Skuldrak was a monstrous creation, towering over even the hugest of the Goretide’s other leviathans. Vast trunks of muscled legs supported a cavernous chest and absurdly oversized arms, each terminating in iron-tipped claws the breadth of a man’s torso. An immense bony head thrust out from bulging shoulders, studded with tusks and pierced with the iron marks of Khorne’s favour. When the khorgorath roared, a welter of fizzing spittle flew from its open maw, drowning out all other calls of battle and inspiring those about it to new heights of savagery.
Skuldrak was Vekh’s own creature, tortured into submission a lifetime ago and now shackled to his merciless lash, just as the entire horde was. The beast could endure phenomenal amounts of pain, something that Vekh put to the test whenever he could, goading it into the fullest extent of battle-wrath, making an already wildly aggressive creature into an engine of pure carnage.
United once more, the two of them — bloodstoker and beast of Chaos — charged across the open plain. Even as the bulk of the Goretide waited for Khul’s orders, Skuldrak lumbered inchoately, bellowing in a haze of apoplexy as the flail bit deeper. For his part, Vekh had to run hard just to keep up, for Skuldrak unleashed was as ferociously fast as he was colossal.
Vekh’s battle-lust, however, was more controlled than his beast’s. He had seen the disposition of the enemy and gauged where best to strike. Their armour was new to him, as was the magical aura that played across their ranks, but every army had its lords, and if those could be struck down then the rest would fall apart. The Goretide was unbeaten, its name whispered with hushed respect even by those steeped in the favour of Khorne — this night would not see a reverse of such god-marked fortunes.
As Vekh neared the first warriors of the glittering warband, their commander was obvious enough — a knight with a crested helm riding atop some kind of draconic beast. Others of the host, larger figures in heavier battle-plate, had already broken formation and were making for the ruined Gate, leaving their flanks exposed. That was a critical mistake, Vekh judged — the ruin was worthless as a redoubt, and they were spreading themselves too thin in order to take it. If this crested beastrider could be killed, the whole encounter would be over with brutal swiftness, leaving only the long hours of torture to come.
‘Skuldrak!’ Vekh shouted, snapping out the spike-tipped flails with abandon. ‘That is the one! Break it now and your pain can stop!’
The leviathan thundered out a tortured bellow and powered towards the lightning-crowned rider. Vekh watched the golden knight respond, turning to face the oncoming charge. The beast he rode was a mighty creature, its scaly head wreathed with flame and its sinuous tail lashing like Vekh’s own flails, but it was far smaller than the khorgorath and had not been driven into the same depth of daemonic rage.
The gap between them shrank to nothing, and Vekh maintained the lash, whipping Skuldrak into a blur of speed. Bony tentacles burst out from the khorgorath’s shoulders, each snaking towards the dracoth rider, ready to snatch him from his mount and break his back.
The rider called out a battle-cry as the shadow of the khorgorath fell across him, hefting his mighty hammer as if it weighed no more than a reed. The weapon arced round, blazing with eye-watering light, and slammed heavily into Skuldrak’s oncoming flank.
A mighty bang rang out, and a blaze of silver light radiated from the impact. Skuldrak, for all its size and momentum, was rocked back on to its mighty haunches, and its hooves gouged deep into the solid stone. The knight swung again, switching back and driving the head deep into the creature’s ribcage.
Skuldrak screamed, at last experiencing pain worse than its master’s gouges, and twisted back to face the snarling draconic mount. Vekh, seeing the chance, raced in close, aiming to dislodge the rider and bear him down to the earth. The cobalt-skinned mount was too quick, though, snapping its jaws just a fraction too slowly to tear Vekh’s head from his shoulders but close enough to make him stagger back from the charge.
Now free to act, the gold-armoured rider rammed his hammer against the khorgorath’s skull as if it were a blade on an anvil. Skuldrak reeled away, roaring. Then the crested helm was turned on Vekh, where the beastmaster crouched, ready to launch a second attack.
‘Know your enemy before he ends you, spawn of ruin,’ came a clear voice, cutting through the battle-roar like a shaft of sunlight. ‘I am Vandus Hammerhand, Lord-Celestant of the Stormhost, and this night your reign comes to its end.’
Vekh snarled, taking up his flail again and readying it for Skuldrak.
‘Then know yours, Hammerhand,’ he replied. ‘I am Vekh, named the Flayer, and I shall wear your skin as my cloak before the night’s end. If you perform well, I may even let you die first.’
The Retributors reached the Gate just ahead of the horde. They spread out in a long line, making their numbers count for as much as possible. Each warrior stood two yards from the shoulder of his brother, giving room to wield the two-handed greathammers with the power they warranted.
Ionus took his place behind the slender line of defence, knowing that it was not yet his time to move into the heart of the combat. As he watched, the formless mass of enemy warriors screamed towards them, shouting incoherently in brutish tongues. Some spoke debased languages that he understood while others raved in the language of the Old Gods, their words steeped in the slow corruption of millennia.
‘Remain steadfast,’ he whispered to those about him. His voice was as dusty and sibilant as ever, but he knew that every Retributor would hear him clearly enough. ‘Trust in the immortal will of Sigmar, the liberator of his people.’
The eyes of the foe were now visible, red-rimmed under beaten helms of iron. Ionus saw the mutilation of their bodies — wounds pinned open, brand-marks across faces, metal studs and spikes pushed through exposed skin. They all bore the marks of Khorne, carved into living flesh and carried above them on banners of cured hides.
‘He will preserve,’ Ionus breathed. ‘He will protect.’
Then the lines smashed together, the rolling tide of frenzy slamming hard into the cordon of gold. The Retributors had waited for the moment of most impact before letting fly with their hammers, and with their release the entire battlefront dissolved in a welter of cracked skulls and sprayed blood. Before they could lean into the return swing, the blood warriors were in amongst them, hacking with short-handles axes. The Retributors held the line, though the pressure of the charge forced them back, testing the slender perimeter before the stairway leading up to the Gate’s great archway.
Ionus coolly watched the fighting unfold. They had known it would be intense, and the sheer volume of hatred did not come as a surprise. The Old Powers had degraded what counted for humanity in this realm, perverting them into mere bestial tools, each one capable of nothing but rage. The damned screamed as they fought, screamed as they were hacked back, and screamed as their guts were torn from them by the heavy sweep of hammerheads.
Behind the Retributors, the Gate loomed massively, lit up by flashes of lightning and the aegis of fire kindled at its summit. The Prosecutors were late reaching their positions, though Ionus could see the first of them soar up against the night sky now, ready to unleash the wrath of the comet. Perhaps they had been waylaid — if so, then the need for haste had become more pressing than ever.
Then, over to his right, the first of the Retributors was brought down. The warrior had already accounted for a dozen of the horde and his hammer was heavy with a black slick of blood, but the press was remorseless. Ionus hastened to his aid, just too late — a long spear-shaft jabbed out, shoved forward by many sets of hands, and the tip punched through the Retributor’s throat, wrenching the helm up and forcing the warrior’s head back.