But there was nothing. Only that nebulous impression of hostility that felt to Penthius like hungry eyes watching him from the dark.
The sound of movement further back in the temple drew Penthius deeper into the ruin. As he moved through the crumbling rubble, around the heaps of debris where the structure’s roof had fallen in, the sounds became more distinct. Not simply the flutter of bat-wings or the creep of vermin. There was a stolid regularity about them, a rhythm that might almost have been a low cadence.
Penthius quickened his pace, soulshield held before him and maul at the ready. As he rounded a pile of rubble he came upon a section of the temple where a few remnants of the roof had managed to defy the ravages of time. Beneath it was a patch of ground from which the rubble had been cleared. A simple altar fashioned from a piece of slate stood there, a feeble echo of that which must once have graced such a big sanctuary. He noted with alacrity the morbid offerings resting on the crude table, the fleshless skulls of crows and dogs.
Crouched down beside the altar was a young girl clad in a deerskin dress and with a serpent-hide belt about her waist. Her ashen blonde hair was tied back in a row of three braids, one hanging across each shoulder while the third dangled down her back. It was from the girl that the sounds Penthius heard came. In her lap rested a small copper drum and she was striking it with a carved leg bone at regular intervals.
‘Let her finish the ritual.’ Arnhault’s voice suddenly broke into Penthius’ observations. The Sequitor-Prime spun around, surprised to find the Knight-Incantor standing in the darkness.
‘What is all this about?’ Penthius asked, slowly lowering his weapon.
There was a sombre quality to Arnhault’s words when he answered. ‘An old ceremony, something that has been passed down from the days when Kharza was a great kingdom and not merely a wilderness with scattered settlements.’ He gestured with his staff at the girl. ‘She is rendering prayers to the God of Death, asking that the spirit of her brother be allowed to pass safely into the Underworld.’
‘God of Death,’ Penthius repeated. He glanced around the crumbling temple. The malevolence he had felt, the lack of even the merest flicker of Azyr’s light, was explained. This temple had no part in Azyr. Its energies were those of Shyish and its god was not Sigmar but a far darker entity. ‘She prays to Nagash,’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ Arnhault said. ‘Though it was long ago, Nagash was once part of Sigmar’s pantheon and permitted dominion over the souls of the dead. It is a dominion he still commands. Only those spirits most precious to the other gods are capable of escaping the Lord of Undeath.’
‘We must stop her,’ Penthius swore. He started towards the altar, but Arnhault held his staff before him and blocked his path.
‘We must wait,’ Arnhault said. ‘To disrupt the ritual now might prove unwise. It was believed that these prayers would open a channel between the realms. If we interrupt we may cause that channel to remain open and allow the shades of Shyish entry into this world. Moreover, should we silence her prayers we will give warning of our presence here. I would rather know the nature of my enemy before it is aware that I am here to bring its evil to an end.’
Penthius watched the girl as she set the skull of a cat on the altar. With a needle she pricked her finger and drew a single hieroglyph upon the skull in her own blood. He started forwards, instinctively repulsed by the macabre ritual. ‘This is indecent,’ he growled.
‘There are laws to every kind of magic,’ Arnhault declared. ‘Not all of them are pleasant to behold. The ritual you are watching was old when the Kingdom of Kharza was young, handed down from shaman to mystic and from mystic to priest.’ He glanced up at the remaining ceiling, where the faintest remnant of a painted fresco could be found. He drew Penthius’ attention to it.
Still vivid upon the fresco was the shining figure of a bearded man in golden armour, a crown of stars upon his head and a mighty warhammer in his hand. Beside him, veiled in darkness, was a shape in black robes and wearing a tall helm that cast the face beneath into shadow. One hand was outstretched, holding in its bony fingers a great book. The other gripped the gnarled haft of a scythe.
‘Sigmar and Nagash,’ Arnhault named the painted figures. ‘There was a time when the Great Necromancer lent his powers to the God-King’s design. He was honoured alongside the rest of the pantheon and the people venerated him as the King of the Underworld.’
‘That was long ago,’ Penthius stated. ‘Before the betrayal at the All-Gates, before Nagash raised undead legions across the Mortal Realms to extend his rule beyond the boundaries of Shyish. If ever Nagash’s fellowship with the God-King was more than pretence, that time is long past.’
