XIV. RETRIBUTOR

Of my former life I recall very little. Too many reforgings can do that, and more, to a warrior.

I do not regret it, though. It is a small price to pay for the privilege of waging wars of justice against the fell hordes infesting the Realms.

Only the very last flashes from that previous existence I still bear in memory. Only them, and they are terrible indeed.

In them, I see myself in a grand cathedral, and somehow know that once I preached there, denouncing in my sermons the unholy cult that had long held sway over my city. That holy place had been the last stronghold of Order amidst the reigning madness which I kept fighting with words even after all the others had failed to do so with deeds.

But in the dream, all around me are only desecrated ruins. The proud temple stands no more, and I – I am dying from multiple wounds the cultists inflicted to my body before nailing it to the cold stone of the once-beautiful altar with their gnarled ritual knives. My dimming vision reveals my life essence on the floor underneath, more and more of it leeching away. And in my last breathing moment I strive in vain to curse the leering, jeering cultists, but no words come from me, and I die with the feeling of utter failure.

That must have been ages past. I cannot say for sure. All I know is that my martyrdom had earned me the right to be taken to Holy Azyr, and be reforged into a Stormcast Eternal – a mighty celestial warrior imbued with the power of heavens themselves, to serve the God-King Sigmar in the ranks of his angels militant.

For many centuries since, I have been fighting under the name of Lord-Celestant Arrian Thundervoice of the Azyrite Arbiters Stormhost, which is one of the most merciless, for we bring divine judgement onto the Dark Powers and their thralls swiftly and brutally, sparing none of those who worship Chaos.

…

Our meditative prayers are finished, and by the will of Sigmar we are hurled unto a battlefield in Hysh where our brothers are already fighting against the Slaaneshi horde that has been corrupting the realm's light for many years. We are chanting as we descend into the fray, eager to prove our worth before the first-stricken Golden Ones and instil fear into the enemy. My heart burns with the cold fire of righteous hatred; I had been red-hot furious once but now, after all the reforgings, my fury is more ice than fire, even if it strikes the foes no less mightily.

It scents me in the heat of battle. They call it a Keeper of Secrets. A foul denizen of the Realm of Chaos, commander over its writhing army of lesser abominations.

I've never worn a helmet in battle, never worried that yet another reforging would come all the swifter for it – in the hopes that one day I would boldly stand barefaced before the very creature that had sown the seeds of corruption in my hearth-city of old.

And now, at long last, this day has arrived.

...

The moment seems frozen in time; that special moment I have been yearning for ever since my very first reforging.

Weeping foul, sickly-saccharine energies, the daemon meets my gaze, and for a glorious moment, I see the spark of recognition in its vile, olive-black eyes.

I address it. My voice is laced with rumbling thunder, as it has been ever since the first reforging.

"You remember me," I tell the greater daemon. It is not intended as a question.

I savour its stunned disbelief and flash it a vengeful grin before raising my Accusation Hammer for the final strike.

"Oh yes, beast. It is me. I am back."

The hammerhead meets the vile head of the daemon, pulverizing it with radiant, purest energy.

"And in the holy name of Sigmar, I banish you forever."

…

This is no final victory, of course not. There shall be other frays, a great many of them, for the God-King's foes are legion, and His immortal warriors know no respite, not ever.

And maybe in the next of these battles I am to fall again – and thereafter even my remaining memories shall come no more.

But it doesn't matter. That last vestige of mortal memory had served its due, and I shall be content to let it go. If none are left to me, so be it. Because for now at least, I do not care.

For now, I feel triumphant.