—<NINE>—

Darkness Closes In

 

 

Govannon ran his hands along the cold metal cylinder, feeling the smooth, almost perfect finish the craftsman had applied to its surface. Even the most highly polished metal forged by man had imperfections, a roughness to the surface that no amount of sanding and finishing could erase. This had none of that, and if what he believed was true, then this was no decorative piece to be found in a king’s palace, but something far more interesting.

“What is it, da?” asked Bysen. “Is it a bellows, is that what it is, da?”

“No,” said Govannon. “It’s not a bellows, son.”

“So what in Ulric’s name is it?” asked Master Holtwine, staring at the device. “And why did you need me here?”

No sooner had Govannon given what Alfgeir’s knights had recovered from the earth a cursory examination, than he knew he’d need Holtwine’s help. He’d sent Cuthwin to fetch the master craftsman, knowing the man would not be able to resist this challenge. Holtwine was a stout man of average height with a scowling face and thinning blond hair. He had been a superlative bowyer and archer in his youth, but his time as a warrior was cut short when a greenskin spear had pierced his chest and nicked his left lung.

Turning his dextrous hands to woodwork, he quickly discovered a natural talent that carpenters who had worked the wood for decades couldn’t match. The man was a master of his art, a craftsman who could shape timber in ways that were simply incredible. Govannon had seen his most fabulous pieces, exquisite tables and chairs, decorative cupboards and beds. Even kitchen furniture was given his special attention, resulting in pieces almost too good to be placed in such a harsh environment.

“The dwarf called it a Thunder Bringer,” said Govannon.

“His name was Grindan Deeplock,” Cuthwin reminded him.

Govannon heard the grief in the boy’s voice. Since losing his sight, Govannon had become adept at picking the truth from people’s voices. He’d heard from Elswyth that this young scout had rescued the dwarf clansman from the forest, though his wounds had been too severe and he’d later died.

“Aye, that it was, Master Cuthwin,” said Govannon. “My apologies. You saved his life, and it’s thanks to you that he’ll keep his honour in death. It’s all too easy to feel responsible for that life when it ends, trust me I know.”

“No, it’s me that needs to apologise,” said Cuthwin. “I know you meant no disrespect. It’s just that I promised that I’d get this machine back to his clan.”

“And so you shall, my boy,” Govannon assured him.

Govannon circled the machine, once again letting his hands inform him of its dimensions and construction.

Five long cylinders of cold iron were fixed in a wooden brace harness, which in turn was mounted on a broken carriage with two iron-rimmed wheels supporting the machine. Govannon could tell that each was precisely the same size, which was no mean feat.

Four of the five cylinders were perfectly cast, no blemishes, miscasts or air pockets that he could hear when he tapped the iron with his finishing hammer. The fifth was badly dented at its furthest extremity, as though pinched between enormous tongs, though Govannon shuddered to think of the strength that would be required to compress so strong a casting.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Master Holtwine.

“Don’t you know?” asked Govannon. “Even Bysen here could guess.”

Holtwine took an irritated breath. “I am a master craftsman, Govannon, not a player of games, so why don’t you just tell me? I have a weapons cabinet to finish for Count Aldred, and the individual walnut panels require chamfering before they can be fitted.”

“I am sure Count Aldred would understand were he here right now,” said Govannon, letting the moment hang. “This, my good friend, is, in the dwarf tongue, a barag.”

“What does that mean?” asked Cuthwin, leaning down to inspect the machine.

“What indeed?” asked Holtwine, his patience wearing thin.

“Is it Thunder Bringer?” suggested Cuthwin. “Grindan called it that before he died.”

Govannon smiled. “I am no expert in the dwarf tongue, but Wolfgart told me that the dwarfs who fought in the tunnels beneath Middenheim used a weapon known as a baragdrakk, which was a bellows-like machine that hurled gouts of sticky fire at the enemy. I’m guessing barag is a term for war machine, a dwarf version of the great catapults we use.”

Holtwine leaned over the device, his eyes roaming the expert shaping of the wood, the fabulous joint-work, the inlaid carvings and elegant cuts that ran with the grain. “Really? It’s a bit small. What manner of wall could you bring down with this?”

“I don’t think this is meant to bring down walls,” said Govannon. “I think this is designed to kill living things, a great many at once if I’m not mistaken.”

“How’s it do that, da?” asked Bysen, peering down the length of one of the iron cylinders.

