The Path to Glory Read online

  Screaming the names of their murdered kin, the refugees beat at the abominations with hammers, stones, axes, even bare fists, not caring that the twisted legionaries reaped a bloody harvest.

  Kaslon staggered to his feet in time to see a spray of prismatic sparks. Captain Sulla howled a Lantic battle hymn as she slashed at Bloodtongue, her blade skittering from his armour. Bloodtongue flung a bolt of energy at her and it took all of Kaslon’s strength to send the blast streaking away. For all Sulla’s fury, her swings seemed to barely stagger the Chaos sorcerer. Bitterness nested in Kaslon’s breast – even now, he was too weak to defeat Bloodtongue, and without an enchanted blade, Sulla wouldn’t be able to cut through the wards that surrounded the Chaos sorcerer.

  That was when Livius leapt from atop a pile of rubble. The young noble made no pretence towards self-preservation, screaming like a madman as he brought his sabre down, two-handed. With a flash of runic light, the blade sheared through the scaled plate on Bloodtongue’s shoulder.

  The sorcerer reeled back, hands already bright with balefire. He raised them to strike Livius.

  Head ringing, Kaslon drew on the staff, letting the mad power fill him. His skin burned, the gold filigree inlaid in his flesh glowing white hot. Screaming, Kaslon fought to leash the nested infinities, to channel them into a single word.

  ‘Stop!’ The word hit Bloodtongue like a spear, pinioning him for the span of a heartbeat.

  Sulla threw her greatsword aside to seize the Chaos sorcerer, locking him in a great bear hug. Hair burning, she lifted Bloodtongue from the ground as Livius drove his sabre up and under the sorcerer’s ribs. The rune-inscribed steel hissed like a quenched blade as the curved tip of the sabre burst from Bloodtongue’s neck in an oily spray of blood. Livius gave the blade one last twist before drawing it forth.

  Skayne Bloodtongue slid to the ground, unmoving.

  Kaslon staggered to their side, catching Sulla as she bent to pick up her sword and almost collapsed. Livius slipped under her other arm.

  Kaslon was relieved to see that none of the corrupted legionaries had survived, although the rubble was strewn with many Lantic corpses.

  They limped towards the survivors – about a dozen soldiers and a few score refugees.

  ‘You came for us,’ Sulla whispered through blackened lips. ‘I’m sorry for doubting you – both of you.’

  ‘We don’t abandon our own,’ Livius said.

  Kaslon let out a long breath. ‘No, I suppose we don’t.’

  Sulla

  The Azyr Realmgate was huge beyond reckoning. It rose from the mist-shrouded valley like the cenotaph of a long forgotten god, the few ragged bits of the Gilded Steamgird that surrounded it seeming little more than a child’s toys strewn about the coppery hills. It glowed with a soft, azure light, an intricate arch of steel standing without apparent regard for logic or gravity. The gate itself was inlaid with veins of metal filigree, gold and silver twining between polished gems to form bright points and constellations, a mirror of the night sky above.

  It was almost dawn when they reached the gate, a small, shambling mass of exhausted folk, threadbare as their clothes. Sulla leaned against one of the massive steel columns that formed the base of the arch, using her greatsword as a prop. Livius murmured encouraging words to the few survivors while Kaslon limped forward to press a hand to the gate itself.

  Sulla regarded her companions, chewing her already ragged lip. As much as she hated to admit it, she’d misjudged them. She’d thought Kaslon heartless, and Livius a coward and a fool, but it had been Sulla who’d led her people into a trap, and Sulla who’d failed to save them. Bitterness burned like a coal in her breast as she scowled up at the realmgate. No, it had been Sigmar’s failure, Sigmar’s betrayal that had done this to them.

  Sulla was just a soldier, he was a god.

  ‘Captain,’ Ardahir came limping up, still leaning on the blackened haft of his banner pole. ‘Can I talk to you about something?’

  Sulla glanced up, nodding.

  ‘It’s about the mage.’ He glanced at Kaslon. ‘I’m not sure exactly what I saw, but during the battle, I swear he–’

  The realmgate crackled with cobalt lighting. With a stricken cry, Kaslon stumbled back, a smoking hand clutched to his chest.

