A bit of humble bragging to start the week off right. A reader named Max Fitzgerald recently sent me a picture of his swell Gardus Steel Soul conversion. (more…)
Black Library has updated its coming soon section with September’s releases, including my Age of Sigmar novel, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows and my Horus Heresy audio-drama, Blackshields: The False War. (more…)
Tzekmek, Great Changer of the Barrowflock, shrilled curses as a pervasive, sugar-sweet scent permeated the air of the fens. With the guardians of the dead in disarray, and the Wickenmotte in flames, the magics of the marsh barrows had been theirs for the taking.
But even as the Tzaangor warflock had moved to plunder the ancient ruins, their celebrations were interrupted by the skirl of strange pipes and joyful, inhuman shrieks. The air had taken on an oily sheen the shaman recognised all too well…the veil was drawn thin, and something had issued forth from the realms beyond sensation.
Now, gaunt, glistening shapes loped through the mists and hunched trees, their abominable laughter tainting the very air. Daemons, but not those loyal to the Feathered Lords. Rather, these served the Great Schemer’s lost sibling, Slaanesh. And with the way so generously cleared of opposition by the Tzaangor, they had come to claim the magics of the barrows for themselves.
Perhaps they thought the charnel grounds held some secret which would return their lost god to them. Perhaps they were simply scavengers. Either way, they could not be allowed to plunder Tzekmek’s hard-won spoils of war.
Not without a fight. (more…)
My newest novel, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, is up for pre-order on both the Black Library site and various international distributors, and I thought I’d take a moment to talk a bit about it. (more…)
Strange trilling calls echoed through the fenlands. Lean forms, clad in jade and gold, splashed swiftly through the dark waters. The scent of death-magic was strong on the night wind, even as the Unseen had promised. The mortal had offered his Tzaangor allies first pickings – if they could break through the dead, now massing at the ruined watchtower known as the Wickenmotte. A test of their loyalties and strength, both.
Tzekmek, Great Changer of the Barrowflock, had accepted that challenge, and gladly. There was strong magic in those ruins, and with it, he might raise a flux-cairn capable of warping the turgid landscape of the Ghost Bat Bog into something more pleasing to Tzeentch’s gaze.
He hissed in anticipation of the feast to come as he crouched low on the pulsating Disc of Tzeentch he rode. He sped just above the marsh’s tangled canopy, followed by his bodyguard of chattering Enlightened. The babbling warriors hunched atop their own discs, a fug of broken memories swirling about them. Nearby, ever-silent Skyfires kept pace, their keen gazes sweeping the murk below, arrows ready to be loosed should the enemy show themselves.
Beneath the trees, lesser Tzaangors loped through the gloom, screeching eagerly. They too could smell the dead, and the magic that animated them. And soon enough, that magic would belong to the changekin… (more…)
A blade swept out, shattering an unfortunate tree to splinters. The length of crude iron had been etched with ruinous sigils, and wept flux-fire from its jagged edge. Where it passed, the air was rent by the sounds of discordant piping and the screams of beasts. To the one who held it, such a clamouring was as the most subtle of compositions, and to those who followed him, it was as if all the spirits of earth and air were urging them onward.
Flux-fires gleamed in the dark of the Ghost Bat Bog as the being known as the Relevator led his brothers and sisters in the Cockatrice Conclave to war. The creature once known as Calaspa Bo lumbered between the crooked trees, smashing aside any that rose in his path. Somewhere in the dark before him, the restless dead waited in silent defiance of the hounds of fate. The Relevator went to teach them the folly of such resistance.
Once possessed of a mind of infinite convolutions, Bo was now as single-minded as the foes he splashed towards so relentlessly. The great, coiling feathered worm-shape clinging to the Curseling hissed soft encouragement, directing him ever-forward. The daemon-thing whispered to the Relevator of secrets to be revealed, and knowledge to consumed, once the sunken mansions of the ancient fen-kingdoms were theirs to plunder.
Unfortunately, the dead had other ideas… (more…)