Govannon ran his hands towards the back of the war machine, to where a complex series of flint and powder trap mechanisms in the shape of iron hammers and brass cauldrons were fitted to the back of each cylinder. He pulled each of the hammers back then hauled on the length of leather cord hanging from the base of the mechanism. The first hammer slammed down in the empty cauldron with a hard clang of iron. One by one, the other triggers battered down in their cauldrons, and sparks flew from the impact of flint and iron.

Everyone jumped, but it was Cuthwin who spoke first. He tapped the iron hammer. “It’s a kind of trigger mechanism, isn’t it? Like the firing lever on a crossbow.”

Holtwine leaned in, and Govannon could smell the beeswax, woodsap and polish on his skin. He smiled, knowing this device intrigued the man.

“A trigger mechanism, eh?” mused Holtwine. “Then this small cauldron would be filled with their fire powder? Ulric’s breath, is this some manner of enormous thunder bow?”

“That is exactly what I think it is,” said Govannon.

“So what do you plan to do with it?”

“I plan to return it to the dwarfs,” said Govannon. “But first, I intend to fix it. And I need you to help me.”

 

Redwane drew on his pipe, letting the fragrant smoke swirl around his mouth before blowing a series of perfect rings. Though the sun was shining, the day still seemed gloomy and cold. The clouds over the Middle Mountains were black and threatening, the skies to the south not much better. His relaxed posture and long wolfskin cloak hid his readiness for trouble, and his free hand never strayed too far from his hammer.

He and the other war leaders of the north made their way through the narrow, greystone streets of Middenheim, talking in the open air, as was Myrsa’s custom. The man hated being indoors, and insisted on conducting all planning with the northern wind in his hair and the open sky above him. The wardens of his northern marches, Orsa, Bordan, Wulf and Renweard, walked with him and the mood was grim.

Redwane had thought the dark clouds gathering over the Middle Mountains were a bad omen when he’d first seen them on waking. Now he knew that to be true.

Sigmar’s herald had arrived from Reikdorf at first light, bearing evil tidings of a coming war with the living dead. Count Myrsa had listened in stoic silence to the herald’s words of the Lord of Undeath’s return, and immediately summoned his northern wardens to a war counsel.

They strode down Grafzen Street, on the eastern side of the city, with the Middle Mountains soaring to their left and the rising walls and towers of the great temple to Ulric rearing up to their right. Redwane averted his eyes from the mighty structure, his dreadful scarring and the fight with the daemon lord too fresh and raw for comfort. He still dreamed of that terrible battle, wondering if he could have aimed his blow differently, if there was any outcome that would not have left him so disfigured. A dolorous bell pealed from the temple of Morr, its echoing toll unmistakable. Somewhere, someone was dead, and Redwane whispered a prayer for their journey into the next world.

Redwane glanced at the magnificent sword sheathed at Myrsa’s side, the runefang crafted by Alaric the Mad of the dwarfs. That blade had unmade the daemon lord’s malefic protection, allowing Sigmar to destroy it with the power bound to his enchanted warhammer.

In the wake of the battle, Sigmar had named the blade Blodambana, which meant Bloodbane in the ancient tongue of the Unberogen, and not a day passed when Redwane didn’t wish that Myrsa had reached the battle sooner.

He shook off his gloomy thoughts, concentrating on what was being said around him. He was the senior bodyguard of the count of Middenheim, and his attention was wandering far too much these days. Not that he had any real reason to fear for Myrsa’s safety. A ring of White Wolves surrounded the council of war, twelve fur-cloaked warriors with hammers resting on their shoulders. The citizens of Middenheim gave them a wide berth, sensing the bellicose mood of the count’s guards.

“There are people streaming south from the villages in the foothills of the Middle Mountains,” said Wulf, the lean and wiry Mountain Lord whose hardy warriors watched the high valleys and deep canyons of the Middle Mountains for trouble. “Many claim that the living dead are rising up in their hundreds, and I’m inclined to believe them. I’ve heard their stories and looked in their eyes as they spoke. They’re not lying.”

“The dead, are they coming from Brass Keep?” asked Myrsa, unable to contain his revulsion. “I prayed that we had broken Morath’s power.”

“We did, my lord,” said Wulf with gruff confidence. “Brass Keep is nothing more than a refuge for the few Norsii bastards who escaped the slaughter last year. If there’s dead rising in the mountains, then they’re not coming out of the peaks. It’s mainly the villages’ own dead that are rising, and it’s happening all over. Some of the local sword bands have contained the smaller attacks, but that won’t last long. The dead are rising in greater numbers, and they’re gathering together, like some damned pack instinct is at work.”

