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Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

THE SEA OF STARS

The sigmarite runeblade gleamed in the soft glow of infinity, as it etched complex patterns upon the air. Wherever the blade passed, light followed. The light, that of ancient stars and newborn suns, glimmered briefly but brightly before fading away. There was a lesson in that, the blade’s wielder mused, as he swept the sword around in a curving slash. But then, lessons were all around, for the attentive student.

And Gardus of the Steel Soul was nothing if not attentive. The Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights was clad only in a simple blue tunic, marked with the sign of the twin-tailed comet. His limbs were bare of all save sweat and scars, and his white hair was cropped short. His armour, gleaming silver and crafted of the same holy metal as his runeblade, lay nearby, alongside his tempestos hammer, stacked neatly against one of the long marble benches that lined the walls, biding its time. Soon, he would once again don the panoply of war, and the man would be subsumed beneath the warrior. But for now, he was simply a man, hard at his labours, joyful and content.

Through the soles of his feet, Gardus could feel the omnipresent rumble of the storms that raged eternally over the aetherdomes of the Sigmarabulum. Overhead, the High Star Sigendil gleamed, an eternal beacon in the black seas of infinity that stretched outwards around the celestial ramparts of Sigmaron. This place had ever called to him, stirring something inside. It was where he felt the most at ease, on the edge of all that was.

The weight of the blade in his hand was a comfort. The pull of his muscles, the growing ache from his exertions. The sweat in his eyes. All of it served to ground him. To anchor him to this place, this moment. There was peace here, for a time. A purity of purpose, simple and uncomplicated. He turned, letting the hilt of the runeblade slide through calloused palms. The mystic steel was an extension of his arm, of his soul.

As he moved, his flesh began to shimmer with an eerie radiance, like sunlight across new-fallen snow. It shone from every pore, filling the air. The light welled up, only to then fade away as he instinctively mustered his will and forced it back down inside himself. He slid forwards, moving gracefully despite his size. With god-given strength came elegance as well. Such were the gifts of Sigmar. But they did not come without a price.

There was always a price. Both physical and otherwise. At times, Gardus felt as if he were a broken vessel, badly repaired, and all that he had been was leaking away. Perhaps that was the origin of the light he had just banished – perhaps it was his soul, seeking escape. The thought unsettled him.

Sometimes, his mind thrummed with fragments – snatches of conversations he could not recall having, faces without names and names without faces. Embers of old emotion flared to new life, before guttering away once more. The ghosts of those he’d known – those he’d failed. Those he’d killed.

He felt phantom heat wash over him. Heard the pad of feet over marble floors, and the guttural howls of the Skin Eaters. His skin prickled as the howls grew louder. The candlesticks were heavy in his hands. The doors of the hospice burst inwards and…

He breathed out. His grip on his runeblade tightened, and he drew strength from the steel, surety from its purpose. Not a candlestick, this. He turned, slicing the air, letting the weight of the blade do the work, as he’d been taught. Banishing the Skin Eaters back to oblivion. But they had not come alone.

A hand, vast and reeking of rot, reached for him. He jerked back, sword slicing up. He heard the rumble of daemonic laughter as the image wavered and dispersed. Another broken memory, though he could put a name to this one – Bolathrax.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,’ he said, forcing the memory down. Bolathrax was gone. Cast back into the void by Alarielle. He repeated the words. The mantra had a calming effect on his troubled mind. His voice echoed across the platform, its echoes merging with the roar of the storm, even as the reflection of his blade merged with the glow of the stars above. He slowed his movements, falling into a more elegant rhythm. His runeblade moved lazily, with less precision, as he let his muscles relax and his attention wander away from old hurts.

Here, on the precipice of the Sigmarabulum, he was as close as any save the gods could come to the celestial canvas. It was a sea of colour and light, impossibly vast and terrible in its cosmic ferocity. Stars pinwheeled through the fraying strands of pulsing nebulas, and immense coronas flashed in the deep. And, nestled within its tides, the still-beating heart of a broken world. He looked up.

