood of Chaos that had drowned the Realm of Fire for centuries.

The Ash Vipers might have had difficulty adjusting to Hammerhal’s cramped alleys and tightly packed buildings, but Tahlia would rather have a dozen of these so-called barbarians at her back than a hundred preening Azyrites.

Which was the reason she found herself deep within Hammerhal’s Reclaimed district trying to blind-catch soot scorpions with one hand tied behind her back.

Well, not the only reason.

It was fun.

A clicking rattle was Tahlia’s only warning as one of the beasts darted for her leg. Rather than leap back, she flung herself at the noise, twisting to avoid the stinger. Soot scorpions were fast, but they did not turn quickly. Hearing the scritch of claws on stone, Tahlia bent to grasp it just below the stinger, lifting it from the ground with a triumphant shout. Segmented legs dug gouges in the heavy leather of her vambrace, but it was the sting Tahlia was most worried about. Although soot scorpions were not deadly, she had heard their venom was like having your veins filled with magma.

Carefully, she backed to the rear of the cage and dropped the scorpion into the barrel.

‘One more.’

‘First Marshal Vedra, is this wise? Surely six is enough to earn these people’s respect?’ That from Captain Honem, a balding, pinch-faced military aide who had the distinct dishonour of being the most recent minder Prime Commander Katrik le Guillon had sent to keep track of Tahlia.

‘Quiet.’ Tahlia cocked her head, listening. ‘Did you place the bets?’

‘Yes, although I don’t see the point,’ he whispered. ‘A few drops of Aqua Ghyranis is hardly worth such danger–’

‘Good man.’ Tahlia pushed off the cage, angling towards the telltale skitter. Rather than meeting the scorpion’s charge, she leapt. Catching the top of the iron cage, Tahlia swung herself up, threading her legs between the bars to hang upside down. A frenzied scratching below told her the scorpion was trying to halt. Before it could turn, Tahlia dangled her free hand down to catch the beast.

This time, her aim was off. Her fingers closed around one of the scorpion’s claws rather than its tail. Feeling the beast flex for a sting, Tahlia swung forward, flinging it towards the collection barrel before it could mark a painful end to a promising night.

Vasyar and his warriors made no sound, nor did the score of Freeguild veterans who had accompanied their first marshal into the heart of Ash Viper territory. Only an undignified squawk from Honem told her she had landed anywhere near the mark.

There was a moment of indrawn breath, pregnant as the pause between lightning and thunder. Tahlia dangled like a fumarole bat, her heartbeat loud in her ears, sweat dripping from her forehead.

The long hall erupted into cheers.

Tahlia hooked the blindfold from her remaining eye to see her Freeguilders pounding the bars, roaring their approval as they hefted tankards of foamy sweetblack. The Ash Vipers were more circumspect, if nonetheless enthused. Their high calls echoed from the steel ribs that supported the longhall’s drakehide roof. Those who had not bet against Tahlia clapped and stamped. Others glowered, arms crossed across broad, fire-scarred chests.

From his narrow-eyed scowl, she supposed Chief Vasyar had been among the latter group.

Seated upon a chair of carved basalt, Vasyar was a big man, bare-chested in the style of his people, his tanned skin awash in ritual burns. Although Tahlia could not parse the swirling tapestry of marks, from their number and complexity it was clear Vasyar had seen many battles – monsters, reavers, rogue daemons, even Tahlia herself.

She had thought the matter mostly settled when she and the Ash Vipers had joined forces to root out a particularly vicious would-be warlord from the Caustic Peaks, but apparently Vasyar’s trust did not extend far beyond the eradication of a shared foe.

Relatively new to the Reclaimed district, the Ash Vipers had been making trouble for many of the more established tribal enclaves, to the point that the Grand Conclave had even considered punitive measures. But Tahlia had always found a barrel of sweetblack to be better at smoothing ruffled feathers than a stint in the lava fields.

At least until now.

Vasyar bared his teeth, which had been inlaid with flecks of Emberkell obsidian, hard as steel and twice as sharp.