  Sulla pushed off the wall, at his side in a moment, Livius on her heels. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The realmgate.’ Kalson’s words were almost a sob. ‘He’s barred it.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Who?’ Livius asked.

  ‘Who do you think?’ Sulla didn’t even bother to hide her anger.

  Kaslon’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. Livius crumpled to the ground, knees drawn up to his chest and face pressed into his hands as he rocked back and forth.

  The scream rose from deep within Sulla’s chest, rattling up her throat to burst forth in an inarticulate roar – part rage, part despair. To come so far, to overcome so much only to fall to this final betrayal. She swung her greatsword at the realmgate, eyes burning, her fury lending strength to the blow.

  Sulla’s blade snapped in half.

  With a snarl she tossed it aside, beating at the massive steel gate with her fists, but either Sigmar didn’t hear, or he didn’t care.

  ‘Captain. Captain!’ Ardahir shouted.

  Sulla turned on him, fists raised, but stopped as she saw what the sergeant was pointing at.

  Dawn set the copper hills aglow. Arrayed upon the sloping ridgeline was a vast host. Weapons glittered in the sunlight, horses stomped and snorted as armoured knights jostled for position. Banners snapped in the morning breeze, tall and proud. It seemed impossible – there was the golden lion of the Thunnic Legion, the sparrow and sun of the Khemal Legion, even the snarling silver dragon of Eshunna, the city where Sulla had grown up.

  She blinked back tears, her throat thick. They’d finally come for her. The empire didn’t abandon its own.

  Then she noticed the eight-pointed stars, the streaks of blood and ichor across the banners, the leering faces, the dark forms of daemons and beasts among the gathered host. At the head was Empress Xerastia’s banner, affixed to a cross of black iron with General Kelephon’s severed head spiked at the top.

  At last, Sulla understood. ‘It’s him. He’s come.’

  Livius stood, rubbing his eyes. ‘Who?’

  ‘Azakul the Winnower.’

  She knelt to retrieve her broken greatsword. The few surviving refugees huddled in a tight mass, Ardahir and his soldiers at the fore. Unable to even muster the strength to weep, they watched the horde advance, marching down the coppery slope in a maelstrom of waving blades and howling faces.

  The forerunners of the host stopped well out of bowshot, not that Sulla or the others had any arrows left. As if by some silent signal, the uproar ceased, the horde parting as Azakul the Winnower emerged.

  He came slowly, striding across the broken ground with the uneven, marionette gait Sulla remembered, his flail flung almost casually over one shoulder. He halted a few dozen paces away, then extended one hand and beckoned Sulla closer.

  ‘I think he wants to talk,’ Livius said.

  ‘We don’t want to hear anything that bastard has to say,’ Sergeant Ardahir barked back.

  ‘What choice do we have?’ Kaslon asked.

  Sulla realised they were all looking at her. She gave a savage grin. ‘Maybe he wants to surrender.’

  No one laughed, but she hadn’t expected them to. ‘Sergeant, keep order until we come back.’

  Ardahir’s frown cut deep lines across his scarred face, but he gave a quick nod.

  The Winnower spread his arms as she, Kaslon and Livius approached. They stopped half a dozen paces away.

  ‘Come to finish what you started?’ Sulla asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The Winnower’s voice was surprisingly soft. With a sigh, he removed his
helmet, revealing an unexpectedly mild face – small and round-cheeked with a weak chin and a widow’s peak of thinning brown hair – more like what Sulla would’ve expected from a clerk than a bloody-handed warlord. She found herself staring at the Chaos lord’s unremarkable features. The stories said he never removed his armour, now Sulla knew why. Only Azakul’s eyes hinted at his true nature. Deep set, they were as dark as coal, but caught the light like an animal’s, flashing yellow as the warlord regarded Sulla and her companions. ‘Well, come on, then,’ Livius shouted. ‘Kill us!’

  ‘Kill you?’ The Winnower laughed, rocking back on his heels. ‘And waste such talent?’

  Sulla spat at his feet. ‘Fine, we’ll kill you.’

  ‘Ah, but you can’t.’ The Winnower nodded back at his warhost. ‘Look, there – not a single one of them doesn’t want me dead. But they don’t have the strength. So they must bide their time, just as you must.’