Mallus. The world-that-was. The last breath of all that had come before. A fragment of forgotten grandeur, casting strange shadows over the vast forges, armouries and soul-mills of Sigmaron. The broken world was at once a reminder and a promise for all those who dwelled in Sigmaron.

Gardus turned away, unable to bear the weight of the sight for very long. In any event, he needed no reminding of what was at stake; he would keep his promise, whatever the cost.

He was a Stormcast Eternal, and he could do no less. The embodiment of the tempest, forged anew to wage war in Sigmar’s name. To fight and die, and fight again, until either ultimate victory was achieved, or the foundations of all that was at last crumbled. The thought brought him little pleasure. Victory was not certain, and sometimes the price seemed more than he could bear. He pushed the thought aside, and concentrated only on the runeblade in his hand, and the light of the stars as they played across its edge. Like the weapon he had been forged for a purpose, and he would fulfil it.

He fell into a defensive stance, rolling his wrists, letting the runeblade rise. As he brought it down a moment later, he moved, stepping to his left. Like the storm, it was best to always be in motion. Lessons learned in Ghyran, the Realm of Life, had taught him that standing still often led to being overwhelmed. A warrior must be fluid, like water, else he would inevitably be worn down, as happened to even the tallest mountains.

He paused, sword raised, sensing a new presence just behind him.

‘You employ that blade of yours the way an artist employs his brush, Steel Soul.’

Gardus turned, lowering his sword as he did so. ‘And your voice carries even over the roar of the storm eternal, Beast-Bane. We all have our talents.’

Zephacleas Beast-Bane laughed boisterously. The Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars did everything boisterously, much to the chagrin of some. ‘Too true,’ Zephacleas said as he came forwards, grinning. ‘When I heard you were back, I decided to come and pay my respects. It has been too long since last we spoke.’ They clasped forearms.

He was bigger than Gardus, big even for a Stormcast Eternal, and brutal-looking despite his cheerful demeanour. In his mortal life, the man who would become Zephacleas had been a barbarian chieftain of the Ghurlands, a brawling, bellowing giant of a man. Apotheosis had refined him somewhat, but the veneer of civilization was a thin one. And, indeed, thinner now than it had been the last time they’d met.

He had his helmet tucked under one arm, leaving his head bare. His hair was long and bound in thick braids, as was his beard. His battered features would never be handsome, but his eyes gleamed with merriment, and his smile was genuine, despite the gaps in his teeth.

Like his face, his bruise-coloured war-plate was scarred by hard use. Its gilded edges were faded and dull, and the plates were now marked by savage adornments. Fangs and claws taken from the slain bodies of monstrous beasts rattled against the holy sigils of Azyr. The skull of an orruk had been mounted on one of his shoulder-plates, the thick bone etched with primitive runes.

Gardus gestured to it. ‘That’s new.’

‘This? This is Drokka.’ Zephacleas knocked on the skull with his knuckles. ‘Was Drokka, I should say. A gift from the Fist of Gork himself.’

‘I heard you’d been sent to parley with the orruks. I’m glad to see you made friends.’ Gardus laid the flat of his sword over his shoulder. ‘I was worried they might take offence to you and send you back in pieces.’

‘You just have to know how to talk to them.’ Zephacleas motioned to Gardus’ hair. ‘Gone shock-headed, have we? Last time I saw you, it was black.’

Gardus reached up and ran a hand through his hair. ‘The Athelwyrd,’ he said simply.

Zephacleas’ smile faded. He knew what Gardus was referring to. They’d fought side by side in the hidden vale, in defence of Alarielle, the Queen of the Radiant Woods, embodiment of Ghyran, the Realm of Life. And during that battle, Gardus had… died.

‘That’d do it, I suppose.’ Zephacleas peered at Gardus, as if searching his face for something. ‘Do you… remember any of it? After, I mean.’