‘You cheated.’

‘And just how would I manage that?’ Tahlia dropped to the ground. Working free of the rope that bound her left arm, she fixed Vasyar with her good eye.

‘Sorcery,’ he muttered. ‘Hammerhal witchcraft.’

‘The only witchcraft here is the hexes that cloud your vision, mighty chief,’ Tahlia smirked. Fishing her eyepatch from her sash, she tied it back in place. ‘If you’re too blind to see how I caught the scorpions, step into the cage and I’ll give you a first-hand demonstration.’

Vasyar pushed to his feet, heavy fists bunched at his sides. He stared down at Tahlia, kohl-lined eyes dark as the clouds that hung over Hammerhal’s industrial district. His jaw pulsed, once, twice. The hall grew silent once more, the air heavy with impending violence. Reclaimed gripped their spears tighter, even as the Freeguilders’ hands crept towards the blades belted at their waists.

Then Vasyar tilted back his head and laughed. It was like a stray thermal had cleared away the lingering pall.

‘Now I remember why I like you, Vedra.’ Vasyar slapped his chest, grinning at his assembled warriors. ‘Why didn’t the Conclave send you first, instead of those sallow bureaucrats?’

‘The Conclave doesn’t send me anywhere.’ Tahlia shouldered through the cage door, frowning as she regarded the unopened barrels of sweetblack her guards had rolled into the long hall. ‘Strange. I was told the Ash Vipers knew how to celebrate, and yet here I see three full barrels of Horreg’s finest.’

In response, Vasyar strode forward to hammer a fist down upon the nearest barrel. Stoving in the top, he lifted it from the ground and tipped the barrel back, getting more upon himself than in his mouth.

‘Drink with me, marshal!’ The Reclaimed chieftain thrust the barrel towards her.

Tahlia doubted she could match Vasyar’s feat of strength, so she simply dunked her head into the sweet, smoky ale and came up wet and grinning.

It was like a signal to the gathered Reclaimed, who surged forward, cups in hand. With much boasting and back-slapping, warriors began to mingle. Reclaimed with their war kilts and fire scars, Freeguilders in their leather and chain, Parchers all. They seemed to blur together amidst the smoke and shadows, almost indistinguishable.

Soon, Sigmar willing, they would be.

Tahlia allowed herself the slightest margin of relief. Her feelings about Hammerhal’s governing Conclave aside, the last thing she needed was to start picking fights with the newly Reclaimed. Many on the Grand Conclave considered Tahlia a threat to the established order – and that was before she had executed four of them for corruption.

Looking at the grinning faces arrayed around the hall, she tamped down her concerns. Let the delegates prattle. Hammerhal’s strength lay not in the Stormrift Palace but here among the teeming mass of people who called the greatest city in the Mortal Realms home. Freeguild, Reclaimed, they were all Parchers, all Aqshians, and their fires burned bright.

Tahlia was searching for a mug when Honem tugged at her sleeve.

‘Relax, captain.’ She turned on the thin man, grin sharp as a duardin axe. ‘It will take more than a few swills of sweetblack to–’

The look on his face curdled Tahlia’s mirth. She had long grown used to Honem’s disapproving looks, but this was something more. The young captain swallowed, his gaunt features almost skeletal in the half-light.

‘What is it?’

‘The Emberkell colony has fallen.’ He extended a trembling hand, a small scroll clutched in his fist bearing the seal of Prime Commander Katrik le Guillon.

‘How? When?’ Tahlia gripped the front of his crimson doublet, almost lifting Honem from his feet.

‘Little is known.’ He shook his head as if to deny the truth of his words. ‘Supply convoys have vanished, patrols gone missing. The whole area is overrun.’

‘Then they may be fighting still.’ She released Honem. ‘We can gather a relief force. March to Emberkell’s aid.’

‘A Wildercorps scout crept close enough to see the near slope. Nothing but ash and flame.’ Honem winced, glancing down at the message scroll. ‘And a spire.’

The captain’s last words struck Tahlia like a slap. She fixed him with a tight-lipped glare.

