‘Bring him over here,’ said Marika, pointing to a fire that crackled in the shelter of a wagon piled with food. A few shell-shocked looking city folk huddled around the fire, but they made space for the newcomers willingly enough. As they set Bartiman down by the fire, an infant boy watched Romilla with big eyes. Shyly, he buried his face in his mother’s chest as Romilla and Eleanora sat down.

‘Thought we was all going to die,’ said the woman, holding her child close. ‘Thank Sigmar we didn’t.’

Romilla inhaled, then very slowly released that breath. She watched Marika attract the attention of one of the priests and send him their way with a satchel of medical supplies bumping at his hip. Romilla stroked a hand through Bartiman’s thin white hair, looked at Eleanora warming her hands before the fire, and allowed herself a faint, sad smile.

‘Thank Sigmar indeed,’ she breathed.

About the Author

About the Author

Andy Clark has written the Warhammer 40,000 novels Celestine: The Living Saint, Kingsblade, Knightsblade and Shroud of Night, as well as the novella Crusade and the short story ‘Whiteout’. He has also written the novel Blacktalon: First Mark for Warhammer Age of Sigmar, and the Warhammer Quest Silver Tower novella Labyrinth of the Lost. Andy works as a background writer for Games Workshop, crafting the worlds of Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in Nottingham, UK.

An Extract from ‘Myths & Revenants’

An extract from Myths & Revenants.

‘Oh, ware the day the fishing folk come,

To no barrier will they concede,

Their lures will entice both the strong and the frail,

And lo will the good fishes bleed…’

‘What is that ditty she sings?’

Ingdrin Jonsson had no idea at what age humans considered their offspring to be competent adults, as per Artycle Nine of the Kharadron Code, but the girl was as winsome and waifish a thing as he could imagine, and so addressed his question to the father.

‘Tis an old song, Master Jonsson,’ Tharril bellowed, his words timed to the rhythm of his oars and the crash of spray across his back. ‘Her ma sang it to her, as my ma sang it to me.’

‘It gives me the creeps.’

‘Any honest song should.’