  ‘You murdered my empress,’ Sulla said.

  ‘Xerastia was a worthy foe, I drank many toasts to her.’ The Winnower pressed a gauntleted hand to his side. ‘You were there. You saw. I fought her face to face, no trickery, no guile.’

  ‘What of our people?’ Kaslon spoke for the first time, his voice tentative, unsure.

  The Winnower laughed again. ‘Look upon my host, mage. I count many more of your people among them than that paltry band cowering behind you.’

  ‘Traitors,’ Sulla snapped back.

  ‘Are they?’ the Winnower asked. ‘Traitors to what? To the empire that failed them? The gods that abandoned them? No, captain, it is they who were betrayed. I offer them a chance for justice, for vengeance, just as I offer it to you.’ He turned, arms spread as if to embrace his host. ‘All are here because they wish to be.’

  Sulla could summon no reply. She wanted to charge the Winnower, to work her broken blade into the cracks in his armour and carve out his twisted heart, but she knew she was too tired, too weak.

  ‘Why us?’ Livius asked.

  ‘Bloodtongue was a senile old fool, clinging to scraps of power. With him gone, nothing stands in my way.’ The Winnower brushed back a loose lock of hair, an unnervingly human gesture. ‘You have fought, you have triumphed, the chaff has fallen away.’

  ‘You offer nothing but madness,’ Kaslon said.

  The Winnower straightened. ‘I offer the truth. Not the gods’ truth, but your truth. I think you have already seen the promise, mage. I can help you understand, give you time to explore realms of which you’ve never even dreamed.’

  Kaslon’s hands tightened on his staff, his expression troubled.

  ‘And me?’ Livius strode over to stare up at the Chaos Lord, seemingly unafraid. ‘What do you offer me, mighty Azakul?’

  The Winnower knelt, coming face to face with the young noble. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  He held up a hand, fingers spread. ‘You will live or die as you choose, absent of judgement or expectation. I offer you the chance to leave your past behind, to tear free of the smothering weave of history.’

  Livius took a surprised step back. ‘What of the others?’

  ‘I would be a fool to turn away such fine prospects.’ The Winnower stood. ‘The choice is theirs. The choice is always theirs. Unlike the coward who cowers behind this realmgate, my gods do not abandon their true servants.’

  Sulla glanced at Kaslon, then Livius. They had stood by her, fought by her side. She owed them far more loyalty than she did Sigmar.

  ‘We could rebuild the empire,’ Kaslon broke the silence.

  ‘Or not,’ Livius said.

  Sulla knuckled her brow, unsure.

  Azakul crossed his arms. ‘Follow me, captain, and you’ll have the chance to kill more followers of Chaos than you ever did fighting for your empire.’

  Sulla met her companions’ gazes, knowing they were thinking the same as she. Would it be better to die alone, unavenged and unremembered, or risk everything? The choice never really changed.

  ‘After all we’ve done, all we can yet do for the empire,’ Kaslon seemed to draw strength from the pronouncement, standing taller. ‘To throw our lives away would be the true betrayal.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Livius massaged the back of his neck, wincing. ‘Xerastia, the autarch, the Masters of the Gilded Order, they all died, and for what? No one will remember them, no one will care. Whatever is left of the Lantic Empire is there.’ He gestured at the Winnower’s horde.

  ‘So that’s it, then?’ Sulla asked, looking at Livius and Kaslon in turn. ‘We join him?’

  Slowly, they both nodded.

  She glanced at the Winnower. ‘This doesn’t mean I won’t kill you.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less,’ Azakul replied.

  The ritual was surprisingly painless. There was nothing to renounce, nothing to swear to, the Winnower simply looked into each of their eyes, one by one. His gaze seemed to bore into Sulla’s soul, but she stared back, daring him to doubt her conviction.

  After a long moment he nodded. ‘You are finally ready.’

  He extended a hand to touch her forehead, leaving behind a tiny brand with a hiss of sizzling flesh. Strength flowed into Sulla, the pain of her wounds receding. She hadn’t realised how tired she was. Exhaustion had become a silent companion, only recognised by its absence. What few doubts remained were swept away in the rush of renewed confidence. She would see justice done, visit bloody accounting on those who had betrayed her people.