Gardus frowned. Bits and pieces of the last scattered moments rose to the surface of his mind – he smelled the foetid stench of the Great Unclean One as it scooped him up, rotting fingers tightening painfully about his battered form. He felt his bones crack and burst as the daemon sought to wring the life from him. And he felt again the pain as a bolt of searing lightning carried him from the killing grounds, and back to the celestine vaults of Sigmaron. There, formless and broken, he had been forged anew by the hand of the God-King himself, and made fit for duty once more.

Hammer stroke after hammer stroke had shaped the shards of his soul. Each blow, a tempest, drawing forth memory and instinct from what remained. Who he had been was the fire used to fuel his rebirth. Was he even the same being who had undergone those tribulations that still haunted his dreams, or was he but the barest memory of that warrior, recast and given the same name? A memory of a memory, clothed in borrowed flesh.

‘Gardus?’ Zephacleas said softly, startling him from his reverie. He sounded concerned. There was a keen mind beneath that brutish exterior. Zephacleas played the fool, but he was more observant than many gave him credit for.

Gardus shook his head. ‘Some. Pain. Thunder. And Sigmar’s voice, like a bell tolling on high, drawing me up from the depths.’ He hesitated. ‘It hurt worse than death. I was glad when it was done, and I would not go through it again for anything.’ He fell silent. He had died, in the Athelwyrd. And on the Anvil of Apotheosis, he had been Reforged. That was all there was to it. And no benefit to be had in dwelling on it.

Zephacleas looked as if he wished to ask more questions but, thankfully, he kept them to himself. He clapped Gardus on the shoulder. ‘I am glad you are back, my friend. And I am sorry I was not able to fight beside you on your last foray.’

Gardus nodded. The battle for the Great Green Torc had been fierce, and many warriors, both Hallowed Knights and otherwise, had fallen on the sky-borne toroid. They had been victorious but, as ever, there had been a cost. ‘It was your sort of battle, more so than mine. There were giant spiders.’

‘I miss all of the good fights,’ Zephacleas said mournfully. He broke into a grin. ‘Still, there’s always tomorrow.’

‘Unfortunately.’

Gardus went to where he’d left his war-plate and began to pull it on. Other Lord-Celestants were more than content to allow chamber serfs to help them with their armour, but Gardus had no patience for such indulgences. He would do it himself, or not at all. He dressed slowly, the warmth of the sigmarite easing the ache from his muscles. ‘But perhaps not forever.’

Zephacleas grunted and scratched his chin. ‘You’re rejoining your chamber in Ghyran soon, I hear. A last push across the Plains of Vo, or so go the rumours.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to rumours,’ Gardus said. He was looking forward to rejoining his chamber. And he wasn’t alone in that. Other warriors, some newly Reforged, would be returning to Ghyran with him. It had been too long since the Steel Souls had fought as one, and, reunited, they might just be able to swing the war in the Jade Kingdoms in Alarielle’s favour. Or so he hoped.

‘Grymn must be beside himself with joy,’ Zephacleas said.

Lorrus Grymn, Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls, had assumed overall command of the warrior chamber after Gardus’ fall in the Athelwyrd. The Lord-Castellant had led the Steel Souls to continue their mission in the Jade Kingdoms, and defend Alarielle from the diseased servants of the Plague God, Nurgle. Their efforts had culminated in a final stand against the forces of the Rotbringers at Blackstone Summit, and the subsequent rebirth of Alarielle.

‘He has acquitted himself well,’ Gardus said, smiling slightly as he thought of the taciturn warrior. Grymn was the Steel Souls’ shield, where Gardus was its sword. Where he chose to plant his standard, no enemy would prosper, as the servants of the Ruinous Powers had learned to their cost, most recently during the siege of the Living City. ‘The sylvaneth sing his praises.’

‘The least they could do, given all that you have both done for them and that goddess of theirs,’ Zephacleas said. He picked up Gardus’ hammer and gave it an experimental swing. ‘But then, gods aren’t ones for gratitude.’

