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been individually selected for the strength of their religious beliefs. In the war against the evils of the world, true faith was worth a dozen swords. In battle against the horrors of undeath, it was priceless.
    By the shore were Sigmar’s Sons, a regiment of devout and reliable swordsmen that Volkmar had fought alongside against the Chaos worshippers of the north. They were helping to debark an Imperial great cannon that had begun its military career at the Gorstanford witch trial many years ago. At the foot of the ramp von Korden was briefing the champion of the swordsmen, Eben Swaft, along with Bennec Sootson’s artillerymen and the dark-skinned leader of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, Lupio Blaze. The Estalian officer’s knights wore polished black plate adorned with suns of solid gold, and the warhorses they led down the barge-ramps wore scalloped barding lacquered with stylised solar flares.
    The Estalians worshipped the warrior goddess Myrmidia over Sigmar, but their faith was strong nonetheless. Preceptor Blaze had practically begged Volkmar to let his men join the crusade, and though the Grand Theogonist had initially refused them on grounds of divergent religions, he had eventually come round to the idea. A unit of heavy cavalry could be very useful indeed.
    Down on the bone beach the Tattersouls were chanting devotional hymns as they carried the war altar up to the path. Once on firm ground the giant wheeled conveyance could be properly constructed, lashed to its warhorses, and its giant griffon statue restored to pride of place. Vance’s bargemen had already got a system of pulleys rigged up, but their calm methodical approach was lost on the wild-haired zealots that insisted on helping them. The ragged figures pushed and pulled with more enthusiasm than skill, warbling and bellowing praise to the Empire’s warrior god. Volkmar watched in horror as a pulley slipped the rope, sending the griffon swinging down to crush one of the doomsayers under its colossal weight.
    ‘O Sigmar, I come to thee!’ cried the dying flagellant, eyes wet with rapture and pain. ‘The end, the end!’
    ‘Don’t just stand there like eunuchs at an orgy!’ shouted Curser Bredt, marksman-sergeant of the Silver Bullets. ‘Give the clumsy bastards a hand!’
    Four of Bredt’s men kissed the bullet talismans that hung around their necks and rushed forward, bodily wrestling the statue back up into place. It was too late for the unlucky zealot, though; his ribcage and right arm had been crushed into a bloody mass. Somehow he was still smiling gummily, his watery eyes fixed on some faraway paradise. Volkmar shook his head as Kaslain gave the final blessing to the dying man. The war altar was a source of great faith and determination, but by Sigmar, the damn thing was heavy.
    The hubbub of the muster was pierced by a shout from one of the Tattersouls. Nothing special in itself, but there was a note of warning in its tone that made Volkmar spin round. Something was moving in the shallows. The Grand Theo-gonist took a few steps forward, brow furrowed. Sure enough, the skulls and bones on the bed of the lake were moving. Femurs shivered, claws twitched, and vertebrae rolled as if pulled by hidden threads. Piece by piece the skeletons were coalescing, coming together once more into the predatory beasts that once haunted the waters.
    ‘Form up!’ boomed Volkmar at the top of his voice as he strode down to the water’s edge. ‘We’re under attack!’
    His men rushed towards their banners, some still tightening their bootstraps or hurriedly strapping on armour. The monstrous skeletons in the shallows were piecing themselves together faster and faster, spines clacking into place and arm bones reattaching to shoulder sockets like a dissection in reverse.
    A three-eyed skull rose out of the shallows on a thick bony neck. Unclean water poured from crocodilian jaws as the skeletal titan rose up to its full height. Behind it the remains of a