by Nick Horth
‘Why, where are we headed?’ asked Callis.
‘We’re going to see an old friend of mine,’ said Toll.
Act Two
Armand Callis had never once been inside the noble quarter of Excelsis. Rank and file soldiery were not assigned duty within it, with the security demands taken over by ranks of constabulary and the Palatine Guard. Not that there seemed to be much call for arms within the inner wall.
‘Where in Sigmar’s name is everybody?’ he said as they strode down a wide boulevard, the street carved in smooth marble and mounted glowlamps bathing the area in the soothing heat of mid-summer despite the storm raging overhead. ‘There’s so much… space.’
It wasn’t that the streets were broader, but that there were so few people around. Dressed in rich, finely embroidered robes and tunics, the denizens of this paradise strolled unhurriedly, idly chatting with their fellows or stopping to rest on the comfortable pews that lined the pathways. Palanquins that rippled with fine silks of all colours and patterns were carried by painted and perfumed servants. A duardin dressed in purple and sapphire robes ambled past, two servants with gold-painted faces rushing in his wake. His beard was immaculately shaped into five curled hooks, each tipped with a tiny candle that shone with a blue flame. The duardin stared at Kazrug incredulously as he passed, who responded by clearing his nose as loudly and unpleasantly as possible. The lazy calm of the place sat uncomfortably with Callis. There was none of the shouting, rushing and cursing of merchants trying desperately to get their goods to the best spot before their rivals. In fact, nobody here seemed in the least bit rushed.
They passed by a colossal dome decorated with golden, dancing angels and supported by seven thick marble columns veined with streaks of sky blue. Underneath the towering ceiling were dozens of lounge chairs covered with satin pillows, upon which robed figures reclined like harbour seals, picking at great trays of food and drink. The food was so artfully crafted and colourful that it hardly seemed edible at all to Callis. Crystalline spears of sugar-coated fruit, leaning towers of cake and sweetmeats, geometric arrangements of brightly coloured shapes. Like everything in this place these were works of art to be admired. Lithe, half-naked figures wearing gauze masks wove in and out of the reclining diners, scooping up platters of half-eaten food. Out in the Veins, the waste alone might have kept a family fed for weeks.
They turned onto a wide promenade surrounded on both sides by softly swaying juvafruit trees, their yellow bounty concealed beneath sweeping, white-tipped fronds. Ahead of them loomed their destination.
The Palace of the High Arbiter was like something out of the murals of Azyr that lined the cathedral wall. It was an architectural marvel of the Azyrite form, a wonder of soaring towers and gleaming domes capped with the lightning iconography of the blessed God-King. The great gates leading into the compound bore the engraved image of Saint Rubeus, his blessed warhammer clutched in one bleeding fist, eyes fixed rapturously upon the heavens. From the gates, a pathway of glittering blue marble led to the main dome of the structure. High on the roof above, Callis could see the glimmer of aetheric energy as occulary spheres whirled and spun, a breathtaking mechanical representation of the celestial realm beneath which the city of Sigmar resided.
‘Sigmar’s teeth,’ said Callis softly. Toll thumped him on the upper arm.
‘Keep your uncultured mouth closed,’ he warned. ‘High Arbiter Vermyre’s a pious fellow, and he can’t abide hearing the God-King’s name spoken in vain.’
Guards stepped forward to block their path as they approached, lowering ornate yet imposing halberds. Their armour was so polished and finely crafted that Callis thought they looked less like people than statues brought to life. They wore rich purple tunics and breaches, cream tabards, and greaves, pauldrons and breastplates of shining gold. The surface of their armour was covered with intricate scripture and engravings of the God-King’s mythic weapon Ghal Maraz, and their helms were full-faced, with a scale neckguard and a tapered dome that ended in a voluminous white and blue plume.
‘Let me do the talking,’ said Toll, adjusting his tatty leather overcoat. ‘Frankly, we all look like scum, and these upper-city boys tend to despise anyone who wasn’t sampling fine Azyrite wine by the time he was teething.’