Gardus stood and sheathed his runesword. He picked up his helmet and took his hammer from Zephacleas. Whatever Zephacleas thought, Gardus knew that Alarielle owed them little. For, in their ignorance, it was the Stormcast Eternals who had inadvertently cost the goddess her last sanctuary in Ghyran. Whatever debts lay between them were paid, or as good as. ‘It is not for us to question the gods, my friend. Merely to do their will, whatever it might be. Much is demanded…’

Zephacleas laughed. ‘Of course we should question the gods. How else will they know we’re listening?’ He poked Gardus in the chest. ‘Eh? Answer me that.’

Gardus chuckled. ‘As much as I’ve missed arguing with you, I fear I have somewhere a good deal less cheerful to be.’ He looked past Zephacleas. ‘Isn’t that right, sister?’

‘Punctuality has always been one of your more pleasing virtues, Steel Soul,’ the newcomer said, as she drew close. The Lord-Celestant was as large as Gardus, and her silver war-plate was marked with a profusion of blessed prayer scrolls. Her helmet hung from her belt, and her round, dark face was set in a look of stern disapproval as she studied Zephacleas. ‘But your choice of such disreputable friends has ever been your greatest failing. Take care, lest they lead you into impropriety.’

‘My Lady Cassandora, a pleasure as ever,’ Zephacleas said, making an attempt at a courtly bow. He peered up at her as he did so. ‘How’s that for respect?’

‘Adequate,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘Barely.’

Lord-Celestant Cassandora Stormforged had been among the first of their Stormhost to wage war in the Mortal Realms. It was by her hand that the Queen of Swords had been cast down, and the ancient rim-citadel of Ytalan claimed in Sigmar’s name, during the Crater-War. The Stormforged struck like lightning, and left nothing standing in their wake. ‘Still as foolish as ever, Beast-Bane. I recall it was almost the death of you, in Klaxus.’

‘And yet, here I stand,’ Zephacleas said, gesturing expansively.

‘Yes, thanks to me,’ Cassandora said. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’ She looked at Gardus, as Zephacleas spluttered. ‘It’s time, brother. The Shadowed Soul requests our presence. The lords of the fourth Stormhost gather in the Sepulchre of the Faithful.’

Gardus nodded. ‘Yes.’ He tapped Zephacleas’ shoulder-plate with his hammer. ‘It was good to see you again, brother.’

‘So it was,’ Zephacleas said. He caught Gardus up in a rib-rattling bear hug, squeezing him hard enough to make his sigmarite creak. ‘Go with Sigmar, my brother. And if you need help, I shall be there, come death or ruin.’

Cassandora coughed politely. ‘Time runs swift, brother.’

‘Indeed it does,’ Gardus said. He extended his hammer. ‘Lead on, sister. The Sepulchre of the Faithful awaits us.’

The celestine vaults of Sigmaron rang with the sounds of eternal industry as Tornus the Redeemed strode swiftly after his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Venator tried his best to hide his uncertainty as he said, ‘I am not understanding, my lord. It is being a – a funeral?’

‘Of sorts,’ Silus the Untarnished said, not unkindly. He led Tornus along the high outer platform, past the great emptiness of the universal sea. In the distance, the aetherdomes crackled with captured lightning, funnelling the fury of the storm into the forges of the citadel. Tornus flinched inwardly as he heard what might have been the faint screams of those undergoing their Reforging, beneath the growl of distant thunder.

‘But we are not dying. We are being Reforged.’

‘Yes.’

Tornus looked up as the shadow of shimmering wings passed over him, and caught sight of his star-eagle, Ospheonis, gliding overhead. The bird accompanied him everywhere. It had become his constant companion since his Reforging. When no further explanation seemed forthcoming from Silus, he asked, ‘Who is to be dead?’

Silus stopped. His shoulders sagged slightly as he turned. ‘A brother of our Stormhost. Tarsus Bull Heart.’