Arnhault nodded. ‘These things we know, but they will not help this child. They will not allay her fears for her brother’s spirit and the peace it will find beyond the grave.’
The Knight-Incantor’s words had a sobering effect upon Penthius. Endowed with the many gifts of the Stormcasts, his body and mind raised beyond the threshold of mortality, it was easy to forget the frailties of mundane humanity. It was a quality that Penthius had always despised when he’d encountered it in other Stormcasts, that self-righteous arrogance and unspoken contempt for common people and their weaknesses. He had always been watchful lest that kind of hubris should find purchase in his own mind. Even then, his vigilance had not been absolute.
‘You are correct, of course,’ Penthius said. ‘Zeal is a poor brother to understanding.’
‘Zeal is a powerful tool,’ Arnhault told him, ‘but you must never allow it to be the only weapon in your arsenal.’ A distant look came into his eyes. To Penthius, it seemed Arnhault was no longer even looking at him, or at the temple in which they stood. ‘Even so, it is a wise man who knows when to be zealous. Who recognises when the time for compassion and understanding is over and all that is left is the necessity of what must be done.’
‘Necessity, brother?’ Penthius could not follow the trend of Arnhault’s speech.
Arnhault shook his head, the distant look vanishing from his eyes. ‘The girl’s prayers will be over soon,’ he said, ignoring the question Penthius had posed. ‘When she is finished, I will speak to her. From her prayers, I have gleaned that she comes from Wyrmditt.’
Penthius looked towards the child with a different appreciation for why Arnhault had taken interest in her. ‘She can guide us back to her town,’ he said.
‘More importantly, she can tell us something of her home,’ Arnhault explained. ‘She can tell us the nature of this evil that preys on her community. When we know that, we will have a better appreciation for the ordeal ahead of us.’ He glanced at Penthius. ‘The augurs could divine only so much from the prayers the people of Wyrmditt rendered up to Sigmar. We know only that the evil that hangs over their community is more than the mundane hazard of beast or brigand. The enemy here is such that falls under the auspices of the Sacrosanct Chamber.’
‘That could mean the daemons of Chaos,’ Penthius nodded to the faded fresco. ‘Or it could mean the spectres of Nagash.’
‘All the more reason to let her finish her prayers,’ Arnhault said, ‘and avoid warning those spectres that we are here.’ He nodded at the cat skull resting on the altar. Penthius looked at the morbid object with keen interest. Though he’d watched the girl mark the thing with her blood, now there was only the faintest hint of the hieroglyph she had drawn. Before his eyes he watched as even that dim residue began to vanish.
‘It will not be long now,’ Arnhault assured Penthius.
The two Stormcasts watched while the last traces of blood vanished from the cat skull. The girl bowed her head towards the altar then rose to her feet, her little hands smoothing the folds of her dress. As she turned around, she saw for the first time the armoured giants who had joined her in the ruin. Her eyes wide with amazement, she backed away, almost tripping over the crude altar. Penthius could see the
shiver of dread that gripped her as she opened her mouth and tried to scream. All that emerged was a terrified gasp.
Arnhault made a placating gesture with his hands. ‘Do not be afraid. We are not here to do you harm.’
The girl kept backing away, her already pale complexion turning still more ashen. She reached to the serpent-hide belt and drew a small knife. In her panic she was oblivious to the absurdity of the action.
‘I am Penthius,’ the Sequitor-Prime said, tapping his hand against his breastplate. ‘This is Knight-Incantor Arnhault.’ He paused as he noticed the girl responding to his voice. ‘We are on a quest and have come from very far away…’
The girl looked at Arnhault. ‘Are you really a knight?’ she asked with a quiver in her voice.
‘I am,’ Arnhault answered. ‘I am a knight in the service of the God-King.’ He pointed to Penthius. ‘We both are. We are sworn to honour Sigmar’s justice and protect those who keep the spirit of Sigmar’s laws.’
‘Tell us, little one, by what name are you called?’ Penthius asked.
