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The Red Hours – Extract

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Chapter One

‘Going somewhere, hero?’

The mounted guard leading Captain Byrun Hess’ ibuq jerked at the reins, forcing the reptile to shear left. With his hands manacled in front of him, Hess had to shift awkwardly to keep his seat. The move set the medals on his breastplate jingling, and the two guards laughing.

They’d stripped him of his sword, his pistols, even his mother’s lucky helmet, but Lord Marshal Khir had been insistent that Hess keep all his medals. They were, after all, why he was marching through the hinterlands of Chamon, rather than dangling at the end of a noose.

‘Not so arrogant now,’ the other guard, Rollo, said with a lazy sneer.

‘Captain,’ Hess replied through gritted teeth.

‘What?’ Rollo cocked his head.

‘Not so arrogant now, captain,’ Hess said slowly. Khir had left him his rank, too, and he’d be damned if he let some slack-jawed latrine digger forget it.

‘Apologies, captain, I forgot to salute.’ Rollo shifted in his saddle to solemnly place a fist over his heart, then punched Hess squarely in the mouth.

This time, he toppled from his ibuq.

The ground hit him like a cannon shot, driving the breath from his lungs. Although it was meant more for parading than hard use, his armour took the worst of the fall, but Hess’ head rebounded from a rust-spotted outcrop, sending red and white flares dancing across his vision.

He lay on the ground gasping like a gut-shot orruk. The ringing in Hess’ ears was gradually eclipsed by the laughter of the two guards – Rollo’s high and quick, Gert’s like the raspy croaks of a startled crow. They’d been goading him for days, poking, prodding, taking joy in Hess’ shame.

The base-born always enjoyed seeing a noble brought low.

Hess struggled to his feet, blood dribbling from his split lip down the front of his breastplate. He hated the Realm of Metal with its strange coppery sun and its jagged horizon. Even the mounts were wrong. Hess had been forced to trade his warhorse for an ibuq, a stocky, broad-shouldered breed of Chamonic lizard that grew to roughly the size of an ox. Although Hess was an expert rider, he found the ibuq’s waddling, splay-legged gait unsettling, not to mention the steady rasp of their scales, the flicking of their long tongues as they tested the air, and the low, rattling grind as they crushed rocks in their heavy underslung jaws. It was nothing short of maddening.

Gritting his teeth, Hess slowly pushed to his feet. More wounding than the pain in his side were the scuffs and tarnish on his ceremonial armour. The fall from his mount had chipped the rearing silver mare of Hess’ family crest emblazoned on the breastplate, the green and gold lacquer peeling from the rust-scabbed steel. He couldn’t help but recall the first time he’d worn the armour marching down the Grand Concourse of Azyrheim – his father’s eyes bright with unshed tears, the tight-lipped nod his mother had given as she watched him accept his captaincy in the Freeguild mounted pistoliers. But that was all gone now, lost to the jealousy of a petty old man. Now, Hess was nothing – a disgraced officer forced to endure the taunts and abuse of soldiers not fit to lick his boots.

Fury set Hess’ face burning, his throat hot and tight. He ran at Rollo, shouting and throwing his hands up to startle the guard’s mount. For all their fierce demeanour, ibuq were beasts of burden, flighty and unsuitable for combat. As Hess had hoped it would, Rollo’s mount shied away, hissing, and the guard tumbled from his seat.

Hess tackled the man before he could rise. They rolled on the ground, flakes of rusty metal scouring the filigree from Hess’ pauldrons and greaves. Although his hands were chained, he outweighed Rollo by twenty pounds, and managed to clamber atop the struggling guard to headbutt him in the nose.

Too late, Hess heard the clatter of Gert’s ibuq. The butt of her crossbow cracked across his shoulders, sending him sprawling.

‘Our orders are to deliver you to your new post – they don’t say in how many pieces.’ Gert reversed her crossbow and levelled it at Hess. ‘Do you feel like fighting, captain?’

Hess pushed to his knees to glare at the guard. Scowling, he shook his head.