‘I am not knowing him,’ Tornus said. Even now, he knew precious few of his new-found brothers. None had been unwelcoming of him, but few sought him out. He found no fault with them for this reluctance. He was who he was, and who he had been.

‘No. He met his fate before you were Reforged.’

Tornus noted a hesitation in Silus’ answer. He nodded slowly. ‘Before I am being Tornus again, you mean,’ he said softly. Silus frowned.

‘You were always Tornus. Everything else was a lie.’

‘It was not feeling like a lie at the time,’ Tornus said. He smiled, to show it was a joke. Though there was precious little humour to be found in his situation. The few memories he still possessed of his time as defender of the Lifewells, and then later of his imprisonment in the Pit of Filth, welled up unbidden, and he took a deep breath. For seventy-six days, he had resisted the miasmic attention of Nurgle’s chosen, until his stubborn refusal to succumb became the very thing which spelled his doom.

On the seventy-seventh day, Tornus had died. And Torglug the Despised had emerged from the ruin of him, like a maggot from a wound. The things he had done as Torglug still haunted him… He remembered clearly the drowning of the Athelwyrd and the toppling of the Moon-Oak, the screams of his own people and the rasping cries of the tree-kin… All crimes committed by his hand. He had been the Woodsman, the sharp edge of Nurgle’s axe pressed against the bark of the World Tree.

Until the Blackstone Summit, and the coming of the Celestant-Prime. Tornus could still feel the heat of the divine warrior’s first and final blow, as it burnt away the rotten husk of Torglug and freed the dwindled spark of Tornus within. That spark had flourished on the Anvil of Apotheosis, hammered and shaped into a weapon of vengeance and redemption. And yet, he still heard the screams of the innocent who’d perished by his hand. Sometimes he wondered if he had been left those memories for a purpose. A reminder, perhaps, of how far he’d fallen. Or a warning of what awaited him should he fail again.

Silus made as if to clasp Tornus’ shoulder, but stopped short. ‘Whatever you once were, Tornus, you are a Stormcast Eternal now.’ He let his hand fall. ‘You are a Hallowed Knight. A scion of the fourth Stormhost, one of the faithful. Who will stand, when all others fall?’

‘Only the faithful,’ Tornus said. He was all of those things, to be sure. But Silus had never once called him brother. None of them had, as yet. Perhaps it would come with time. He hoped so. In the interim, he was determined to do all that he could to earn it.

‘Only the faithful,’ Silus echoed. ‘Now come, it is time you knew what that truly entails. It is time for you to learn the true price of faith.’

Tornus nodded, but said nothing. He was already familiar with the price Silus spoke of, but saw little reason to insist on it. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘The Sepulchre of the Faithful,’ Silus said. ‘All Stormhosts have such mausoleums, though they call them by different names. A place of quiet contemplation, where the truly dead are honoured, and the memories of our mortal lives are recounted and recorded so that even if we… forget, those moments are not lost.’

Tornus shivered slightly. ‘I am thinking my memories are best forgotten, yes?’

‘No,’ Silus said, firmly. ‘Do you think you are alone in your darkling past? There are many among us who found their faith only in their final moments, or who discovered the light only after a lifetime of darkness.’ He glanced at the Knight-Venator. ‘None fell so far as you, Tornus, but some… came close. That is why Sigmar placed you with us.’

Tornus fell silent. He had his own suspicions as to why he had been inducted into the ranks of those he had, until recently, been trying his level best to kill. Another lesson. Another reminder. This new world was full of them.

Somewhere, the Great Mourning Bell was ringing, sounding a eulogy for the fallen. Stormcasts from other Stormhosts moved to and fro about their own business, and Tornus studied them. He could not help but compare them to those corrupt warriors he had fought alongside in the Jade Kingdoms. Here, there was little of the incessant bickering that afflicted the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Rather than a horde of individuals, each warrior fighting for his own glory, the Stormcasts were truly united, both in war and peace. Indeed, so too were most of those who inhabited Sigmar’s realm.