The question caused colour to rush into the child’s cheeks and an embarrassed smile to tug at her mouth. ‘My name is Hilda,’ she said. ‘My grandma used to tell me stories,’ she added as she lowered her knife. ‘She talked about knights who walked inside the lightning and would sometimes come down to fight monsters.’ She pointed at the crow skull lying on the altar. ‘Grandma died.’
‘And now you have lost your brother,’ Penthius said, indicating the cat skull the girl had added to the macabre collection.
‘Oh no,’ Hilda hurried to correct him. ‘He did not get lost. Everybody knows where he is.’
‘We mean that he is gone from this realm,’ Penthius explained.
‘No, they won’t let him go anywhere,’ Hilda said. ‘It isn’t allowed. He has to stay where they put him.’
Penthius shook his head. ‘Your brother is dead. Of course he must stay where they buried him.’
A puzzled expression fell across the girl’s face. She gazed up at the Stormcasts in confusion. ‘Berndt isn’t dead – he is just where they put him.’
Arnhault stepped forwards and leaned down to look Hilda in the eyes. ‘You were sitting here saying prayers for your brother’s spirit,’ he reminded her. ‘Why would you do that if he is not dead?’
Hilda drew away from Arnhault, fear creeping back into her eyes. Penthius walked over to Arnhault and laid his hand on the aether-mage’s shoulder. ‘Let me talk to her,’ he suggested. He reached up and undid the straps holding his helmet. When he removed the sigmarite mask and revealed his own features, Hilda smiled at him and even took a step closer.
‘I apologise if we frightened you,’ Penthius said, ‘but it is important that we know why you were saying prayers if your brother isn’t dead.’
‘Because Mamma and Pappa said he was going to go away like grandma did. I don’t want Berndt to go away, so I came here to ask the god to not take him.’ Hilda cast her gaze to the floor, trying to hide from Penthius the tears that now filled her eyes. ‘When grandma was sick I came here to ask the god not to take her, but he didn’t listen.’ She stamped her foot on the floor. ‘I did everything just like Pater Mathias does in his chapel, but the god wouldn’t listen to me.’ She looked up, instinctively turning towards Arnhault when she asked her question. ‘Why didn’t the god listen? Was it because I was bad?’
Arnhault shook his head. ‘There is no easy answer for why. Sometimes even the kindest gods won’t do everything that is asked of them.’ He darted a look at Penthius, then returned his gaze to Hilda. ‘You say they are keeping Berndt somewhere? Is it somewhere in Wyrmditt?’
Hilda nodded and stifled a sob. ‘Yes. We all live in Wyrmditt. They took Berndt and locked him in the chapel.’
‘Who did? The other people in the town?’ Arnhault waited while the girl slowly nodded. ‘Why would they do that?’
Hilda looked at Arnhault, then swung her gaze back to Penthius. ‘They have to give him to the king,’ she said.
Arnhault rose to his feet. When he spoke, it was in a sombre whisper. ‘What king, child?’
‘The Shrouded King,’ Hilda said. ‘The priest-king of Kharza.’
Thick clouds of mist hung above Wyrmditt, pelting the town with warm rain. Brief glimpses of the settlement could be seen from the hills above it, but for the most part it was simply an indistinct mass. Situated on the periphery of the vast geyser fields, Wyrmditt was veiled in the steam exhaled by the boiling pools. The atmosphere was damp and heavy, notably hotter than the veldt and the area around the abandoned Shrine of Nagash.
Arnhault studied the town from atop one of the hills, or at least as much as the heavy mists allowed him to. There were spells he might have evoked that would have dissipated the clouds and afforded him an unobstructed view, but he dismissed the temptation to draw on his magic. From what he had learned from Hilda, he was concerned that the enemy would sense such an aetheric disturbance. If it could be helped, he intended to deny their foe such warning.
‘It never fails to be a cause for wonder, the places men will make their own.’ Castigator-Prime Nerio touched his fingers to the talisman he wore. He and three of his bowmen had accompanied Arnhault as a bodyguard while the Knight-Incantor scouted Wyrmditt. The armour of all four Castigators was damp with the warm rain, but only Nerio had the habit of cradling his greatbow against his side to protect it from the moisture – a precaution that was unnecessary for the thunderhead greatbow, but perhaps not so eccentric for whatever weapon he’d carried before he was first reforged.
