The sound of fighting grows more frantic as I crest the ridge and rush through the clouds, hammers glinting.
I break through the clouds and stagger to a halt in shock.
I’ve reached a broad, bowl-shaped hollow, a few hundred feet in circumference and ringed with tusks of rock. There are three figures at its centre and none of them are Stormcast Eternals. The first is inhumanly slender and pale, an aelf, dressed in black, clutching daggers and weaving back and forth, nimble and quick, looking for a chance to lunge. At her side is something peculiar. For a moment, I struggle to name him. He’s shorter than a man, but clad in so much scarred, chiselled muscle that he looks like a piece of the mountain. He’s a duardin, I decide, with the fiery mohawk and beard of a fyreslayer, but he’s big – much bigger than any fyreslayer I’ve seen before. He’s as broad as an ox and his biceps are like tree trunks. I would have placed him as a great king or lord if he didn’t look so deranged. He’s wearing a patch over one eye and there’s a single metal rune embedded in his chest, burning with the ferocity of a fallen star. The rune is the source of the light I saw through the clouds. Even without using one of my implements, I can tell that it’s unlike the runes worn by other fyreslayers. There’s so much aetheric power radiating from it that the devices hung from my belt are crackling and humming in response.
The duardin is naked apart from a loincloth and, as his slab-like fists tighten, rune-light floods his frame, shimmering across his muscles and igniting a brazier at the head of his battleaxe. His gaze is wild and unfocused and there’s sweat pouring down his filthy, tattooed limbs. There’s such a thick animal stink coming from him that I can smell it a dozen feet away. He lets out another war cry and pounds across the rocks towards his foe.
When I see what he’s about to attack, I can’t help but laugh. It’s a drake. One of the stone-clad behemoths that thrive in the brutal heat of the Slain Peak. It’s as tall as a watchtower and its spreading wings block out the sky, throwing us all into shadow.
The duardin must be insane. Even I would baulk at tackling such a colossus.
The drake opens its long, sabre-crowded jaws and spews a landslide, hurling rock and scree across the hollow.
I shake my head and turn to leave. The duardin is doomed. There’s nothing I could do to help even if I wished it.
The duardin keeps roaring as the rocks smash into him.
I hesitate, looking back.
Dust and flying debris fill the hollow and, for a moment, I’m blinded. When the clouds fade, I laugh again.
The duardin is still standing. There are mounds of rock and gravel heaped around him and he’s shrouded in dust but the drake has failed to injure him.
I shake my head. That blast could have levelled a fortress.
The aelf is hunched next to him and she seems unharmed too, protected by his bulk.
The drake hesitates, confused, as the duardin shrugs off the rubble and rushes forwards, rune-light sparking in his beard and pulsing through his veins.
The drake recovers from its surprise and screams. Then it rears on its haunches and spews more rock.
Again, the hollow fills with noise and dust. Again, when it clears, the duardin is unharmed, chin raised defiantly, infernal light burning in his eye.
The drake leaps forwards, landing with such force that the rocks beneath my feet slide away and I stumble down into the hollow.
It swings a tail the size of an oak, bringing it down towards the duardin’s head.
There’s a seismic boom as the duardin smashes the tail away, parrying it as easily as a sword-strike.
The drake stumbles, claws scrambling on the rocks, vast wings kicking up dust clouds.
As the drake struggles to right itself, the duardin runs across the hollow, bounds off a rock and leaps through the air, axe gripped in both fists and raised over his head.
The drake spews more rock, but the duardin is too fast, slamming his axe into its chest like he’s attacking a cliff face.
The drake is about to launch itself into the air when the aelf sprints through the dust clouds and plunges her daggers into its leg. The blades are clearly no ordinary weapons. They cut through the drake’s stone hide and the aelf has to dive away as black, steaming blood hisses from the wound.
As the aelf rolls clear, the duardin climbs higher, slamming his axe into the drake’s jaw, knocking its head back.
I race for cover as the creature staggers towards me, ripping rock from the walls and thrashing its wings.
The aelf flips onto her feet and plants her blades in the drake’s other leg and, as the monster falls, the duardin slams his axe into its skull.
There’s another resounding boom as the drake hits the rubble-strewn ground.
When the dust clears, I find myself face to face with the duardin.
He’s standing on the stone carcass, glaring at me with his single, infernal eye, axe raised and beard sparking, his whole body trembling with violence.
‘Maybe we should gut this one too?’ His voice is a low snarl. He glances from me back to the aelf.
I raise my warhammers and face him side-on.
‘Wait!’ cries the aelf, rushing forwards and grabbing the duardin’s arm. ‘He’s one of us.’
The duardin grips his axe tighter. ‘One of you, maybe.’
‘He serves Sigmar.’ She steps in front of him.
The duardin looks unimpressed, but allows her to speak.
‘I’m Maleneth,’ she says, still gripping her daggers as she approaches me. ‘I belong to the Order of Sigmar.’
She’s a Khainite. I’ve dealt with the Murder Cults before. Her blades are most likely edged with poison. I keep my hammers raised.
I nod to the duardin. ‘And this?’
She gives me a strange look. I can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea. Despite fighting beside him, she does not look comfortable in his presence. ‘Gotrek.’
This close, he cuts an even stranger figure. The light is fading from the rune in his chest, but it’s still fierce enough to give his face a hellish aspect. I notice that one side of his head is oddly weathered, as though scorched by acid. His only concession to armour is a metal pauldron on his left shoulder, but that’s clearly borrowed, its design too crude to be of duardin manufacture.
‘Show your face, manling,’ he growls, narrowing his eye. His beard bristles as he barges past the aelf and squares up to me. He slams into my armour and I stagger. His head barely reaches my chest but I feel like a cart has thudded into me.
I remove my helmet and glare back at him.
He holds my stare, then, just as I think he’s about to attack, he shrugs and turns away. ‘Another prancing knight.’ He mutters something in his own language as he heads back over to the fallen drake.
I look at the aelf. ‘Does he serve Sigmar?’
‘I serve no one!’ yells the dwarf, without looking back at me. ‘Least of all gods.’
I give the aelf a questioning look, but she holds up a hand, indicating that I should wait until he is out of earshot.
‘What is that rune in his chest?’ I ask when the duardin has reached the fallen monster.
She speaks in an urgent whisper. ‘I need to explain,’ she begins, but then I cut her off.
‘What’s he doing?’
The duardin has clambered up onto the fallen drake and begun hacking at the carcass, filling the air with sparks and noise. Incredibly, his axe cuts through the stone scales, severing chunks of hide and spilling torrents of black gore. Blood hisses as it splashes across the ground.
‘We’re going to perform a rite,’ she says, sounding weary. ‘He’s going to fish out the innards and then I’ll inspect them. Hopefully it will work this time.’
‘This time?’
‘Someone told him that only drake entrails can point us in the right direction, but we’ve tried five times so far and I’ve found nothing but half-digested herdsmen.’