Contents

Cover

Warqueen – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

Dawn brought fire, and the Changer of Ways. At first he was a crimson line, simmering beneath an amethyst vault. Then, with slow majesty, he became a gilded shield, rising from his hidden palace, embroidering the clouds with light, kindling the Arad Plains into life; transmuting night into day.

Vedra watched in silence, awed by the boundless alchemy of her lord. The message was clear: to change is to live. She clutched the talisman hanging around her neck and raised it in a silent promise, refracting the morning light. The crystal flashed in her palm like a fragment of the dawn.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

Then she grabbed her spear and jogged back across the barren hillside towards her chariot. She had spent the night training and a rapturous heat linked every sinew of her long, lean body. She was ready. No one could stop her.

She vaulted into the chariot and barked a command in the old tongue, spurring her hounds into life. Bailar and Balkar lunged forwards with a snarl. They were as large as warhorses and they hauled her copper chariot with ease, their huge paws thudding across the parched scrub, thundering down the slope towards an avenue of staves that led across the plain.

The heads of the slain had been mounted to face south, towards the Crucible Mound, in anticipation of the coming ritual. Vedra did not look at them as she hurtled past. She had no interest in trophies. The heads were a warning, nothing else. The plains had never seen a host like hers. The Untamed was the greatest gathering of Darkoath tribes ever to pay homage to a single Warqueen. But she was under no illusions. There was still work to be done. And if she showed the slightest sign of weakness it would be her head they placed on a stave.

As her chariot neared the mound, she saw that the gathering was even bigger than she expected. The need-fire was already blazing, a vast umbrella of sapphire light, hanging fifty feet above the mound, rippling and shimmering as it shone down on thousands of Darkoath warriors. Every one of the tribesmen was holding a weapon aloft as she reached the foot of the mound and she wanted to raise her iron spear in reply – to howl back at them and revel in the glory of what they had achieved. They had done what the chieftains thought impossible – they had driven the Blood God from their lands. After tomorrow’s battle, they would once more be masters of the entire plain – eight hundred miles of strongholds and farmsteads, from the Scornwood Holt to the shores of the Unmeant Lake, with the Sickle Keep at its heart.

Vedra did not raise her spear. She did not cry out. She did as tradition dictated and kept her gaze locked on the flickering nimbus above the mound, letting the lord’s fire flash in her eyes as Bailar and Balkar pulled the chariot up the slope.

There were nine crucible mounds scattered across the plains and they were all the same shape: a steep-sided hill with a bowl-like depression at the summit. Most of the tribesmen had gathered at the foot of the hill, but the chieftains were waiting at the top, in the crucible itself, bathed in blue light. There were dozens of nobles, but the three greatest of them, Budar, Leortas and Korvis, stood alone, flanked by shield-bearers and slaves, their chins raised proudly and their mouths clamped shut. They were draped in pelts and battle trophies – skulls, human and animal, clattered against their weapons as they stepped towards her. They wore the trappings of great leaders but they were weak, all of them. Not one of them had foreseen this. None of them understood how she had won so many battles. They were all too wrapped up in their own myths to remember what it meant to be a Darkoath chieftain. They had lost their way. How confused they must be now – how they must hate her – but honour and tradition came first. She had defeated them on the field and their creed left them only one course of action. One by one, they knelt, glowering and tense as they dropped to the cinder-strewn earth.

Next to the chieftains were her kin: brothers, sisters and cousins, all wearing new pelts and gold torcs. Vedra’s string of victories had accorded them even higher status than the chieftains, and they stared back at her, proud and defiant, determined not to fail her.

At the other side of the mound was her sanorach, Alimus, the Herald of the Ninth. Ancient and decrepit as he was, the Darkoath sorcerer made a striking sight, with his woad-blue robes and eagle-clawed staff. The staff had been carved to resemble the crooked leg of a bird and it was decked with iridescent feathers. They shimmered in the light of the need-fire, writhing and coiling like a living creature.

Beside the sanorach stood the rest of her new court – the horde of poets, prophets, heroes and artisans who now gathered at her hearth.

She looked back at the three kneeling chieftains. Budar of the Throod, brutish and colossal. Korvis of the Sachalites, wild eyed and skeletal. Leortas of the Tannen, haughty, stout and proud. This was her prize. These embittered old warriors. They had not knelt to anyone for decades, nor agreed to pay tithes; but now they prostrated themselves, pledging people and lands in return for survival. Victory after victory, stronghold after stronghold, she had bound them to her will.