Gert gave a satisfied grunt and turned to her companion. ‘Are you okay?’

Rollo stood, wiping the blood from his nose. He glared at Hess for a long moment, then walked over to slap the flank of Hess’ ibuq. With a snorting hiss, the beast shambled away into the rubble.

‘Looks like the captain’s mount ran off.’ Rollo moved to retrieve the reins of his own beast. ‘You’re going to have to walk the rest of the way, hero.’

Hess stiffened, squinting down the thin ribbon of gold that was the old Lantic road. To either side the Glitterpeaks rose like ancient, pitted blades, their jagged flint-and-iron crests dusted not with snow but orange-red blooms of corrosion. Instead of dust, the wind carried flecks of rust, the smell of it reminding Hess of old blood. Higher up, windswept metal rasped across flinty outcrops, producing the showers of sparks for which the mountains were named.

He looked to Gert. Of his two captors, she was the more reasonable, if only marginally so. ‘I won’t make it on foot.’

She returned his gaze with slit-eyed hatred. ‘My brother was at Beacon Field.’

Hess suppressed a wince. There was no sense in arguing. It didn’t matter that Hess had won the battle, that he had slain the sorcerer Avul Thrice-Burnt and scattered his mad followers to the wind. Someone needed to answer for the dead, and Hess, in his wounded pride, had as good as delivered himself to the lord marshal on a silver platter.

It was painful to straighten his bruised back, and even more so to walk, but Hess vowed he wouldn’t give Khir’s thugs the satisfaction of seeing him hobble. For a wild moment he considered running off into the jagged countryside, but he knew he would not get far. Even if he stripped off his plate, Hess had seen enough of Chamon to know he would survive barely a day in the scouring heat.

To add to the insult, Rollo approached and tied a rope around the chain that bound Hess’ hands, securing the other end to the pommel of his saddle. The guard’s ugly smile made it clear that if Hess stumbled, Rollo would be happy to drag him.

Hess staggered across the pitted ground, careful of the hunks of rusty metal that littered the road. Above, the sun glittered like molten bronze, waves of heat distorting the black iron peaks that loomed over them. His armour felt like an oven, the heavy ceremonial plate slowly broiling Hess alive even as the rough iron of the manacles chafed his wrists raw.

His tongue rasped against cracked lips, the skin of his face hot and tight. Heat pressed in from all sides, wicking away Hess’ sweat. Even the breeze was no relief. It came like the blast of a forge bellows, carrying grains of rust that scoured his exposed skin.

After what seemed an eternity, the guards called a halt, Gert tossing Hess a canteen while Rollo scanned the horizon. Hess made a grab for the water but stumbled as Rollo nudged his ibuq forward, the rope jerking Hess off his feet.

‘Go on.’ Rollo snorted a wet laugh through his broken nose. ‘Pick it up.’

Hess stood to glare up at the guard, not wanting to give Rollo the pleasure of seeing him scrabble in the dust.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Gert said, thrusting her chin at something in the distance.

With a snarled curse, Rollo jerked Hess closer and untied the rope from his manacles. Perhaps noticing the murder in Hess’ eyes, Rollo waved the rope at him. ‘If you attack me again, captain, this will be around your neck.’

A few days ago, Hess would have been happy to teach the fool another lesson. Now, his thoughts were only of the canteen. The water was tepid and coppery, like blood, but Hess gulped it down as though it were wine from the Arch-Lector’s vineyard.

The guards dismounted. Retreating to the dubious shade of a sharp-edged overhang, they tied up their mounts, then began to argue in quiet tones. Rollo gestured at the mountains, his shoulders high and tight, the way he got when he was nervous. Gert chewed her lip, then gave an irritated nod, turning back to her ibuq to unlimber her crossbow.

‘What’s going on?’ Hess joined them in the shadow of the overhang.

Rollo kicked a spray of rusty grit at him.

‘Quiet!’ he barked.

