PART ONE: THE BASTION

CHAPTER ONE

The sky was on fire. The clouds themselves seemed alight, burning with a brilliance that showed anger onto a cowering world below.

This was not unusual this far north. Here, reality and nature increasingly yielded before the taint and corruption of the Four Gods of Chaos. At the northmost point, the world fell away entirely; wholly and completely replaced by the Realm of Chaos, a domain that caused unshielded human minds to turn to babbling madness within moments. Between this point, and Norsca and Kislev to the south, there lay the Chaos Wastes, where daemons and men walked together and slew each other, sometimes for no reason beyond entertainment.

It was here that the Valley of the Execrated lay, encircled by piercing mountains, buried beneath defiant snow. It was here, eons ago, that a Chaos Champion had beheaded every prisoner his men had taken out of the south. The heads had been piled into a pyramid at the centre of the valley, with the corpses arranged around in the pattern of an eight-pointed star. Even now, the skulls remained, a monument to the brutality and devotion that the servants of the Ruinous Powers possessed.

For the first time in hundreds of years, the valley was full. Makeshift huts packed in without reason or order, crammed in wherever there was space. Thousands of bearded, unkempt men wandered between the tents, shooting dark glances at rival tribes, bubbling away on the edge of starting a fight.

Lord Szalamund could smell the tension as he strode down the wide main pathway that stabbed through the valley of huts. Amidst the urine-treated leather, the sweat-infused furs, the faeces dumped wherever a rival tribe would be most likely to step in it, there was the delectable aftertaste of a millennium's feuding brought into such a confined place.

He was not particularly disconcerted with such an existence; the odd decapitated head found in the morning was simply thrown onto the ancient pile in the centre of the encampment. Larger fights would not be tolerated, however; Szalamund had already wet his blade twice today on several disruptive specimens. There was nothing the Norscan tribes were more prone to than infighting. Perhaps even more so than those foul Ratmen that infested the south.

The sound of horns reached his ears, causing him to hasten his stride all the way to the southern, and only, entrance to the valley. There, he found Wulfric the Wanderer, a Norscan chief and mammoth wrangler with an entire human ribcage tied to his shoulders. Here was a tribesman Szalamund begrudgingly respected. That didn't stop him from calling the Norscan 'Wulfric the Vagabond' behind his back.

"You recognise the banners?" Szalamund asked as he reached the chieftain.

Wulfric snarled and spat on the ground. "Tribe Vordbasher. Weaklings. Nothing more than a bunch of southerners with fake beards."

Szalamund laughed and clapped the chieftain on the shoulder with an iron fist. "Good. More meat shields to protect the valuable parts of our warhost."

It was not long before the tribe arrived, marching with heads proudly held high, their leader riding on a wolf of gigantic proportions. Altogether, a fearsome-looking horde. It would remain to be seen if this mammoth could be judged by its pelt.

"Wulfric. Please show our newest recruits to their encampment spot. I will inform the Everchosen of their arrival."

The Vagabond shot a murderous glare at him, but an equally vicious one in return sent him stepping forward. Szalamund turned and strode back through the camp, headed for a towering pinnacle of rock that thrust out from the tallest mountain like the prow of a ship. Atop its height, he could spot a tiny figure standing there, silhouetted against the raging sky.

It was a long walk, up a switchback path, with every corner guarded by a knight in horned black armour. Each member of the famed Swords of Chaos lifted their weapon in a salute as he walked past. As well they should. The chief among the Everchosen's human lieutenants, Szalamund was entitled the respect, if not the trust, of the bodyguard.

At the prow of the pinnacle, he found the Everchosen. Armour darker than obsidian, topped by a shaggy fur coat, and mounted with skulls, each one taken from an unfortunate to fall to the Everchosen's blade. Two massive horns, almost the size of mammoth tusks, hung on either side of the helmet, stabbing at the sky, daring lighting to strike out against the wearer. As the Herald of Chaos turned, the helmet flickered with runes and carvings that each glowed from within. A third eye blazed from the forehead of the helmet, while the two eyeholes showed smouldering coal within. A glimpse into the Lord of the End Times, Archaon the Everchosen.

Szalamund knelt. He may have been respected by all in the camp below, but even he owed fealty, to the one upon this mountaintop.

"My Lord, the last of the tribes has arrived. They are ready to swear their oaths unto you."

"Excellent." Archaon's voice rolled through the rock under their feet, and Szalamund felt it rattle in his bones. "How many do we have now?"

"Many hundreds of thousands. All of Norsca has come. With the daemons at our side, we shall reach the numbers that the last Everchosen possessed."

Archaon took a step forward. Szalamund felt deathly afraid. There was almost no reason to feel such a wave of indescribable terror. It was like he had been kicked out of his warlord's body, all the way back into the days of his childhood, and those frightening, enshrouding nights.

Just as quickly as it had come, the terror receded. He almost collapsed, kept upright only by sheer willpower and the rigidity of his armour. When he looked up, the Everchosen was facing the valley again.

"The last Warhost numbered in the millions."

"Indeed. And with the daemons, we shall ascend to such a host."

"I would rather a hundred Norscans over a thousand daemons," Archaon growled. "For the mortals serve me. They came at my call. The daemons, though, they are fickle, cowardly, treacherous. And they serve Chaos above all. They are a useful tool, but they are untrustworthy. The question is, can I trust my mortal lieutenants?"

The helmet turned slightly towards him.

"Without question," Szalamund answered. "Our swords are yours to command, and our lives are yours to lay down when needed."

"Stand."

Szalamund leapt to his feet. Archaon was now facing him.

"I hope it will not be needed. What I need are competent men who I can trust. Corpses are no use to me, unless they are the corpses of our enemies. Now, go. I will come soon, and take the new tribe's oaths."

Szalamund bowed low and departed.

Archaon remained motionless even as he heard the footsteps of his lieutenant fading away. Time ground on, but still, he felt no compulsion to leave this place. His feet may have been stationary, but his mind was wandering, away from plans, alliances, and the endless game of chess he had mapped out in his head. His memory spiralled back through time, through pain, through suffering, through corruption, through weakness. Searching, searching, always searching. For what?

For something Archaon didn't know if he had ever experienced. Every step in the search for such a thing was wrought with perils and snares set for him by the Dark Gods. But still, he persevered.

For this was his last chance. The world was on the precipice. It would not be long before the time was right, and Archaon would set his plan into motion. Well, two plans, really. One blessed by the Ruinous Powers, the other a secret only to himself and a few trusted allies.

But when the time was right, there would be no going back. There would be no reversal in their course. The ship would not be stopped. And Archaon needed to know before the last moment.

He needed to know if there was reason to turn back. He would be inflicting untold suffering on the world and all the lived therein. Could he find something to stay his hand?

Love had died with his mother. Friendship had died with his steed. Order had died with his old gods. And peace . . . well, peace had died before he was born.

A cry went up from the valley. Thousands of voices lifted up. A green glow tore through the orange sky. Archaon lifted his head.

The twin-tailed comet sailed overhead, the green fire of its passage filling the sky amidst the clouds that fled from its presence. A symbol of hope, and despair. One which Archaon knew very well.

"It is time."

The voice came from behind. Archaon turned, and there stood a grey-skinned daemon. Four horns curved from his head. Twin bat wings stretched and shuddered. Eight-pointed etchings stood in his skin.

Be'lakor. The first Daemon Prince. The first to embrace Chaos. The one who had crowned Archaon as the Everchosen.

In his mind, Archaon saw the first chess pieces sliding forward on the map of the world.

"Yes, it is," he replied.