Yndrasta: The Celestial Spear, page 1
Other great stories from Warhammer Age of Sigmar
HAMMERS OF SIGMAR: FIRST FORGED
A novel by Richard Strachan
GODEATER’S SON
A novel by Noah Van Nguyen
THE HOLLOW KING
A Cado Ezechiar novel by John French
THE ARKANAUT’S OATH
A Drekki Flynt novel by Guy Haley
• GOTREK GURNISSON •
GHOULSLAYER
GITSLAYER
SOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks
BLIGHTSLAYER
Richard Strachan
DOMINION
A novel by Darius Hinks
KRAGNOS: AVATAR OF DESTRUCTION
A novel by David Guymer
GODSBANE
A novel by Dale Lucas
THE VULTURE LORD
A novel by Richard Strachan
CONQUEST UNBOUND
Various authors
An anthology of short stories
HALLOWED GROUND
A novel by Richard Strachan
GROMBRINDAL: CHRONICLES OF THE WANDERER
An anthology by David Guymer
A DYNASTY OF MONSTERS
A novel by David Annandale
To see the full Black Library range, visit the Kobo Store.
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Warhammer Age of Sigmar
Yndrasta: The Celestial Spear
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Yndrasta I
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Yndrasta II
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Yndrasta III
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Yndrasta IV
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Yndrasta V
Yndrasta VI
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Postlude
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Dominion’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
The Mortal Realms have been despoiled. Ravaged by the followers of the Chaos Gods, they stand on the brink of utter destruction.
The fortress-cities of Sigmar are islands of light in a sea of darkness. Constantly besieged, their walls are assailed by maniacal hordes and monstrous beasts. The bones of good men are littered thick outside the gates. These bulwarks of Order are embattled within as well as without, for the lure of Chaos beguiles the citizens with promises of power.
Still the champions of Order fight on. At the break of dawn, the Crusader’s Bell rings and a new expedition departs. Storm-forged knights march shoulder to shoulder with resolute militia, stoic duardin and slender aelves. Bedecked in the splendour of war, the Dawnbringer Crusades venture out to found civilisations anew. These grim pioneers take with them the fires of hope. Yet they go forth into a hellish wasteland.
Out in the wilds, hardy colonists restore order to a crumbling world. Haunted eyes scan the horizon for tyrannical reavers as they build upon the bones of ancient empires, eking out a meagre existence from cursed soil and ice-cold seas. By their valour, the fate of the Mortal Realms will be decided.
The ravening terrors that prey upon these settlers take a thousand forms. Cannibal barbarians and deranged murderers crawl from hidden lairs. Martial hosts clad in black steel march from skull-strewn castles. The savage hordes of Destruction batter the frontier towns until no stone stands atop another. In the dead of night come howling throngs of the undead, hungry to feast upon the living.
Against such foes, courage is the truest defence and the most effective weapon. It is something that Sigmar’s chosen do not lack. But they are not always strong enough to prevail, and even in victory, each new battle saps their souls a little more.
This is the time of turmoil. This is the era of war.
This is the Age of Sigmar.
PRELUDE
SLAYER
I am incapable of failure. I knew it from the moment of my great awakening, when the basso thunder of my maker-father’s voice rumbled in my ears.
As the fires of Sigmar’s forge cooled, the God-King breathed new life into my tempered flesh. For twelve seconds – a span of time which felt as long as the eternity I have come to know – Sigmar told me who I was, and who I would become.
You are my perfect daughter. You, who united the free peoples of Ghur against Chaos…
When the daemon hordes marched to destroy you, you resisted…
You struck at Doombreed, the king of daemons, and I heard you call my name…
That you, my perfect daughter, may hear me call yours…
Yndrasta. My Celestial Spear.
Light became my world, and Sigmar bestowed to me Thengavar. The cold spear’s hungering metal pulsed with the power of Azyr.
