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Sigmar’s Fist – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Sigmar’s Fist

Sarah J Daley

Thunder rolled across the gas-choked wilds of the Ghoul Mere, the cannons of the Ironweld Arsenal unleashing a devastating barrage against the chittering invaders. Even at such a distance, the explosion of blackpowder rattled the iron and steel behemoth beside Steam Tank commander Mykael Chuikov. The shining beast almost seemed to purr with eagerness, wheels shaking, steam engine chirring in idle, ready to roar to life at his command. He laid a hand on her warm flank and felt the pounding of a hammer from the depths.

Mykael smiled thinly. His treasured Steam Tank, Sigmar’s Fist, had survived countless battles under his command, grinding relentlessly towards the enemies of Sigmar, spewing steam and bullets until her cannons glowed red, but it was the cogsmith Stark Thornsdottir who kept her heart beating strong.

Muffled duardin cursing and a flurry of clanking brought grins from the ranks of Freeguild Fusiliers and Steelhelms standing in reserve near the Fist. Stark’s cantankerous nature was a soothing constant on the battlefield. Her dour glares and ceaseless grumbling had settled the nerves of many a raw recruit. If someone so seasoned, someone who’d faced death on a hundred campaigns, could be contemptuous in the face of horror beyond comprehension, then what really was there to fear?

Only one thing…

Mykael thumped the side of his beloved Steam Tank, dashing such thoughts from his mind. A whiff of spent powder rode the dank winds, sending bloodlust rolling through his veins. His lip curled. No time for thinking, or Sigmar forbid, feeling. He strained at the bit as surely as his tank, eager to join the fray.

Unfortunately, while the forces of Greywater Fastness marched forth against an incursion of rabid skaven, Mykael’s Steam Tank idled far to the rear with the reserves. It was supposed to be a favour, a chance to get his mind right after the recent… incident. Never mind that spilling enemy blood was the only cure for his malady.

He stood mute witness as a vast array of firepower mustered against this invasion – bulwark formations of Fusiliers with their heavy pavises and devastating fusil-cannons guided by fusil-majors atop towering ogor warhulks. Command had no patience for the skaven’s hit-and-run tactics. There would be no long, drawn-out skirmishes. The slaughter would be magnificent.

It frustrated him. Mykael wanted blood. He wanted the mire washed in it. Only the blood of his enemies might soothe the fires of his grief.

Mykael growled, low and angry, ready to voice his bitter complaints, but another voice spoke first. Young and high, it etched his nerves like sour acid.

‘Why are we being wasted back here?’ The man who’d spoken sat perched in the command turret of Sigmar’s Fist, a place the cheeky bastard hadn’t earned. ‘I took the Coin Malleus to reclaim lost lands, to join a crusade. Not stand in formation all day and night.’

Teeth grinding, Mykael held his tongue. Real combat would take the starch out of young commander-in-training Devon Meriwether soon enough. The heat and smells and sounds and horror of it. Let him pretend battle begat only glory. For now.

‘Because, young buck,’ came a gruff reply from the interior of the tank as Stark’s grizzled head popped up behind Devon, ‘there are already plenty of youngsters eager to get their brains spilled on the battlefield ahead of you.’

Devon blew out a frustrated breath, ruffling the long moustaches curtaining his pursed lips. Well-manicured facial hair was the current fashion among the youth of Greywater Fastness. Had he been clean-shaven, he would almost have reminded Mykael of Artem…

‘My talents are being wasted in a Steam Tank,’ the callow interloper continued, oblivious to Mykael’s rising temper. ‘We’re always a last resort.’ He crossed his arms, frowning. ‘If I’d had any luck, I’d be serving as a Relic Envoy. A grand marshal’s treasured messenger.’

Mykael caught Stark’s eye-roll out of the corner of his gaze. Neither liked being saddled with a trainee, especially one so disagreeable, but the next generation learned from the last. At least, that was the way the world was supposed to work.

Smoke obscured the sky over the distant battlefield, and the thunder had turned deep and profound. The roar of the fighters and the shrieks of their inhuman enemy rode the winds as clearly as the aroma of blackpowder.

And he was missing it.

A squad of gyrocopters roared overhead, called into action by a marshal atop his griffon steed. Their whirring blades kicked up a wash of muddy water and wisps of yellow gas as they buzzed over the featureless Mere. Mykael was impressed at their daring. He imagined raining hell from above, slaughtering ranks upon ranks of beastly ratmen before crashing among them to die a quick and glorious death.

The gyrocopters closed with the enemy forces, strafing the seething enemy lines. Streaks of green fire lanced from the warlock bombardiers hidden within the skaven multitudes. Two gyrocopters exploded instantly, and a third took a glancing hit to its engine, sending it spinning. It seemed the whole host around him held a collective breath, watching the lone gyrocopter wobble and turn, dipping towards the unforgiving ground only to rise desperately for the sky. Its pilot was trying to return to the fold. Mykael calculated the distance and the struggling path of the gyrocopter and reckoned he had little chance. What was a lone pilot in the grand scheme of things, really? All grist for the mill. Their blood was the currency for a better future. For a realm reclaimed from Chaos.

Trailing a stream of caustic smoke, the gyrocopter made it beyond the field of battle before its blades locked and it started to descend. Mykael watched the craft fall in a graceful arc towards an empty stretch of the Ghoul Mere. It dropped from view, swallowed by the swamp.

Greywater Fastness, looming over the ruined land a goodly distance from the battle, prickly with armour and shrouded in smoke from countless foundries and forges, watched on in impassive silence.

‘I thought he might make it through sheer will alone,’ Stark commented mournfully. She’d dropped from the Steam Tank to stand beside Mykael. ‘Hope the crash killed him. The tree-folk won’t tolerate even an accidental incursion.’ She shuddered. ‘I’d rather die in flames than be torn apart by those wretched spirits.’

Mykael stared at the thin trail of smoke rising from the blasted landscape. They were allowed to travel but one road through the Ghoul Mere, even when engaging with the enemies of Order. The Sylvaneth revenants who haunted the desolate land might hesitate to engage the full might of Greywater Fastness on the move, but one single soldier would be easy prey.

Lost in a blast of metal and flame, brave to the end…

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A Black Library Publication

This eBook edition published in 2024 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Nuala Kinrade.

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ISBN: 978-1-83609-075-5

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