“Nonsense,” put in Bordan. “You put too much faith in peasants’ scare stories. And you’re giving the dead too much credit. It’s simple hunger that brings them together, nothing more.”

Bordan’s title was Forest Master, and the safety of the numerous villages and trails through the western woodlands were entrusted to his foresters and huntsmen. It was a thankless task, and had ground Bordan down into a cynical man with little patience for others. In return, few had time for him, Redwane included.

“You were not at Brass Keep, Bordan,” said Myrsa. “Wulf and Redwane and I were, and I am in no hurry to dismiss the Mountain Lord’s reports. I understand only too well the malign cunning that animates the living dead, and we should not dismiss any tales of malevolent intelligence.”

“As you say, my lord,” said Bordan, suitably chastened.

“Tell me, Bordan, how fare the forests?” said Myrsa, knowing when to scold and when to embolden. “I know there are many barrows and forsaken places within the Forest of Shadows. Have any of them been disturbed?”

“The western settlements have faced increased raids, my lord,” replied Bordan. “The beasts and brigands grow bolder and more desperate with the early onset of winter. There have been a several instances of pestilence, but I have heard of no attacks by the walking dead.”

“There’s a surprise,” grunted Redwane, unable to contain himself any longer.

“What did you say?” snapped Bordan.

“You heard me,” said Redwane. “Your own grandfather could climb from his grave and bite you on the arse and you wouldn’t notice.”

Bordan’s hand flashed to his hunting knife, but one look into Redwane’s horrifically scarred features convinced him that to draw it would be folly of the worst kind.

“You insult me, White Wolf,” hissed Bordan. “Men have died for less.”

Redwane laughed at Bordan’s threat, tapping the warhammer at his belt. “Come at me with that toothpick of yours and I’ll knock that damn fool head off your shoulders. You stood by and allowed Torbrecan’s band of lunatics to march through the forest unimpeded. Now you’ve got hundreds of them in the city shouting for his release and Ulric knows how many of them camped outside the city.”

Bordan shrank before Redwane’s words. Ever since the White Wolves had brought Torbrecan back to a Middenheim gaol, the mood in the city had been ugly. Contrary to Ustern’s gloomy prediction, the madman’s followers hadn’t died in the forest, they had followed their captive leader back to the Fauschlag Rock, their numbers growing in strength with every village they passed through.

Hundreds had entered the city before Renweard had closed the gates to their kind. Now the growing flock of screaming, dancing and chanting madmen made camp at the base of the rock, whipping themselves into deliriums of agony-fuelled rage. A group of the ragged lunatics had set themselves ablaze and hurled themselves from the top of the rock, tumbling like falling stars to their doom below. Such heinous acts and their doom-laden presence set the entire populace of Middenheim on edge, and tension spread like a plague to every nook and cranny of the cloud-wreathed city.

“If they are camped around the rock, then surely it is the Way Keeper’s duty to break up these fanatics’ camp and disperse them,” said Bordan.

“Oh, it is, is it?” said Orsa, the barrel-chested and big-hearted man who sought only to see the good in men. Redwane liked him a great deal, though he knew there was no love lost between Orsa and Bordan. “Telling me how to do my job are you? Fancy becoming the Way Keeper, do you?”

“No,” said Bordan. “It was just a suggestion.”

Orsa grunted and shook his head.

“Duly noted, Forest Lord, duly noted,” said Orsa, turning his attention to Myrsa and giving his report. “We’ve suffered increased attacks on the workers building the great road, and I’ve authorised new watch-houses to be built along the route it needs to take through the forest, but even they’re proving vulnerable to sustained attack. One was burned to the ground by the forest beasts last week, and another would have fallen but for timely aid from the Berserker King’s warriors.”

Throughout these reports of hard times, Myrsa had largely kept his own counsel, but now he turned to the last of his warriors, a youthful man encased in burnished white plate armour named Renweard. The demands of ruling a city in Sigmar’s name had become too much for Myrsa to bear alongside his duties as Warrior Eternal, and though it had broken his heart to set aside the role that had defined him for two decades and more, he had bestowed his armour and title to a successor.

Young and courageous, Renweard was a perfect choice for the role. He had no vices as far as Redwane could tell, who knew how to spot a man’s vices, and was as a devout an Ulrican as it was possible to find. Even Ar-Ulric himself, were he ever to return from the frozen wilderness, would surely approve.