The leader of the guard came forward. He bore an almost ludicrously ostentatious helm sculpted to represent a star-eagle in flight, and carried an exquisite silver rapier on one hip. He swaggered with the easy poise of someone used to having his every word obeyed.
‘This is the palace of the High Arbiter,’ he snapped. His voice was plummy and high-pitched, and carried such a pronounced sneer that Callis felt his blood begin to simmer with irritation.
‘A reclaimed vagrant like you should have been turned back long before you reached these gates.’ The guard took a long look at Callis, taking in the scratches on his face, his ill-fitting clothes, dark skin and hooded grey eyes. ‘His grace does not entertain back-alley filth.’
‘Just hires them to hold his gates open, eh?’ said Callis, before reason could temper his annoyance.
Eagle Helm’s plume quivered in outrage, and his hand snapped to the scabbard at his side. Kazrug sniggered audibly, and Toll gave Callis a look that neatly stripped him of the slight satisfaction his remark had temporarily bestowed. The Witch Hunter stepped forward and held one hand up with his symbol of office clutched tightly in the palm.
‘Before you draw that blade, son,’ he said, ‘know that you would be raising steel against a member of the Order of Azyr. That’s a good way to get yourself crucified on the walls of the city for the orruks to use as target practice. Now get out of my way before I lose what little remains of my patience, you pompous, blue-blooded cretin.’
There was an uneasy silence, and for a moment Callis thought that Eagle Helm might just draw and start swinging, to hell with the consequences. Fortunately, at that moment an easy-going peal of laughter rippled across the tense scene.
‘By the stars, Hanniver,’ came an accompanying voice, relaxed and full of cheer. ‘I know you have a unique way with people, but that’s a bit much even for you.’
‘Hello there, Ortam,’ said the Witch Hunter, and there was an honest smile upon his face for the first time since Callis had made his acquaintance.
High Arbiter Ortam Vermyre was a small man, and unremarkable considering the astonishing power he wielded in the city of Excelsis. His weak chin and round, slightly boyish face did not resemble the busts of great Azyrite statesmen that lined Providence Way. His robes were of fine silk, but simple and practical in design, far less ostentatious than those Callis had seen worn amongst the populace of the noble quarter. His black hair was cut short, with just the hint of grey at the temples.
‘You may stand down, Captain Jaquoir,’ said Vermyre, still in that calm, singsong voice. ‘This man is known to me. Rather well, as it happens. It’s been far too long, Hanniver. Please, come in. You all look as if you could use a glass of strong crystal wine.’
They followed Vermyre down the blue marble path towards the palace. Callis made sure to grace the retreating Jaquoir with his most infuriating smirk as they went, though to his credit the man simply stared back impassively. It was unwise to start making more enemies, considering the position he was in right now, but if there was one thing he could not stand it was a man using his uniform to bully and look down on others. Let the pompous ass glare and seethe.
He snapped back to reality, and watched Toll and Vermyre pull ahead of the group, chatting easily.
‘How does he know the High Arbiter so well?’ asked Callis.
Kazrug shrugged. ‘They go back a way. Never asked about it, but the job we do, it pays to know the lads at the top of the pile. Your man there wields the power of the courts and the constabulary. Even the military, when it comes to it. He’s got more power than old Kryn, though of a less flashy kind.’
‘Seems lik
e they’re friends as much as professional acquaintances,’ said Callis.
‘Don’t know that hunters allow themselves the luxury of friends, but I know he trusts him. And he don’t trust many.’
‘He trusts you. How long have you known him?’
‘Long enough,’ said Kazrug. ‘I owe him. Don’t care to tell you why, but I do. He’s a ruthless bastard, they all are, but he did right by me when he had no need to. That debt ain’t been repaid yet.’
Callis had no idea how, but a soft summer zephyr rippled across the estate garden as they approached the main hall. It was a strange thing, luxuriating in the refreshing warmth of a summer’s day while the sky roared and whirled overhead. To their left he could see the magical spheres set upon the inner wall, their gold and copper surfaces writhing with electrical energy as they drank in the ferocious power of the coming tempest. From here you would hardly know the apocalypse was on you before it was too late. Not for the first time since he had entered the noble district, all the wondrous trappings he had seen lost a little of their appeal. At least down on the docks you knew how things stood.