Sigmaron was not only inhabited by Stormcast Eternals these days. Representatives from Azyrheim, engineers of the Ironweld Arsenal, even envoys from the reclusive clans of the Dispossessed, moved about their business everywhere Tornus looked. In the dark days when the assaults of Chaos had set the Mortal Realms reeling, many had sought refuge in Azyr. As the war had progressed, the descendants of those refugees now prepared themselves to reclaim that which had been lost.

Silus nodded in a friendly fashion to certain of these mortal envoys – among them a tall, dark-skinned warrior-priest, clutching a heavy tome to his chest, a soldier of the Freeguilds, his helmet resplendent with plumage, and a grim-faced duardin warrior, clad in finely crafted armour and carrying a rune-inscribed hammer – though he spoke to none of them. Tornus studied the duardin wonderingly. He had fought such beings before, in darker times. Torglug the Woodsman had hewn apart the ironwood shields of the root-kings, and cast down their stoneoak citadels. The Lord-Celestant noticed Tornus’ fascination with the mortals and said, ‘We are the storm, and these the seeds that flourish in the wake of our rains.’

‘There are being so many of them,’ Tornus said. ‘My folk, the guardians of the Lifewells, were being few in number. As the land grew sick, so too did we, dwindling generation upon generation.’

‘And now, both land and people will grow great again, if we but hold firm to the course the God-King has laid out.’ Silus spoke confidently.

Tornus kept his doubts to himself. He had seen too much to believe victory a certainty. But without that belief, could he truly call himself one of the faithful?

He was still mulling this over when they arrived at their destination at last. They were not alone. Other Stormcasts, all wearing the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights, were gathering there in the vast antechamber. Tornus found himself awestruck by his surroundings, and somewhat intimidated by their solemnity. Great bas-reliefs of intricate craftsmanship covered the walls, and the massive pillars that lined the path to the inner chamber were inscribed with the Canticles of Faith. Ornate lanterns hung suspended from the ceiling, each one casting a soft, blue radiance over everything.

But what caught Tornus’ attention were the great ironbound books chained to the stone shelves along one wall. It was said that the mortal memories, however patchy or incomplete, of every Hallowed Knight, from Lord-Celestant to Liberator, were recorded in the Books of the Faithful. It was the responsibility of a select few Lord-Relictors to protect and add to the books, but all Hallowed Knights were allowed to read from them, to renew the wellsprings of their faith.

Tornus wondered when his memories would be added to the records. He suspected his deeds might somehow taint the purity of it all. Perhaps he would refuse, when the time came. Why burden others with his sins?

No one spoke as they filed into the inner chamber, where a group of skull-helmed Lord-Relictors awaited them with sombre patience. Clad in their baroque mortis armour, the lords of the living lightning made for an intimidating sight, even for Stormcasts. Eldritch energies crackled across their silver war-plate, illuminating the fell sigils and grim relics that decorated it. They stood arrayed around an enormous pillar of pale stone, larger than the others, erected at the chamber’s heart.

Said to have been carved from purest celestine by the claws of Dracothian himself, and chiselled into its present shape by the ancestral tools of the greatest masons of the Dispossessed, the pillar shone like starlight. It was bare of all decoration, save for a scattering of what appeared to be sigmarite spikes hammered into its surface.

Tornus looked around, studying the Stormcasts around him, searching for familiar faces amongst the sea of silver. It appeared that the commanders and officers of every chamber of the fourth Stormhost were here at the ceremony. He recognised a few of them. Iorek Ironheart, Cassandora Stormforged, even Gardus of the Steel Soul were all in attendance.

The sight of the latter made his heart clench. The Steel Souls had been a persistent thorn in Torglug’s bloated paw. It was said by some that Gardus had hurled himself into the Garden of Nurgle, and escaped unsullied. Tornus could almost believe it, for the Lord-Celestant’s broad form shone with a faint, eerie radiance that reminded him of the purifying energies of the Celestant-Prime. The tribulations the Steel Soul had endured had changed him in undeniable ways.

