First Marshal – Evan Dicken

Constructed with the same brutal angles as the rest of Galek Zharr, it formed a rectangle ten paces across and five wide. The ceiling was low enough Tahlia could not stand upright, the floor slightly sloped so she could never lie comfortably. Water dripped from a cleft between two unmortared stones, a steady trickle that could keep her alive, but was never enough to quench her thirst. There was plenty to eat, once Tahlia grew hungry enough to catch the fat- bodied beetles that crawled from the latrine hole at the lower end of the cell.

Designed with cruel efficiency, Tahlia’s prison would provide for her needs, if just barely. So long as Tahlia was willing to degrade herself. If the Helsmiths thought deprivation would break her, they were sorely mistaken. The water might taste like factory runoff, the beetles of burnt hair, but at least Tahlia did not have to march a dozen miles between meals. She was grateful the smoky darkness of the cell hid the extent of her injuries, at least until the fever came. Although Sarukh’s guards had been careful to use only kicks and bludgeons, the jagged nails on their boot soles left deep gouges in Tahlia’s back.

She tried to keep the wounds clean, but it was futile. In what seemed like hours, the cuts had begun to fester. Fever muddled her thoughts. Agony transcribed Tahlia’s waking moments, and sleep was no better. Her slumber was a wild, fitful thing, a blend of madness and memory so real it was hard to distinguish from reality.

She dreamed of Cursemarsh. The terrifying slog through orruk-infested wilds, and the long, hateful weeks that followed. They had found the Silverine Nexus – she, Katrik, and Halek – but with dwindling supplies and barely a quarter of their soldiers capable of combat, it became clear the Nexus would soon become their grave. Visions of the past surrounded her, consumed her, dragging Tahlia back into the muck of unwelcome memories.

She could hear the Kruleboyz’s high wail, louder even than the cries of wounded soldiers. The stink of infected wounds filled her nose. Past blurred into the present, and suddenly Tahlia was back amidst the bloody mire with Halek and Katrik. Disease was kinder than the Kruleboyz. You would have all died if not for me.

Tahlia recognised the voice, just as she recognised the speaker. A phantom conjured by long-buried recollection, it was Vidurn as she had first met him, at the head of a Dawnbringer host. Astride a caparisoned war scarab, his armour etched with triumphant sigils, Vidurn gleamed like a Stormcast. The Kruleboyz had broken before him, scuttling back to their murky lairs like frightened lizards. I knew your worth, even then. Vidurn’s voice was a stone thrown into a still pond.

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 trailblazers 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. OceanofPDF.com OceanofPDF.com 1 Onward! For Hammerhal Aqsha!’ Tahlia Vedra’s shout barely rose above the howl of wind. Probably for the best. Her soldiers were already moving as quickly as they were able.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 60a1db0632456dad
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,872,930 bytes (2.74 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 297
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 455.71 minutes
• Total Words: 91,143
• Total Characters: 540,140
• Average Words per Page: 306.88
• Average Characters per Page: 1818.65

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