The Direbrands were gone. Vendell Blackfist was gone. All that remained was the thing he had been made into: the Lord-Celestant, the instrument of the God-King’s will.
‘For Sigmar!’ he thundered, wrenching his thoughts back to those of war. ‘For the Celestial Throne!’
And yet, even on the cusp of his great triumph, the war-cry was more angry than triumphant, and a hollow ring had entered into the words of glory.
Ionus led the charge down from the Gate and onto the plain below. All the momentum was with his forces now, and the blood warriors were crushed beneath the armoured boots of his retinue. Storm-spirits whined and swooped overhead, forming a protective shield above them. The Retributors were irresistible, striding with resolute confidence towards their brothers in Vandus’s column. Once the two flanks of the Legion joined up, the core would be unbreakable.
Even as he advanced south, though, Ionus remained vigilant for a reversal in fortunes. This was a dangerous time, and the enemy remained powerful. The icon-bearer was still alive, and the horde fought on amid the driving rain.
‘Do not give in to pride,’ he warned those about him, striving to keep them focused. ‘Those whom the fates raise up they may also cast down. Remain wary! Look to your brothers!’
As if to prove the truth of his words, a mighty bellowing broke out from the lower reaches of the delta, far beyond where any Eternal had yet penetrated. Something huge was barrelling up from the depths, roaring in berserk fury. Blood warriors were already running from it, unable to restrain whatever force had been unleashed within their midst.
Ionus let his staff blaze with pearl-grey illumination, lighting up the sea of warriors before them and exposing the source of the booming war-cries.
A second khorgorath had been loosed against them, and it was charging with all the force of a rolling tidal wave. Blood warriors and Liberators alike were crushed and swiped from its path, their armour no defence against the writhing nest of bone tentacles. Its mighty claws swung like jackhammers, gouging long trails in the earth before flinging the debris high. Ionus saw the drooling madness in its bestial face, and knew then that it had been flayed to within a hair’s breadth of destruction. It would recognise neither friend nor foe, but would destroy all in its path until the furnace of its existence was ended forever.
The Retributors about him immediately threw themselves towards it, all of them heedless of the danger and determined to bring their grandhammers to bear.
‘Leave it!’ cried Ionus, knowing that the creature was beyond their ability to kill, but he was too slow to prevent the clash.
Two score Retributors placed themselves in the beast’s path, and were swept aside. Many of them managed to strike it, breaking open huge wounds in the leviathan’s flanks, but nothing halted its rampage. One lone warrior held his ground before it, smashing the face of his lightning hammer into the khorgorath’s blood-streaked maw. The beast backhanded him with a flailing arm, sending the huge gold-armoured knight careering back into the following ranks of blood warriors.
‘Withdraw!’ cried Ionus, wrathful now. ‘The beast is mine!’
He swept to the forefront, blocking any more of the Retributors from taking the monster on. The khorgorath locked its red eyes on him and thundered in close, lowering its massive head like a bull on the gallop.
Its force was almost unstoppable — a living mountain of muscle and sinew, all allied to a soul of fire. Even the Cryptborn, with all his mastery of the laws of life and death, felt a beat of doubt as he saw the colossus bearing down on him.
‘Shyish!’ he cried, thrusting his staff before him and bracing for impact.
The khorgorath crashed into a summoned wall of pale grey energy, and its blood-red body instantly changed colour, whitening like embers after the fire’s death. Its headlong charge lurched to a halt, and it skidded to one side, dropping its enormous shoulder as its legs gave way.
Ionus remained steadfast, pouring on more of the deathly, soul-sapping magic. The khorgorath writhed amid the clutching strands of grey, its mighty heart hammering, its jaws clenched open in agony. It reached out with a claw, determined to strike at the source of its pain, but Ionus sidestepped the blow. His reliquary blazed with a frigid flame and the beast of Khorne crumpled to the dust, its brutal spirit spent.
As the khorgorath expired before him, Ionus at last released the spell and clutched the staff for support, his head light. Summoning up such force, with so little preparation, had almost ended him. The Retributors surged onwards, fanning around him to press the advantage. Before them lay a long path of ruin, the channel gouged by the khorgorath’s devastating run, strewn with the bodies of both Eternals and blood warriors.
It was only then, just as the dust was settling and troops on both sides were able to recover, that Ionus saw what purpose the charge had served. Standing amid the detritus was a skull-masked lord, one who bore a huge axe one-handed. He held a daemon-hound on an iron leash. He smiled coldly, and strode towards the Cryptborn at the head of a phalanx of plate-armoured guards.
‘Your task was to die here,’ the warlord told him, coming closer with every ponderous stride. ‘I loosed this beast to drive a road towards my prey, and yet you remain to bar the way.’
As soon as he saw the axe flickering with baleful energies, Ionus knew he was outmatched. Even had he not released the death-essence to fell the khorgorath, the contest would still have been beyond him.
He pulled himself up to his full height, kindling new ghoulish light above the crown of the reliquary.
‘You do not know what it is to die,’ Ionus said dryly, preparing for the clash.
All around him, his Retributors charged once more into battle, aiming to take the warlord out of the contest. They were met by the lord’s bodyguard, and the two flanks of warriors clashed together, neither side unable to reach the other’s master.
‘Your kind is not of this world,’ said the warlord, his cruel voice more intrigued than angry. ‘At least, not all of you are.’
‘All worlds are the realm of Sigmar,’ Ionus replied, happy to keep talking for as long as possible — it gave him time to recover. ‘When we are done with them, your kind will be but a foul memory.’
The warlord nodded slowly, as if he approved of the sentiment. ‘But you are different,’ he mused, still holding back from the charge, though his hound pulled at the chain. ‘You say “Sigmar”, but it does not mean the same as when the others chant his name. What are you, I wonder? What path has led you to fight alongside these lesser souls?’
Ionus smiled beneath his deathmask. If things had been different, he might have been pleased to recount the tale. He would have told of the debt he owed the God-King, and the ancient curse that his choice had made him subject to. He would have told of Nagash, the deity who slumbered still but would be sure to come for him when the toll of years was complete. He might have said that, yes, he was different, and that he was the Lord-Relictor of the Stormhost, privy to secrets that not even the Hammerhand had been made a party to, and that every road ahead of him was dark and filled with pain whatever the outcome of this battle.
In the event, he merely leaned on his staff, drawing what strength from it he could, and gave the warlord a grim salute.
‘I know your purpose,’ Ionus told him. ‘With what power I have, I will prevent you.’