Then Sigmar gifted me a more poignant token – a simple charm, a hunter’s totem. It was a shard of chitin wrapped in cord, and its purpose was beyond my ken.
I accepted my maker-father’s gifts with a lowered head. Eager to please my God-King, I uttered my first words. ‘Father. What must I do?’
Sigmar’s answer was lightning in my heart, an earthquake in my soul.
KILL.
In the woe-times, mortals look to their stories for solace.
I am not mortal, and I have no stories. My only solace is my maker-father’s satisfaction, the fulfilment of my purpose. Not the myths of shamans, nor the chanted invocations of my name as Sigmaron’s armies prepare for war. Not the perked ears and whimpered trepidations of beasts which have sensed the dreaded omens of my hunt.
Only the kill soothes the storm in my soul. Only the kill proves I am the daughter Sigmar made me to be. Where Sigmar’s enemies roam, I hunt, then annihilate. This quest serves Sigmar’s sacred ends. The God-King protects those mortals who whisper his name at darkened altars in the scattered realms.
In the palace-city of Sigmaron, beneath mighty towers and ivory walls, a blessed chamber lies in an ancient keep. Timeless power and the whispering of stars fill this hall. Here the God-King holds his holy court. He reigns over worlds from a sublime throne on a dais of ageless marble. This immutable stone shelf is a perfect metaphor, for Sigmar’s kingdom is the foundation of order in the realms. His court has only ever known the tread of the worthy.
In the woe-times, as mortals look to their legends for comfort, I prove my worth. I frequent my maker-father’s court, and upon the blessed dais at his feet, I lay the conquered crowns of my vanquished prey. Crowns not of gems and radiant metal, but skull and bleeding flesh torn from the necks of my quarry: Sigmar’s foes.
These trophies are my tribute to Sigmar’s glory. But too, I carry them with me. No mark in creation is more indelible than that of another being’s extinction upon one’s soul.
None understand me better than the creatures I have destroyed. The transcendent moment of their evisceration joins us in the perfection of my purpose. Through them – however briefly – I am no longer alone.
I am Yndrasta. In the woe-times, I bring the woe.
My wings carry me soundlessly to the rolling deck of a carrack. The sunless sky and oceanic horizon reflect the emptiness in my heart, a blank space that expands across my universe. Only the kill can fill it, yet this rootless feeling will not end soon. The quarry I have long sought – the kraken-god of Izalend – has escaped once again.
‘Lord-Celestant,’ I say. ‘Send word to your fleet captains. Old Jasper May has slipped away, the coward. We resume pursuit.’
Arktaris Soul-Tithed, the Knight Excelsior to whom I speak, regards me in cold silence. The ship’s planks creak beneath his motionless mass. He is an armoured titan, like all Stormcast Eternals, yet his breath of thoughtful hesitation ambushes me. Other Stormcasts would answer my command with all the flash of faith’s fire. Arktaris burns his like a candle, as if he can carry it farther that way.
Behind the flawless white war-mask of his helmet, his eyes travel to Thengavar’s humming blade. ‘You are late, my lady huntress. Much has occurred in your absence.’
The carrack’s mortals avert their gazes and make the sign of the hammer. Arktaris’ Stormcasts – giants hailing from the Ruthless Tithe Chamber of the Knights Excelsior Stormhost – meet my edged glare, then look away. The Vigilors’ emptied quivers catch my eyes. Dents and scratches mar the Stormcasts’ snow-white battle armour. In the sea, pillars of smoke rise from other vessels in Arktaris’ squadron. The gutted wreckage of six ruined ships founders in the rippling waves. In those glacial waters, mortal mariners flail and wail for rescue, struggling not to drown.
I return my empty gaze to Arktaris. ‘Send word. We resume pursuit.’
When Arktaris finally answers, his inflection is not that of the Reforged killer I have come to respect, but that of an apost ate, a penitent – of one who doubts.