  She looked at Livius and Kaslon and knew they felt the same.

  They had limped out to meet Azakul the Winnower. They walked back, heads high.

  Sulla spread her arms, grinning. She couldn’t wait to tell Ardahir and the others – they could march with comrades again, rejoin the Lantic Legions. The empire wasn’t gone; it had simply changed.

  A hurled stone hit just above her eye, glancing off her forehead in a spray of blood. Sulla stumbled back, confused. More missiles followed, legionaries and refugees throwing masonry and hunks of slag.

  ‘Ungrateful.’ With a quick gesture, Kaslon raised a shield of prismatic force.

  The survivors charged, their faces bent around armatures of rage, spitting blood and curses as they beat at Sulla and her companions.

  She pivoted out of the way of a woman with a notched axe, coming face to face with Sergeant Ardahir.

  His banner pole cracked across her shoulder in a blow that would have broken bone had Sulla not been imbued with new, unnatural vigour.

  ‘Die, traitor.’ There was no friendship in Ardahir’s voice, no comprehension. He had seen all that Sulla had seen, suffered all she had suffered, and yet, he still couldn’t understand. Worse, she knew he never would.

  Tears stinging her eyes, Sulla slid the broken blade of her greatsword into the joint between Ardahir’s breastplate and pauldron, driving it through muscle and bone to make a red ruin of the sergeant’s chest. He fell back, blood spreading like wings across the coppery ground.

  There was an azure flash, the smell of ozone. Sulla threw up an arm to shield her eyes as a bolt of lightning streaked down. When her vision cleared, Ardahir was gone, a streak of molten copper all that remained. Sulla shrieked her fury at the sky, brandishing her broken blade. But, as ever, Sigmar paid her no heed.

  The few surviving refugees fled towards the realmgate, even knowing it was closed, even knowing their god cared nothing for them.

  It made Sulla sick to watch.

  ‘After all we’ve done, all we’ve sacrificed.’ Kaslon sported a new bruise on his cheek, a shadow against his dark skin. He touched it, then winced, glaring at the refugees. ‘They wouldn’t even hear us out.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Livius was panting, his doublet stained with slashes of red. Although judging from the two men lying at his feet, Sulla doubted any was his. ‘Azakul will massacre them.�
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  ‘They made their choice,’ Sulla said, her voice thick. Livius was right, Azakul’s followers would revel in the slaughter. Sulla had seen it before, when Xerastia had ‘liberated’ Eshunna, Sulla’s home. The Lantic Legions had driven Chaos from the city only to find flayed skins draped across the walls like festival banners, familiar streets lined with ruined bodies. The survivors had shuffled from the ruins – eyeless, tongueless, their mangled hands outstretched, pleading for release.

  And Sulla had given it to them.

  ‘It would be a mercy.’ Sulla’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of her broken sword. ‘We owe them that much, at least.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ Livius said, his shoulders hunched as if to ward away a chill.

  Sulla nodded at the corpses at his feet. ‘You already have.’

  For once, Kaslon was silent, his expression like someone had buried a dagger in his ribs.

  ‘We don’t abandon our own,’ Sulla said, already striding towards the remaining refugees. She didn’t need to look back to know Livius and Kaslon followed.

  Some of the refugees fought back, snarling like steelcats as they came. Sulla gave them quick deaths. Merciful, honourable deaths.

  The others burned.

  Kaslon’s eyes glimmered in the reflected balefire, tear tracks cutting silver lines down his cheeks. A few of the refugees ran, and Livius cut them down, crying out with each slash, one arm thrown across his face as if to blind himself to the slaughter.

  They watched until the last of Kaslon’s balefire had faded, leaving nothing but blackened smears upon the realmgate. Sulla looked to Kaslon and Livius, seeing her pain mirrored in their red-rimmed gazes.

  ‘We did the right thing,’ Kaslon spoke slowly, as if trying to convince himself.

  ‘There was no place for them.’ Livius rubbed a hand across his patchy stubble. ‘Not any more.’

  Sulla realised her hands were clenched at her sides, her whole body tensed as if to flee. Then, with a feeling of shaky relief, she realised they were done running, now and forever.