“Well, Warrior Eternal,” asked Myrsa. “What is happening beyond our walls?”

“It is true that more and more people are coming to Middenheim, my lord,” said Renweard with arch formality. “And the Mountain Lord is correct that a great many are fleeing packs of the dead. As to this Torbrecan’s followers, I think we shall be rid of them soon enough.”

“How so?” asked Myrsa.

“It seems they plan to march on Reikdorf soon.”

“Reikdorf?” said Redwane. “Why?”

Renweard shrugged with a clatter of cream plate. “It is hard to be certain, White Wolf, but it seems they believe that the great battle between life and death is to be settled there. When Torbrecan is eventually released, they plan to march on Sigmar’s city in a great host.”

“Perhaps we should let them,” said Redwane, surprised to find he was only half joking.

 

The dream was always the same, rank and malignant tree roots growing up from beneath the earth and spreading their poisonous taint to the far corners of the world. She knew, of course, what it signified and what was causing it, but no amount of prayers to Shallya could keep it at bay. High Priestess Alessa rose from her bed and poured some water into a mug from a copper ewer.

She drained the entire mug and rubbed her eyes, looking towards the curtained window at the far end of her room. It was still dark outside and the fire in the hearth had burned to low embers. Alessa rose and threw another log onto the fire, knowing there would be no more sleep tonight.

She wanted to wake someone, anyone, just to have another living person to talk to, but that was selfish, and she did not want fear of what was buried beneath their temple to spread among the novices. Ever since it had been brought here, she had feared to face it.

She remembered Sigmar and Wolfgart bringing her the damned crown of Morath, locked within an iron casket and sealed with holy words recited by every priest in Reikdorf. The shaft they had sunk beneath the temple to bury the crown was a hundred feet deep, lined with iron rods and filled with blessed earth. That artefact of evil had been removed from the world of men as far as any object could be.

Then why did she feel that the precautions they had taken were nowhere near enough?

“It feels the nearness of its maker,” she whispered, seeing her breath mist before her, despite the warmth growing in the hearth. She shivered and returned to the bed, gathering up her woollen blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. Alessa clutched the dove pendant around her neck and whispered a prayer to Shallya.

She smiled at her own weakness. Shallya answered prayers of the needy, of those who could not help themselves. Alessa was no helpless victim, no unfortunate at the end of her tether. She was a high priestess, a servant of the goddess of healing and mercy, her instrument for good in this world. There were others more deserving than she, and Alessa gave thanks for what she had and all she had been allowed to do in her life.

She had served the people of Reikdorf for over twenty years, first as a novitiate tending to the small riverside shrine dedicated to the goddess, then later as a temple maiden, before finally becoming high priestess of the temple built by Sigmar ten years ago. It had been a fulfilling life, a worthy one, and she had blessed many children as they came screaming into the world, and eased the passage of those whose time in it was done. Alessa had healed the sick, tended the wounded and comforted the dying.

Alessa left the room and made her way through the cold corridors of the temple. Faint starlight gleamed through the windows as she made her way past the infirmary, where many of the sick of Reikdorf were treated, heading towards the chapel. She felt at peace there and, with the last traces of the nightmare lingering in her mind, she needed the solace just kneeling before the shrine to Shallya brought before facing her greatest fear.

Inside it was quiet, as she had expected it would be. A few low-burning candles guttered behind glass panels and white banners stitched with gold thread hung from the walls, each depicting Shallya in her many aspects; the maiden before the bubbling spring, the soaring dove, the bleeding heart and the benevolent mother of all.

She made her way between the long rows of benches toward the small shrine at the end of the nave. Set within a curved chancel, a marble statue of a beatific figure of a woman shawled in white knelt beside an injured warrior and healed his wounds. Though most warriors offered praise to Ulric, they all prayed to Shallya eventually.

Alessa knelt before the image of her deity, closing her eyes and placing her hands over her heart. She recited the healing litanies, listing the ten sacred virtues of selflessness, and felt her serenity return and the vision of the black tree roots burrowing into the world lose its potency.

“I will not fear you, for even death is part of the cycle of life,” she whispered. “I will face you and I will be restored by resisting you.”

Alessa rose and moved around the statue, where a wooden table laid with a muslin cloth was set. Upon it was a softly glowing lantern, a washbowl and a collection of cleansing oils. She pulled the table to one side, revealing a heavy iron trapdoor set in the flagstones. She lifted a silver key from around her neck, and slipped it into a keyhole worked from the same blessed metal.