Shielding his eyes from the bright sun, Hess scanned the path ahead. The old Lantic road twisted through the Glitterpeaks like a river of gold, still bright even after centuries of neglect. In the distance, Hess made out two riders on ibuq picking their way down a switchback etched into the pitted face of the mountain.

Rollo stepped into the centre of the road, sword drawn, while Gert stayed in the shade of the overhang, crouched behind a slab of corroded iron, her crossbow ready.

‘Who are they?’ Hess moved over to her.

Gert shrugged. ‘Maybe raiders, maybe natives.’

‘Unchain my hands,’ Hess said. ‘If there is a battle, you will need my aid.’

She snorted. ‘We don’t need nothing from you except quiet.’

Hess lapsed into silence, mentally counting steps – one to where Gert crouched, four to where Rollo stood in the road. If it came to a fight, he would need to move quickly. Hess would not die in this Sigmar-forsaken hinterland because his guards were incompetent fools.

It was not long before the riders arrived, slouched low in their saddles, almost completely hidden by long cloaks of rough-spun cloth threaded with rusty fibres of metal.

One of the riders hung back while the other dismounted with a wave, unwinding his scarf to reveal a darkly tanned face, his cheeks chapped and windburnt. Gold tattoos traced the line of his jaw, filigreed arcs twining across his forehead in an intricate pattern that glittered in the failing light.

‘Natives,’ Rollo muttered, shifting to point his blade at the tattooed man. ‘That’s far enough.’

The man paused, hands held wide, a broad smile on his face. He glanced past Rollo to grin at Hess.

‘By gold and steel, you must be our new captain.’ The man offered a sloppy salute. ‘Flynn, at your service.’ He nodded at his companion. ‘That’s Thystra – she’s our tracker.’

The other cloaked rider remained motionless. Little was visible save for her sharp, cool-blue eyes.

Rollo’s blade didn’t waver. ‘There was no mention of an escort.’

‘Castellan Altenbach sent us.’ Flynn’s hand drifted towards his cloak. ‘I carry the order if you wish to see it.’

‘Keep your hands raised,’ Rollo barked, gesturing to where Gert knelt. ‘Or she’ll put a bolt through them.’

‘We’re on the same side.’ Flynn’s eyes flicked to Gert as she stood from behind the rock, but his smile never wavered. ‘The Glitterpeaks are already sufficiently dangerous without your bellowing causing an avalanche.’

Rollo hissed. ‘If you are so afraid why don’t you turn around and go back the way you came?’

Flynn gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Can’t have our new captain marched to death now, can we?’

Rollo half turned. ‘Are these your friends, Hess? Other traitors come to break you out? If you think I’ll let you escape without a fight, you’re–’

Flynn skipped forward, slapping aside the flat of Rollo’s blade with his bare hand. The guard tried to bring the sword around, but Flynn was too close. The Chamonian dug his fingers into the pressure point at the base of the man’s throat. Rollo squawked. No stranger to brawls, he quickly recovered, crashing a fist into the smaller man’s side, and the two fell to grappling.

Gert let out a soft curse, shifting to take aim at the melee. Before she could fire, Hess lunged. His kick was awkward, but it was enough to send Gert’s bolt skittering wide. She hammered the butt of her crossbow into Hess’ stomach, and he crumpled like rotten wood.

Gasping on the ground, Hess watched helplessly as Gert tossed the crossbow aside to draw her blade and advance on the struggling men. He tried to call a warning to Flynn as Gert raised her sword, but could manage barely more than a whispery cough.

The scrabble of claws on metal caught both Hess and Gert’s attention. The guard spun to see Thystra’s ibuq, somehow now riderless, bearing down on her. The beast’s dark eyes were wide and frightened, its heavy jaw hanging open to bare the ridges of steely bone it used to grind minerals and hard scrub.

With a shout, Gert leapt from the beast’s path and right into Thystra’s arms. Hess had not seen her move, but somehow the rider had slipped along the other side of the road, her rusty cloak blending perfectly with the metallic detritus. Thystra rose from behind a rocky outcrop to hammer the pommel of her dagger into the back of Gert’s neck. The guard crumpled, her sword clattering from nerveless fingers.