Arnhault rolled that thought over in his mind. A little echo of the past still impressing itself on Nerio. It was one of the terrible riddles of reforging, which parts of the Stormcast remained and which were lost upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis. An old habit devoid of conscious volition endured while the face of a cherished son was obliterated from the mind. There seemed to be no pattern to what was retained and what was lost, yet Arnhault was convinced there had to be some kind of methodology behind it all. Except for the profane magic of Chaos, all enchantments and conjurations obeyed certain laws. Even if an aether-mage didn’t know what they were, that didn’t mean they were not there.
‘Would it be impudent to suggest that these people should move?’ Nerio jested. ‘Certainly there must be places they could settle where they wouldn’t have to drink the air.’
Arnhault pointed to the dirty brown ribbon that snaked its way past the dark mass that was Wyrmditt and its streets. ‘That is the Wyrm River, born from the blood of the demi-dragon Zhaan. Men have always plied its waters to trade with their neighbours. In the days of Kharza there were many towns like Wyrmditt on its shores, some even larger. The mist you despise is the price these people pay for their prosperity.’ He gestured away from the town and the river to the geyser fields and the plumes of water vapour rising from the boiling pools. ‘The geysers throw up more than steam and mist. Rare salts and exotic minerals are cast up as well, dredged from the very roots of the world. In old times there were duardin lords who would pay their weight in gold for the treasures yielded by this land.’
Nerio wiped the condensation from the mask of his helm. ‘Greed,’ he hissed. ‘I could forgive that motivation if it simply asked these people to endure this cloying atmosphere, but this town has sunk far beneath such considerations.’ He waved back down the hill to where Penthius and the other Stormcasts waited along with the girl. ‘What that child has told us makes me think we should leave this whole place to its fate.’
Arnhault glared at Nerio. ‘The mission entrusted to us calls us to this place,’ he reminded him. ‘Our duty is here. We will defend it.’
‘Forgive me, Knight-Incantor,’ Nerio said, ‘but was it not you who said that we were not hunters or protectors, but avengers? Who is worthy of vengeance if not those who would sacrifice their own people to save themselves?’
&n
bsp; ‘The fiends that have forced them to such an abominable choice,’ Arnhault replied. ‘The undead creature that has crowned itself king of Kharza.’ He cast his gaze out over Wyrmditt, but it was not the town he was looking at. It was the land beyond it, the old kingdom hidden by the low-hanging clouds. ‘Do not think this evil will be content with one town. It will seek to expand its dominion, to bring even more of Ghur under the shroud of Nagash.’ He turned back to Nerio. ‘What we fight here is but a skirmish in a far wider war.
‘We will avenge the innocent who have been lost here,’ Arnhault vowed. ‘But we will visit that vengeance upon those truly deserving of it.’ He looked once more upon the sprawl of Wyrmditt. His focus was drawn to one structure that was taller than the others, its slate roof poking through the mist. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have seen all I need to see. It is time we returned the child to her home.
‘And proclaimed to the people of Wyrmditt that their deliverance is at hand.’
Arnhault led the procession of Stormcasts as they marched into Wyrmditt. The buildings were tall and narrow, their lower walls built from heavy stones while the upper floors were fashioned from wooden beams and panels of lacquered paper. Each structure had an angled roof with slate tiles and leering gargoyles that did their best to spit out the omnipresent rain collecting on them. A few of the buildings sported little workshops that faced the street while others had ornate gateways that led into tiny gardens of rock and sand. Sometimes a larger structure would appear, signs stretching out from their facades to proclaim the trade conducted within. Brewer and cooper, stonesmith and tanner, glass-blower and steelmonger.
The armoured tread of the Stormcasts upon the cobblestones sent a dull roar rolling through the streets ahead of them. There was no question that the inhabitants were aware of their visitors, yet not one could be seen. Arnhault could imagine them hiding inside their homes, peering anxiously through shuttered windows and cracked doors. Perhaps none of them recognised the Stormcast Eternals for what they were, or perhaps they did and hid themselves from a sense of shame over what their fear had driven them to do.
Sacrosanct & Other Stories Page 3