‘You are sure of this?’

‘All the signs are there.’ He nodded. ‘It could be no one else.’

‘Where is Katrik?’

‘Overseeing the preparations, of course,’ Honem replied. ‘The crusaders march in but a few days.’

‘Then that is where we go.’

‘Why the scowl? We are celebrating!’ Vasyar loomed beside them, teeth glinting darkly. He held a small vial of glimmering liquid, bright even in the smoky gloom – Aqua Ghyranis, the water of life. One of the most valuable commodities in Hammerhal, it had the power to cure the sick, heal the wounded, conjure life from heat-parched earth – a miracle elixir that was exchanged drop by drop. Even the small vial Vasyar held contained perhaps a month’s wages for a mid-rank Freeguild officer.

Tahlia glanced at it, confused.

‘Your winnings, marshal.’ When Tahlia did not immediately take the vial, Vasyar’s grin grew sharper. ‘Careful, lest you give offence to your host.’

Tahlia took it, absently passing the vial to Honem. ‘Share it out among the veterans.’

‘’Tis a true ring-giver who shares spoils among her followers.’ Vasyar gave her a companionable cuff on the shoulder. ‘You would make a fine chief.’

It was all Tahlia could do to nod, her thoughts clouded by dire possibilities. She had pinned much upon the Emberkell colony. Well established and well guarded, Glasspire Citadel had begun to put down true roots, establishing not only a Sigmarite bastion on a powerful nexus but a staging point for expeditions into the Caustic Peaks. The obsidian fields and realmstone deposits around the Emberkell volcano would provide a valuable trade resource, the new fortress serving as a link between Hammerhal and the Settled Lands to the south-east.

Glasspire had hosted almost a full regiment of Freeguild soldiers, not to mention a panoply of Ironweld artillery and the most powerful pyromancers the Collegiate could muster.

It could not be gone. It simply could not.

‘Marshal Vedra?’ Despite the chieftain’s air of mirth, there was a wariness in Vasyar’s bearing, the caution of a man who had lived his whole life among the myriad dangers of the Great Parch. His gaze flicked to the scroll in Honem’s sweaty hand.

‘Dark tidings?’

Tahlia considered deflecting Vasyar’s question but discarded the impulse. Whatever their origins, the Ash Vipers were part of Hammerhal now. They deserved the truth.

‘Mausolus Ebonpyre.’ She spoke the name like a curse. ‘A Chaos-tainted vulture who has dogged my steps for years.’

The chieftain’s expression turned dark. ‘I know of this creature. He is the reason we came to Hammerhal. It is one thing to die upon the peaks, but Ebonpyre…’ Vasyar’s jaw worked as if the chieftain were about to spit. Instead, he snatched a spear from a passing warrior. ‘Your enemies are mine again, marshal. Come, let us pluck this vulture together.’

Tahlia would have liked nothing more. The Ash Vipers were strong and cunning. They knew the Caustic Peaks as well as Tahlia knew the Cinderfall District.

‘There is no one I would rather have at my side, but it is not yet the time. I will call upon you.’ Tahlia gripped Vasyar’s broad bicep, her expression grim. ‘Until then, sharpen your spears.’

With a nod, she spun on her heel, striding across the shadowed longhall, Honem close behind.

Alert to their marshal’s mood, veterans set aside mugs of ale, pushing up from low tables, concern boiling away the fog of intoxication. Tahlia waved them back to their cups. It was more important her soldiers forge ties with the newly Reclaimed. They would come when Tahlia called. Of that, she was sure.

It was late afternoon, but it might as well have been night. Hysh’s glow was ruddy in the ever-present clouds of smoke and ash that blanketed Hammerhal Aqsha, a heady mix of campfires, industrial effluence and the Parch’s native haze. Torches burned at every corner, underlit by the glow of lava from the thousands of capillary channels that threaded the city’s underworks. The rattle and boom of distant manufacture was audible even in the Reclaimed districts. Tents and longhalls competed with the low, boxy buildings of clay and fire-baked brick that dominated most of the outer areas.