The lock clicked and she pulled the heavy trapdoor open, its bulk offset by a system of counterweights and pulleys designed by Govannon the smith. A cold gust blew up from the depths, but she paid it no mind as she took up the lantern and descended the spiral staircase that disappeared into the earth.

She followed the stairs until they opened out into a long corridor of black stone. Verses to ward off evil influences were inscribed on the walls, and just looking at them gave her the strength to follow the corridor to its end. A door fashioned from yew and rowan barred the way forward, but once again the silver key unlocked it.

Beyond the door was a diamond-shaped chamber, its wood-panelled walls aligned east to west to attract the influences of the sun and rubbed in essence of valerian and jasmine. Incense vials placed around the chamber filled it with the ripe scent of crops, verdant growth and burgeoning life. The floor was hard-packed earth from the fertile Reik estuary, and though nothing would grow down here away from the light, corn seeds were sown in its loamy richness as the fields above were planted.

It was cold, and Alessa shivered, knowing the chill had nothing to do with being below ground. She moved to the centre of the chamber and dropped to her knees, once again clasping her hands over her heart. With her eyes closed, she let her awareness of her physical surroundings fall away, allowing her spirit to fill the void in her senses.

Immediately, she could feel the crown’s evil pulsing below her. Even contained within its iron casket and bound with wards and charms passed down through unremembered generations, its power was strong enough to bleed out. Alessa could feel its influence reaching out to her, promising eternal life, the return of her youth, and an existence free from fear of disease, disfigurement or infirmity.

“You cannot tempt me,” she said through gritted teeth. “Everything you promise is a lie.”

Her mind filled with its blandishments, each more fanciful than the last. She saw herself renewed, her skin unblemished like the cool marble statue of Shallya. She could not deny the attraction of what the crown offered; yet one look into the eyes of this immortal vision of her eternal features betrayed the truth of it. Immortality was an affront to nature, an abominable state of existence where growth was impossible and stagnation the only outcome.

She banished the crown’s promises, feeling its hold on her thoughts grow weaker as her will to resist it grew stronger. This was why she had come here, knowing that only by facing her fear of its temptations could she overcome them.

“Only those who feel fear can know true courage,” she whispered. “And my faith was meaningless unless put to the test. I know now it is stronger than anything you can offer.”

Alessa felt the crown’s fury, its icy touch retreating into the depths of its prison. She let out a shuddering breath, feeling as weak as a newborn, but renewed in her heart. She rose to her feet and left the chamber, locking the door behind her and mounting the steps to the temple with a lightness of spirit she had not felt in months.

As she locked the trapdoor once again, she felt a last spiteful stab of venom from the buried crown. A searing image burned itself into her mind, and she dropped the lantern as her limbs spasmed in fear.

She blinked, but there was no erasing the horror of the vision.

Sigmar Heldenhammer, riding through the gates of Reikdorf with the crown of the damned once again upon his brow.

 

The Great Library was quiet, as it always was, but this quiet was more than just the absence of hushed voices and the rustle of parchment. It was a silence that told Eoforth he was alone in the building and always would be. That was ridiculous of course, but such was the emptiness he felt here that it was easy to believe no one would ever come here again.

He loved his Great Library, feeling more at home amongst its wealth of knowledge and the accomplishments of Man than he did anywhere else. It was a place of solace, where he could retreat from the world of violence and lose himself in a Brigundian treatise on mathematics, a colourful Ostogoth tale of family histories or the incredibly complex blood-feuds between the Udose clans. This was his refuge, yet tonight it felt like a tomb, a cold and empty place where no one ever came and no one ever would.

He blamed it on the stacks of books and piles of rolled up scrolls scattered around him, for who would choose to remain in a building with such evil reading material out in the open? For weeks, Eoforth had pored over every manuscript he could find that had some mention of Nagash, however tangential. Most of it was surely nonsense, but Sigmar had tasked him with unearthing everything that could be found on the Lord of Undeath, and Eoforth was not about to let him down.

A great many of the most useful tomes had come from the dusty library of Morath, the necromancer of Brass Keep, though copies of translated manuscripts from the far south had come to Reikdorf’s Great Library via the Empire’s southern kings. Oral tales told by traders returning from the southern lands of searing deserts or from across the Worlds Edge Mountains had been painstakingly compiled by the library’s scribes.

Lack of material was not the problem; sorting the embellishments and exaggerations from the truth was proving to be the hardest part of this task.