Calmly, Thystra stepped over the unconscious guard, then knelt to grab a fistful of Rollo’s hair. The guard tried to pull free of Flynn but stiffened as Thystra jerked his head back and set her dagger against his throat.

‘Drop your weapon.’ Her voice was cold and flat, words whetted with the threat of violence.

With a snarl, Rollo cast his sword aside and relaxed his grip on Flynn.

‘See to your comrade.’ Thystra hauled him upright with surprising strength and shoved him stumbling towards Gert. As she moved, Hess was surprised to see the tip of one sharply pointed ear slip free of the hood.

An aelf.

Flynn got to his feet. He prodded at his bruised ribs, wincing, then ambled over to help Hess stand. ‘Are you fit to ride, captain?’

‘Always.’ Hess shook his manacles. ‘Although I do manage better with my hands unchained.’

‘Of course, captain.’ Flynn nodded to his companion. ‘Thystra, would you mind fetching the keys from our friends over there?’

The aelf moved to where Rollo knelt beside Gert, and held out her hand.

‘The lord marshal will hear of this.’ Rollo spat a bloody gobbet at her feet.

Thystra stared at the blood, strangely still, her hand tight on her dagger.

‘There’s no need for that.’ Flynn let go of Hess to hurry to the aelf’s side. With a pained smile, he knelt to retrieve the key ring from Gert’s belt and tossed it to Hess before taking Thystra by the shoulders and turning the aelf away with surprising gentleness. ‘Your mount.’

The aelf blinked as if waking from a dream. With a shake of her head, she shrugged free of Flynn’s grip, stalking off into the rubble to retrieve her ibuq, which was cropping at the scrubby brush a few dozen yards from the road.

Hess raised an eyebrow at the strange exchange. His new companions seemed colourful to say the least, but now was hardly the time to ask questions. He unlocked his manacles, then ambled over to Rollo’s ibuq and mounted. The guard’s glare could have etched steel, but Hess ignored him.

Flynn collected his own mount and, after a moment of rummaging in his saddlebags, produced a cloak of the same metallic rust-brown material he and Thystra were wearing. ‘Best put this on, captain. It’ll help with the sun and the grit.’

‘My thanks.’ Hess threw the cloak over his shoulders and drew up the hood. They started forward, Thystra drawing ahead.

Flynn handed Hess some dried fruit, which he devoured, and a full waterskin. When he had slaked his thirst, he turned to Flynn.

‘You are native to Chamon?’

‘I grew up in the Lantic ruins a few weeks’ ride from here.’ The Chamonian made a strange splay-fingered sign with his right hand. When Hess frowned at the gesture, Flynn gave a little chuckle. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s an old habit. My people believe the Gilded Web traps misfortune and bad memories.’

‘I am in need of some good fortune.’ Hess swallowed the last of the water and settled into the saddle, his various aches and pains receding into the background for the moment. ‘What can you tell me about the fort?’

‘The Grave of Heroes is paradise, sir.’ Flynn gave a little chuckle. ‘Tucked away, with high walls and plenty of stores. What more could you desire?’

‘What more, indeed.’ Hess gave a low sigh, feeling the weight of his future pressing down on him. ‘Though its moniker is ominous.’

‘The name is older than history,’ Flynn said. ‘Somebody hacked the fort from the Glitterpeaks in the Age of Myth. I figure it got its name from a battle, or maybe a mess of battles. Thystra might know more, she’s been here longest.’

‘We should find shelter.’ Thystra was scanning the darkening horizon. ‘The sky bears an ill cast.’

‘A shardstorm?’ Flynn asked.

Thystra cocked her head as if testing the breeze. ‘Perhaps.’