‘Yndrasta,’ he says, as if wary of supplying my name. ‘We have assisted your hunt for this mythic kraken for one reason alone – to see evil eradicated from the realm of Ghur. My chamber did not embark upon this quest for…’ He casts out his armoured hand to the bloodied deck. ‘For this.’
I face him fully. ‘For what?’
‘Pride.’ He spits out the word. ‘But you knew that. You abandoned our fleet as soon as we sighted your quarry. Just as the orruk junk-fleet closed in.’
‘Do not offend your own chamber’s honour. Last I checked, a rabble of scurvy orruks on metal rafts were no match for the Knights Excelsior.’
‘You speak true. Those scurvy orruks and their metal rafts outnumbered my White Omen Fleet six to one, but they were no match. We bled to make it so, my lady huntress. All as you pursued your prize. For your obsession, half of the White Omen now lies vanquished beneath the waves of Glacier’s End.’
I slam Thengavar into the carrack’s deck. Loose timbers rattle in the ship. The force of the blow ripples through the ocean, and the splintered topsail of a damaged mast cracks and gives. Sailors dive for cover as it falls like a branch from a tree and smashes into the waves.
‘Perhaps you would prefer I hold your hand,’ I say. ‘If the lives of your Stormcasts are the price I must pay for the kraken’s death, that is Sigmar’s will. Their time on the Anvil shall come.’
Arktaris’ heavy sigh rattles the stern Mask Impassive of his metal helm. ‘You speak as if you have never been Reforged. As if you have never endured the hammer’s strike.’
‘Spare me your quibbles. If you require mariners or ships, send word to Izalend. Surely their whalers and corsairs will eagerly join your White Omen. But if you require heart, Arktaris – look within.’ I gesture. ‘Is this not the White Omen Fleet?’
‘It is.’
‘Are you not Knights Excelsior?’
‘We are.’
‘And are you not inured to the terrible cost of your duty?’
‘We are.’
‘Then look the part. I have come to expect such putrid protestations from the Hallowed Knights, Arktaris, but not from you.’
He lifts his dark gaze. ‘And what of the Astral Templars?’
I wince. ‘What of them?’
‘Even your favoured beast-hunters abandoned this quest. Three weeks ago they saw what I see now. Your fixation on the kraken defies reason. This is madness. This is obsession.’
In the insolence of Arktaris’ words, I detect a changing wind. I cast my glance about the rocking carracks. Broken harpoons lie scattered on the deck. Bent cutlasses are stuck in blood-spattered masts. Wounded mariners shiver in damp blankets, and vapour billows from their blue lips and chattering teeth. What few able-bodied sailors remain mend damaged sails or patch the hull with tar and timber. The ship’s wounded bosun helps a pair of cabin children roll a stinking orruk carcass over a broken gunwale, into the sea.
‘You will quit my quest. You will abandon my hunt.’ My eyes rise. ‘You came to this decision in my absence?’
Arktaris nods the way another might give the order to hang a man. His knights’ silence tells me he is not alone in his objections.
I scoff. ‘Thus is revealed the true quality of the Knights Excelsior.’
‘Do not doubt our quality. All our means serve Sigmar’s ends. I know the duty of which you speak, Yndrasta. And we do not doubt.’ He calms. ‘But we are unlike you. We are pieces of one whole. One chamber, and one Stormhost. You are not, huntress. You were forged alone. I know in the furnace of my soul, even the Shining Lord would not have sacrificed so many of our brethren for the vanity you now–’
‘Vanity?’ I lurch forward. Lightning arcs along Thengavar’s blessed length. ‘Vanity, Arktaris?’
Alarm flashes through the other Stormcasts. One reaches for her weapons. This is a well-honed reaction, more instinctive than deliberate. Stormcast Eternals are children of Sigmar one and all. We would never draw our blades against our own.
But perhaps, deep in their bellies, Arktaris’ words strike a chord. I am nothing like them.
‘Vanity.’ I sigh through gritted teeth. ‘I thought you knew better. You are as blind as Joras and his Astral Templars were.’