The great front doors to the main dome yawned open as the group neared, and they entered a cavernous entrance hall. The ceiling stretched high above their heads, and visible upon its surface was a beautiful mural, a depiction of the mighty Hammers of Sigmar Stormhost descending from the heavens on bolts of azure lightning to strike the first blow against the forces of Chaos. It was a vivid piece. Callis felt his heart surge at the sight of the Hammerhand astride his proud dracoth, the wretched minions of the Dark Gods supine and terrified beneath his righteous might. The stories said that Sigmar’s champion was still out there in the realms somewhere, leading a band of fellow immortals on an endless crusade against the great enemy. Looking at the diorama, Callis could almost believe it.
‘It’s a fine piece, is it not?’ said Vermyre. ‘It’s an original Varangino. One of the last great works of his before he died.’
‘Varangino, yes,’ said Callis, awash with ignorance. ‘Tremendous.’
‘Come, come,’ the High Arbiter said, gesturing them to the left of the dome, down a long corridor lined with portraiture and busts of patricians and warriors whose names meant nothing to Callis. Noble, frowning faces stared down at him, doing nothing to make him feel particularly welcome in this hall of wonders. Even the seemingly mute servants that darted in and out of antechambers and hallways seemed to look upon him and his companions with a kind of curious contempt. Kazrug marched at his side, utterly uncaring as he left a muddy trail across the previously gleaming floor. If Vermyre saw the detritus that the duardin was trailing into his home, he did not seem to mind at all. A pair of irritated-looking servants trailed behind the party like pilot fish, mopping as fast as they could manage.
‘We need to talk in private,’ Toll was saying. ‘I’ve stumbled upon something, Ortam, and I’m only just getting a sense of the scale of it.’
They entered a long, wide dining chamber, carved from a wood so light it almost looked like bone. Within the surface ran winding streams of amber, swirling and rippling as they caught the light shining through the window to an inner courtyard. Vermyre clicked his fingers, and a servant scurried away, returning moments later with a decanter of violet liquid and a tray of pale blue glasses.
‘Please, sit,’ said Vermyre, taking a chair himself at the head of the long table. ‘Drink. You look as though you could do with a moment’s rest.’
He offered a glass to each of them in turn. Toll took one, and so did Callis. Kazrug sniffed the liquid suspiciously, and then shook his head. This drew a vicious look from his employer that the duardin chose to ignore, but if Vermyre was in any way offended he did not let it show.
‘What is going on in my city, Hanniver?’ the High Arbiter asked. ‘What brings a member of the Order of Azyr to my door in such a state?’
‘There is a conspiracy amongst the ranks of the city guard,’ said Toll. ‘And I fear it may reach higher.’
He relayed the chaotic events of the last couple of days as Vermyre listened, grim-faced. When the time came, Callis detailed the contents of his vision as entirely as he could, ending with the appearance of Archmage Kryn and the fall of Excelsis. When the group finished relaying their adventures, there was a lingering silence.
‘Kryn,’ muttered Vermyre at last. ‘I cannot think of anyone who I would like to lock horns with less. The man’s a decrepit old wretch, but he wields real power. Power enough to bring about what you say, if this vision of his betrayal is true.’
The High Arbiter clasped his hands together, and rested his chin on them. His sharp eyes flicked back and forth across everyone present.
‘We must be cautious,’ he said. ‘I take it that it is only you three who are aware of exactly what you saw, Corporal Callis?’
‘Only us, Vermyre,’ said Toll. ‘Perhaps the enemy know also, it’s hard to tell. Though somehow I think they would have razed half the city looking for us if Kryn knew he had been exposed.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Vermyre. ‘Though it rather depends on how far along this plan of his is. If you’re correct in your assumptions, it might be that Kryn sees exposure at this point as inevitable. The truth is, we still don’t know what the situation is. Perhaps your friend’s vision was corrupted? It has happened before.’