Trying to cross-reference and corroborate details was proving to be next to impossible, for no two manuscripts or tales agreed on any details of worth. Eoforth sat up straight as the small of his back flared in pain. His joints were aching and it felt like he had a desert’s worth of sand trapped beneath his eyelids. He yawned and put his head in his hands.

People called him wise, as though that were enough to reach back across the gulfs of time to pluck the truth from the mass of conflicting information. He knew a great deal, it was true, more than most men, but in the face of all he needed to discover, his knowledge was a paltry thing indeed. Eoforth rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and stared at the manuscript before him once again.

Its edges were curled and blackened, as though it had been plucked from a fire, and the writing was an old form of Reikspiel, one that only a handful of the oldest men and women in the Empire could decipher. It was a depressing thought that he was one of those oldest men.

Endal mariners returning to Marburg from a mapping expedition to the far north over a century ago had discovered the manuscript aboard a smouldering galley drifting at the mouth of the Reik. No trace had been found of any ship that might have attacked the galley, nor were any of its crew found aboard.

It was a mystery that had never been solved, but the sailors had found a treasure trove of trinkets and tomes of unknown provenance aboard the galley, all of which they took back to their city and presented to King Alderbad, the great-grandfather of Count Aldred. Eoforth had travelled to Marburg many years ago to study these artefacts—golden effigies of jackal-headed monsters, strange, beetle-like creatures and elaborate death masks of gold and jade.

Many of the manuscripts Eoforth had studied made reference to ancient gods of similar aspect, naming them as forgotten kings of a lost land named Nehekhara. It was said that these kings had been laid to rest in fabulous tombs and mausoleum cities now lost to the desert sands. In many of the manuscripts, Nagash was blamed for the final doom of these kings in a single night, though how anyone, even Nagash, could have laid an entire civilisation low so swiftly was beyond Eoforth.

If such tales were to be believed, then Nagash had walked the earth for over two thousand years, a fantastical span of time that Eoforth had trouble in grasping. It seemed absurd, but then the ultimate goal of the necromancer was to cheat death and live forever, so perhaps it was not so unbelievable after all.

Some of what Eoforth read was plainly nonsense, tales of a beautiful queen of the dead who had become his consort and sired the race of blood drinkers, an alliance with a burrowing race of vermin creatures who infested the hidden corners of the world and, most incredible of all, the building of a vast obsidian pyramid somewhere in the southern mountains that prevented the necromancer from ever truly dying.

All the accounts agreed on one thing: Nagash was the bane of life, a twisted and corrupt sorcerer whose existence had transcended his human origins to become something more monstrous and more evil than anything that had ever walked the face of the world. His powers were beyond imagining, his reach limitless and his armies legion.

Inextricably linked with the tale of Nagash was the tale of the crown he had forged and into which he had bound the essence of his damned soul. This, the ancient taletellers agreed, was the source of Nagash’s greatest power and his greatest weakness. The manuscript from the burning galley spoke of an ancient warrior named Al-Khadizaar who slew the Lord of Undeath with a dreadful sword of fell power and cast his bones and crown into a great river.

Frustratingly, the manuscript said no more of the crown, but in a long-dead trader’s recounting of his travels in the blasted lands south of the Black Mountains, Eoforth unearthed mention of a ruined ancient city that bore all the hallmarks of having been destroyed by a greenskin invasion. When Sigmar had told him of the battle against the necromancer of Brass Keep, he had spoken of a phantom city beneath the ice; a vision conjured by Morath to recreate the fallen glory of his lost city of Mourkain. Like the cities of Nehekhara, it too had been made great and then brought low by Nagash’s crown.

A greenskin invasion had destroyed the city, but had they been drawn to destroy Mourkain by the crown’s influence? Everywhere the crown appeared in history, great devastation quickly followed: terrible invasions, cataclysms of dreadful power or corruptions of once noble civilisations into barbarism. The crown was a talisman of woe, a bringer of destruction that brought only misery and death whenever it came to light.

And it was buried in the heart of Reikdorf.

A soft gust sighed past Eoforth, and he heard a dry, dusty chuckle that echoed from the blackness between the stone pillars. It drifted on the still air, and Eoforth knew in that moment he was not alone. Deathly eyes were turned upon him, mocking his feeble attempts to unlock the nature of a creature that had walked the haunted paths of the world from the earliest ages of Man. Cold chills travelled the length of his spine and Eoforth slammed the book shut, his breath misting before him as the light from the flickering candles dimmed and the shadows crept closer.

Gathering up his notes, Eoforth fled the library.