Flynn must have noted Hess’ confusion because he turned, shivering. ‘It seems we located you just in time, captain. Shardstorms are nasty, wicked things. A wind comes tearing through, while sparks and lightning streak along the Glitterpeaks.’ He broke off a bit of rusted iron from a nearby overhang, then held it up so Hess could see the roughly serrated edge. ‘It whips this chaff up into a maelstrom of spinning razors that can strip a man to his bones in less than a second.’

They clattered up a craggy switchback, Thystra ranging ahead in silence. Hess chewed his chapped lips while Flynn nattered on about the mountains, the weather and the local wildlife. They made camp in a shallow cave, formed where one of the mountain’s vast iron slabs had begun to shear away. It was out of the wind, at least, and Hess was grateful for the chance to lower his hood.

Flynn made a small mound of metal shavings and, after emptying the contents of a small vial onto them, set the pile alight. The Chamonian chuckled at Hess’ surprised flinch. ‘Merely a little alchemy, captain. It’s nothing to worry about.’

Hess started into the sickly green flames, the vile glow of Avul Thrice-Burnt’s balefire bright in his memory. The mad warlock had set it boiling down the battle line, Sigmarite soldiers little more than writhing shadows in the blaze. The field had been a trap, the ground seeded with pitch. Avul’s flames had burned through half the regiment before Hess managed to put an end to him.

He eyed Flynn, hand drifting to the place where his pistols should have been.

‘It takes some getting used to.’ The native’s grin set his tattoos flashing in the firelight. ‘But you’re in Chamon. This place has a way of changing things, captain.’

Hess offered the man a stiff smile, knowing it was best not to make enemies until he got a sense of the place. They hunkered close to the fire as the sun went down, ushering in a chill as punishing as the day’s heat.

‘How large is the garrison?’ Hess asked once they’d finished their dinner of dried meat and gritty bread.

‘There is Castellan Altenbach, Valdemar Schmidt, and Hanar – he’s the smith.’ Flynn ticked the names off on his fingers. ‘Oh, and Thystra and me, of course.’

Hess sat back, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Khir had truly chosen the most pathetic outpost of Sigmar’s might for Hess’ exile. ‘The garrison contains only five soldiers?’

‘Six, counting you, sir.’ Flynn gave an amiable nod. ‘There used to be hundreds, back when the Freeguilds first came through, but the front moved on. Those who remained were never replaced when they died or went elsewhere. You’re the first new addition since Schmidt.’

‘And what brings you here?’ Hess asked Thystra.

She made no reply but to tug her cowl lower.

‘Don’t worry, captain,’ Flynn said. ‘Thystra is a bit surly, but she is the best scout we have. She was once a Lion Ranger, in fact. I once saw her chop straight through–’

‘Enough, Flynn.’ The aelf’s voice was sharp. ‘You speak of that of which you have no knowledge.’

The Chamonian held up his hands in surrender, then lay down, wrapping his cloak tight.

Thystra moved to the mouth of the cave, her back to Hess as she stared out into the starless night.

Hess couldn’t seem to relax, made uncomfortable by the lambent green glow, so reminiscent of the inferno on Beacon Field. He found himself staring into the fire, the interplay of shadows giving the impression of shapes within the blaze – men and women writhing amidst the bilious flames, their forms merging into something huge and monstrous, something unholy. Even now, the memory of it lurked in the back of Hess’ mind like childhood trauma, tainting everything it touched.

He tore his gaze from the flames, tamping down the blighted memories. Thystra was watching him. The aelf’s eyes flickered like a cornered animal’s in the greenish glow, but her expression was, if not exactly sympathetic, then possessed of a certain terrible recognition.

She regarded him for a long moment, then nodded, turning back to her watch.

Hess took long, slow breaths, his hands tight on his knees. Silence descended on the camp, broken only by the occasional metallic pop of the fire. Although he was tired to the bone, somehow Hess knew sleep would be a long time coming.

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To the Guns of Paxton – Scott, Sean, Big Dave, Hank, Chuck, Craig – and all the battles we fought. Never have I had better enemies, nor better friends.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Akim Kaliberda.

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