Tornus knew those changes had come about after Gardus had perished in the battle for the Athelwyrd. While Torglug had not struck the fatal blow, it had been by his hand that the situation came about. Tornus could still feel the echo of his own laughter as he watched a daemon summoned by his command crush the struggling, silver form.

A Lord-Relictor thumped the floor with the ferrule of his staff, startling him. Tornus recognised Cerberac Darkfane, the Lord-Relictor of the Ironhearts warrior chamber. When he spoke, his voice was a hollow rasp. ‘The Bell of Lamentation rings. The stars weep. Who shall stand, when the foundations of the heavens crumble?’

‘Only the faithful,’ the assembled Lord-Relictors intoned.

‘Only the faithful,’ Cerberac repeated. ‘Come forth, Ramus of the Shadowed Soul. Come forth and perform your duty.’

One of the other Lord-Relictors stepped forwards. His armour showed signs of wear, its silver sheen dulled in places, the azure trim stripped and patchy. A great crack ran down one side of his skull-helm, allowing a thin glimpse at the pale features beneath. His dark cloak was singed and tattered. Like all Lord-Relictors, his armour was decorated with sigils of faith, death and the storm. A shield of mirrored silver, carrying a relief of a twin-tailed comet, hung from one shoulder. He carried no reliquary staff like the others, instead clutching his relic hammer in one hand, and a sigmarite spike in the other.

He raised the spike. ‘How many times?’ he asked, his sepulchral voice echoing through the chamber. ‘How many times have we faithful few stood here since the Gates of Azyr opened, and Sigmar’s storm was unleashed upon the Mortal Realms?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘How many times will we gather here, in days yet to come?’

The Lord-Relictor looked around, his gaze lingering upon some faces longer than others. Tornus felt the weight of his gaze, and found himself wondering what trials Ramus of the Shadowed Soul had endured. ‘I cannot say, for on this matter, the spirits are silent. Whatever the number, we endure it gladly. Much is demanded…’

‘Of those to whom much is given,’ Tornus and the others said in response. The Hallowed Knights spoke as one, their voices soft and low.

‘This spike of precious sigmarite I bless in the name of him who is lost to us. Tarsus Bull Heart, Lord-Celestant of the Bull Hearts. Hero of the Cerulean Shore.’ The Lord-Relictor placed the spike against the pillar, and raised his hammer. ‘Let… let his name join those of the others who are now gone, never to be Reforged.’ Tornus noticed the slight hesitation, and from the faces of some of the others, he knew he was not alone in that.

For a Stormcast Eternal, death was not the end. But there were fates worse than death, and there were endings even for immortals. There was not a single Stormhost that had not suffered such casualties over the course of the war. Tornus resisted the urge to count the spikes that studded the pillar. One was too many.

Lightning flashed as the relic hammer struck the flat head of the spike, driving it into the pillar. It took but a single blow, and the reverberations filled the chamber, drowning out all sound for a brief instant. The Lord-Relictor stepped back, hammer dangling loosely from his hand. ‘It is done,’ he said. He sounded almost defeated.

Cerberac Darkfane thumped the ground again. ‘It is done. Another soul lost. But while one remains, we will hold true. Who will preserve the light, to its last gleaming?’

‘Only the faithful,’ the Hallowed Knights answered, in unison.

‘Louder, brothers and sisters,’ Cerberac chided. ‘Let Sigmar hear your voices, in this, our hour of grief. Who will defend all that is, even unto oblivion?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, thunderous in its intensity.

As the echoes of the mantra faded, the pillar began to glow with a harsh radiance. Sparks of lightning leapt from spike to spike, limning each in an azure radiance, if only briefly. As the light and sound faded, Tornus bowed his head, mourning a warrior he had never met, and now, never would.

‘Only the faithful,’ he murmured.

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A Black Library Publication

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(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.