‘We cannot take that chance,’ said Toll. ‘The Stormcasts have already marched into the wilds, taking seven of the ten regiments that garrison this city along with them. Two of my own order march alongside this force, leading faithful warriors from the abbey. We are vulnerable, my friend, and I am short of allies.’
‘Then I will move all my pieces on the board,’ said Vermyre. ‘I control this city, from the courts to the streets, and I refuse to believe that haggard old vulture holds sway over any of my agents. It is time to uncover the truth.’
The High Arbiter stood, and drained the last of his wine. When he first laid eyes upon him Callis had thought Vermyre small and soft, but now he looked anything but. There was a fire of purpose behind his eyes, and not a hint of fear or hesitation about him. He reminded Callis of Toll in that moment, of how the Witch Hunter had looked in the heat of battle, when his mask of calm cynicism fell away and the true warrior of faith was unleashed.
‘Wait here, my friends,’ Vermyre said. ‘I will send missives to my trusted men, and contact the Eldritch Council. The aelves will be needed if we find ourselves in open battle against a turncoat Collegiate.’
He gave them a brief nod and swept from the room. They heard him bellowing for his servants and personal guard as he moved off down the hallway.
‘What exactly happens to me now?’ asked Callis. ‘I’ve told you everything I saw. If the city’s about to come under attack, I want to be with the Coldguard.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, most of them want to cut your head off right now,’ said Toll. ‘Vermyre’s got real weight in this city, but it’ll take time for him to get the message out that you’re innocent. Even then, it’s clear your regiment has been infiltrated and corrupted. Besides, I thought you wanted your revenge on the man that had your squad killed?’
‘You’d offer me that?’
‘Son, sending you up against an ancient archmage would be a particularly cruel piece of theatre. I’d fare little better myself. Neither of us will be the one to take Kryn down. But we’ll be there when he falls. I’d have thought that would be something you’d like to see.’
The image of the wizard flashed into Callis’ mind, of Kryn sending down a pillar of searing lightning to murder more loyalist guardsmen. Toll was right. He needed to see this done. For his dead boys. And for Uncle Tor.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You’re not wrong about that. Some sins have to be answered for.’
‘Spoken like a member of the blessed Order,’ said the Witch Hunter, and raised his glass.
‘Something’s wro
ng,’ growled Kazrug. ‘Boots in the hall. Lots of ‘em.’
Toll was up in a moment, one hand on his repeater pistol and the other on his rapier. Callis followed suit.
‘You think they found us?’ he asked. ‘The assassins from my uncle’s house?’
‘They didn’t march in formation,’ said the duardin. His axe was drawn, and he had one of his own pistols in hand. He glanced around the chamber. There were no windows here. Soft glowlights bathed the room in a natural sunlight, and paintings covered the walls.
‘Vermyre called for his guard, that’s all,’ said Toll, though there was an edge of concern in his voice.
The doors slammed open. In rushed the soldiers of the Palatine Guard, resplendent in their purple and gold armour. Their halberds were lowered, and several aimed heavy, hardwood repeater crossbows with top-loading magazines.
‘Drop your weapons,’ shouted the leader. It was the eagle-helmed captain that Callis had clashed with outside. There was a wide, satisfied smile visible beneath the panoply of his headdress. ‘Now!’
‘What is this?’ growled Toll. ‘You are detaining a member of the holy Order. This is treason.’
‘No,’ came a soft voice from the doorway. ‘This is much more than that.’
Ortam Vermyre entered, the Palatine Guard raising their halberds to let their master through as he passed. The High Arbiter’s robe was gone, replaced by a tunic of royal blue and a polished gold breastplate. He carried a fine rapier at one hip, and a silver, sapphire-encrusted sceptre shaped to look like a hissing serpent in his hand. He looked more like a general than a politician now.
‘Ortam,’ breathed the Witch Hunter. ‘Tell me this is not true. Tell me.’
‘You were always a sharp one, Hanniver,’ said the High Arbiter, and Callis could have sworn there was a hint of sadness in his voice. ‘They don’t see it, your masters. They think you weak simply because you think before you act. Because you wield your power only when you must. I know better.’