She enjoyed their discomfort for as long as honour allowed, then nodded for them to rise.

‘Alimus,’ she said, looking over at the sanorach.

The seer bowed and approached, walking towards her in his familiar, awkward gait. When she was a child, she called him Cranefly, due to his wasted, gangly limbs, and now, arthritic and palsied, he reminded her even more of an insect, jerking and twitching towards her across the hilltop.

‘Warqueen,’ he said, his voice rattly and thin.

She cried out, letting her words carry across the silent crowds below. ‘I am Vedra the Sworn, Bringer of Change. Are you the Herald of the Ninth?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you hold the key to the nine doors of the soul?’

‘I do.’

‘It is the dawning of the ninth day of the ninth month. Once more, the Changer of Ways has driven back the darkness, illuminating us with the flame of truth. Have you brought me his fire?’

The old seer reached beneath his robes, briefly revealing the crooked, emaciated body beneath. It was branded with an intricate network of runes and diagrams and criss-crossed with scars.

‘I have,’ he said, holding up a drinking horn.

‘Then light my soul,’ said Vedra, stepping closer.

He raised the horn and tipped a few drops onto her head. Most of Vedra’s head was shaved, but a single, tawny band crested her skull, a short-cropped mohawk that ended in a thick ponytail. The liquid splashed across her scalp and glittered in her hair.

The effect was instant. The need-fire blazed brighter and dropped down to envelop her, obscuring everything else. As always, she was amazed by the power of it – a vast, boiling tear in the sky, revealing countless versions of reality. It was a fragment of a dream, draped beneath the stars. A part of her mind still saw reality, but it was fading fast as the ice-flames took hold. She was aware, vaguely, that her physical self was hurling itself through the furnace, inured by Alimus’ draught, dancing and whirling and howling to the rising sun; but her dream-sight revealed something far more wonderful: she was in the presence of her lord.

Vedra glided, weightless and incandescent, into a blaze of liquid crystal. Visions and vistas spiralled around her. The Changer of Ways had transformed her being with the same ease he had transformed the night. The facets became mirrors and windows. She saw her face and the faces of her foes. She saw chieftains and thralls, crushed between the wheels of her chariot, or forced into vassalship. Her lord had made it all possible and she whispered his name: Tzeentch. The crystal labyrinth boiled and crashed as she slipped further into the otherworld of gods and spirits. Outside, in the mortal world, she saw chieftains joining the dance – hurling themselves into the flames. She willed them away, focusing on the fantastic visions exploding all around her. As always, the need-fire led her to the truth. She saw herself at the southern edge of the Arad Plains, riding her chariot at the head of her vast host. Behind her was an ocean of blades and shields and ahead lay Khorne’s final foothold in the plains: the soaring, horned fortress locals had christened the Abattoir. The reek of blood and brimstone filled her nostrils as her chariot rolled towards its gates. She gripped the talisman around her neck, the Serpent Stone, the priceless symbol of Tzeentch’s trust in her.

To her horror, it had grown cold.

The visions fell away and Vedra was standing, once more, at the edge of the sapphire flames. She reeled backwards from the need-fire, gripping the crystal charm and staring at it in shock. The fire had gone from its rough-hewn heart. Its nine eyes had grown dark. It was heavy and cold in her hand, a simple piece of rock.

The dance of the need-fire continued. More chieftains were hurling themselves into the flames, bathed in light and drunk on sorcery as they cast down their weapons and furs, embracing the madness of the dance.

Vedra continued backing away across the top of the Crucible Mound, weighed down by a terrible sense of dread. She had earned her queenship by defeating a daemon and Tzeentch’s token had burned against her chest ever since. Now, on the eve of her final trial, it had abandoned her. With a sickening jolt, she realised that she had left the need-fire without seeing the culmination of her visions.

She raced back in, trying to recapture the moment, but it was gone. As she stood there, surrounded by delirious crowds, she reached up into the madness, catching nothing but smoke.

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For Lindsey Priestley, Wordqueen, Smiter of the Clunky and Rider of the Battered Blue Chair. So long, and thanks for all the fish.

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 Igor Sid.

Warqueen © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Warqueen, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-78030-828-9

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