Arktaris’ gaze retreats to the restless waves. Rescue pinnaces carve through the sea to save the living and recover the dead. On another carrack, insurgent flames finally reach the masts. They devour the sails and rigging with Ghur’s own hunger.
‘I remember the first time a mortal called me heartless,’ Arktaris intones. ‘I thought she was blind not to understand the terrible necessity of our duty, our ruthlessness.’ The doomed vessel’s mariners leap into frigid waters, screaming as they abandon ship. Another rescue pinnace carves towards them.
Arktaris looks at me. ‘But I think I know what she meant, now. You, my lady huntress, are colder than the void.’
Arktaris’ words echo through me. There is nothing they can catch onto. Only the murder of monsters has ever stirred me – only the justice of ending their existence. The kill is a sacred act, a meditation on my faith in Sigmar. More than that, it is a moment and place forever fixed in the rootless temple of my mind. To live forever is to see one’s memories eroded by the passage of aeons. With one’s memories go the sediments of their personality, until nothing remains.
But in my heart, the glorious moments of my kills are ineradicable, firmer than the foundations of the realms. I will never forget them. Alone they ground me. They remind me I am anyone at all.
I pay Arktaris a disconsolate frown. ‘I will speak to Sigmar of this.’
For all his stoicism, Arktaris seems relieved. ‘If my decision dismays the God-King, I will make my case to him. I will pray for mercy in his judgement. But you, my lady huntress, are not him.’
A league above the ocean’s glassy blue, I hover in the sky. My wings flex to dominate the cold air currents, to make them serve me.
The wind-filled sails of Arktaris’ White Omen Fleet shrink into the soft line where the sea joins the sky. From here Excelsis’ decimated armada resembles a shoal of icebergs prowling the frigid oceans of Ghur. The day we departed Excelsis, the White Omen’s majesty was inarguable. Now, with its quest unfinished and its vessels entombed beneath Glacier’s End, the fleet limps home in disgrace.
I am the most capable tracker in the Mortal Realms. I am a stalker, a hunter, a killer without equal. Yet the quarry which eludes me now – the so-called kraken-god of Izalend – defies the subtlest exercise of my skill. When word first reached me that Old Jasper May had reawakened from her slumber, I knew I would require help. I have tried to slay the leviathan alone before, so many times. And so many times, I have failed. Her feasting cycle, known in these parts as the Drownharrow, is brief. If she retreats into the depths of this ice-capped ocean, she will evade me for another hundred years.
I cannot fail again. I am Sigmar’s perfect daughter, incapable of failure. I need this victory more than air in my wings or viscera on my blades. I want it, with all the fire in my soul.
A ghastly wind cuts through the gaps in my armour and chills my flesh. Every inch of me sags beneath the enervating weight of my mood. How long have I sought the kraken’s death? How many times has she eluded Thengavar’s steel? How many ages have I spent in this fruitless pursuit, repeated many times over?
My bleak gaze falls to the worn cord bound around my vambrace. An amber chitin charm hangs from the braided hair. Of the gifts Sigmar bestowed me, Thengavar’s purpose was never subtle. This ancient totem could not be more mysterious. It is an unenchanted trinket, the merest of charms. I know not its purpose, nor origin.
In one way, it feels more powerful than Thengavar. When I behold it, the aerial frisk of young gulls over the sea cracks my lips into a smile. The salty spray of foaming waves makes me breathe deeper and close my eyes. I look upon this totem, and no matter what the awe-stricken hearts of mortals might show them when their primitive eyes behold me, I almost feel… whole.
I enclose the chitin totem in my grip. My existence exceeds mortal reckoning. I am more than human, more than even Stormcast. I am the hateful union of Sigmar’s benevolence and barbarity, remade on the burning metal of his anvil. He claimed I was once a leader. But as Arktaris’ wounded ships limp towards the horizon, I cannot understand how. I have never inspired others – I have only ever done as bidden. Now, against all odds, I must do it again. Kill…