It was a long jaunt to the maze of barracks, towers and muster fields that housed the bulk of Hammerhal’s military. Tahlia could have crossed the distance in a few minutes on the back of Infernadine, but Katrik had argued – and Tahlia had reluctantly agreed – that manticores were not conducive to urban harmony. Even though Infernadine’s winged silhouette was well known among the native Parchers, it had on occasion evoked a less welcoming response from Hammerhal’s more excitable citizenry.

Fortunately, Honem had seen fit to have several horses brought along – no doubt so they could make a quick escape should talks with the Ash Vipers have turned ugly. Whatever the thin-faced captain’s motives, Tahlia was happy to find their mounts waiting outside, saddled and ready.

They pelted through the winding streets at a near gallop, hooves striking sparks from the bits of native flint embedded in the stone. Like streams feeding into a broad river, the narrow alleys of the outer districts widened into cobbled thoroughfares. Tahlia and Honem’s horses kicked through low drifts of ash, skirting the smog-choked expanse of Hammerhal’s sprawling industrial district to link up with the central tradeway.

A far cry from the carefully latticed streets and soaring Azyrite architecture of Old Town, the vast expanse of Hammerhal’s buildings were of Aqshian design. Warehouses and multi-tiered public houses rose from among the mess of ramshackle storefronts, forges and soot-streaked temples, layer upon layer built up like volcanic sediment. Roads curved between a wild profusion of structures without regard for aesthetic or angle.

Tahlia guided her mount around a quartet of sweat-streaked duardin struggling to right an ancient funicular lift. Their angry shouts turned to laughter as they recognised her, gravelly voices bidding her swift journey. A procession of Unberogen priests had taken up most of the street, conveying some holy relic from one Sigmarite temple to another. Swathed in robes of red and gold, their high lector incanted from atop a tall lectern borne upon the shoulders of a score of scarred deacons. Tahlia spared the priests a respectful bow before angling her mount down a side alley.

Someone shouted above, words lost in rush of air. A fistfight spilled onto the street, men and women struggling in the soot as Tahlia thundered past. Despite the urgency of her ride, it was hard not to be swept up in the vibrant energy of her home. In her long years as a mercenary, Tahlia had travelled from vine-choked terrace cities in Ghyran to the funereal necropoli of Shyish, and never had she found a city so wild, so alive, as Hammerhal Aqsha.

A squad of Steelhelms warded the muster field, shields low, but ready. Only a madman would seek to assault a newly assembled crusade – but Hammerhal’s foes were not governed by reason. And so, even in the heart of the largest, most well-defended city in Aqshy, guard duty was not taken lightly.

‘Prime Commander le Guillon is in the overlook metalith with the other marshals, Lioness!’ a black-bearded Steelhelm in sergeant’s stripes shouted as Tahlia rode past.

All around, crusaders mustered. A line of Ironweld cannons curved across the hard earth, their duardin crews busy packing multi-legged beetleback wagons with shot and fingerbite.

Several companies of Freeguild soldiers drilled in the wide field. In a fighting square, the shields and swords of the 87th Steel Spines warded a formation of Leaden Bulls, drakefire guns at the ready. Even now, the sight of her Castelite doctrine in practice filled Tahlia with a thrill of satisfaction.

No longer would crusaders march in shabby mobs, rivers of Sigmarite blood shed in the hopes that one crusade in a hundred might take root. Let the Grand Conclave complain about the cost – the value of Tahlia’s Castelite doctrine lay not in steel, or powder, or fodder. Since implementing her formulations, the crusaders had witnessed unprecedented success, carving Sigmarite settlements from the tainted wilds. Not only did they reach their destination, they survived.

At least, they had.

Unbidden, thought of Emberkell soured Tahlia’s mood. She reined up, slipping from the saddle to cross the stony sward that rounded the temple-barracks.

Masses of new crusaders knelt under the stony gaze of the guardian idols that would be hauled along to ward their progress against Chaos’ creeping taint. Deacons and Brothers of the Chain moved among the ragged ranks, administering blessings, benedictions and the occasional votive flagellation.

Anchored to the temple’s high spires were several chained metaliths. Left over from the rush of cosmic forces that created the Mortal Realms, such floating islands hung in the sky of every realm. Ranging from boulder- to city-sized, they could be dragged from their eternal orbit by geomantic rituals and steam grapnels, providing transport, storage and even military support to the crusaders.

The nearest had been equipped with a small curtain wall and several towers. Makeshift stairs led from the temple proper, wood and metal scaffolding creaking under Tahlia’s boots as she ascended the dozen or so flights leading to the Highscryer metalith.

She found Prime Commander Katrik le Guillon in the largest tower. Although the current crusade’s marshal had yet to be named, the building had been equipped as a command post, with signal flags, war drums and a broad, crenellated platform to provide easy view of the surrounds.

Half a dozen of Hammerhal’s highest military commanders sat around a rough-built table, their postures ranging from sombre to furious. Katrik herself stood at the head, jaw tight as she leaned upon the table, her expression one of a woman who has come home to find her house aflame.

Command lay heavy upon Katrik. Although she was of an age with Tahlia, her old friend’s face bore the marks of strain, the dusky brown of her cheeks deeply lined, the skin between her arching brows bunched as if to form a fist. Katrik’s dark hair was swept back in a tight knot. A far cry from the simple armour of their mercenary days, the prime commander’s uniform dripped with golden braid and carefully embroidered badges of rank. It was a striking, if uncomfortable, outfit, one Tahlia was glad not to wear.

At the sight of Tahlia, Katrik blew out a long breath. ‘Where were you?’

‘Finding you recruits among the newly Reclaimed.’

‘Tribals?’ That from Marshal Wintrath, a trim, white-bearded Azyrite who always dressed as if he had come from the parade field.

‘Ash Vipers.’ Tahlia tossed her head, enjoying Wintrath’s discomfort. Although the marshal had won his share of victories, she had never liked the man. Mostly because he reminded Tahlia of a particularly excrescent commander from her early days in the Freeguilds. Although the fellow in question had met his end at the point of an orruk harpoon, the ranks of Azyrite commanders never seemed to lack for such pompous martinets.

‘Vasyar’s folk?’ Katrik gave a low whistle. ‘After that scrap with the Conclave representatives, I thought we’d have to run them out of the city.’

‘Some prodigy on the planning council settled the Ash Vipers next to a rival tribe.’ Tahlia slipped into the chair next to Wintrath, leaning back to put her feet on the table just to annoy the old man. ‘Now, they’re ready to fight for Hammerhal.’

Wintrath bristled, but Katrik cut him off. ‘Good. We need every blade. You heard Glasspire fell?’

Tahlia nodded, glancing over her shoulder at the assembled crusaders down below. ‘These crusaders must march to Emberkell.’

‘The Conclave won’t be happy to hear that,’ Katrik replied.

‘The Conclave aren’t the ones being sent to their deaths.’

‘Everyone down there took the coin.’ Wintrath crossed his arms, medals jingling. ‘They know the risk.’

‘They offer their lives to Sigmar.’ Tahlia looked around the assembled marshals. ‘It is our job to honour that sacrifice.’

‘You would stop the crusade?’ Wintrath asked.

‘I would redirect it, yes,’ Tahlia said.

Wintrath’s scowl deepened. ‘The Grand Conclave requires–’

‘Damn the Conclave!’ She dropped her legs, leaning forward to hammer a fist upon the table. ‘Mausolus Ebonpyre must be stopped, and soon, or we’ll be facing another Goretide.’

‘Tell that to the Conclave,’ Katrik muttered.

‘I will.’ Tahlia pushed to her feet.

‘Good.’ Her old friend shed her world-weary affect like a sodden cloak. Still, it was not until a sharp smile stretched Katrik’s lips that Tahlia knew she had been outmanoeuvred.

‘Because Patriarch Mench just called us to council.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2024.
This eBook edition published in 2024 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Anna Lakisova.

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