Gods & Mortals

by Various Authors

  ‘He has love enough, when it is of use.’

  The dead man nodded, as if in understanding. ‘And what do you seek here, traveller? To what use do you hope to put our gathered wisdom?’

  Balthas drew himself up. ‘That is my affair, librarian. Will you yield me passage?’

  ‘And if we do not?’

  Balthas paused, considering. He did not doubt that he could fight his way into the library. He was a Lord-Arcanum, and the mystic arts were his to wield in war as well as peace. He had routed armies in his time. A handful of dead men – dead academics, at that – would prove little challenge. And yet… there was something about them. Like a fire, newly snuffed, but ready to burst to life once more.

  He’d heard stories of sorcerers haunting their own bodies, possessing all the powers they’d had in life. He glanced at the librarian, and found the dead man gazing at him, as if reading his thoughts. After a moment more, Balthas said, ‘Then I will leave in peace.’

  The dead man laughed, a hoarse, hollow sound. Balthas felt the sudden easing of a tension he had not realised was there. It had been a test, and he had passed. The librarian stepped back, and gestured.

  ‘Enter freely then, and of your own will, son of the storm. But your beast must stay here, with the steeds of the other patrons. Fear not. We will tend to him.’

  Balthas nodded, and gave Quicksilver’s beak a rub. ‘I do not fear for him. Be warned, he is temperamental.’

  ‘As the riders, so the steeds,’ the dead man chuckled. Balthas pretended not to hear this witticism, and instead gathered his robes about him and strode in the direction the librarian had indicated.

  Dead men stood at attention to either side of every doorway he passed through, as he entered the library. He was not surprised – the dead were natural caretakers of the past, and not just in Shyish. He knew of a certain monastery in the Starfall Mountains of Azyr, wherein a soulblight anchorite was interred. The vampire had sealed himself in a cell of stone, the better to come to grips with his curse. He whispered tales of the past to any who dared visit, and many an academic had traded a drop of their blood for a lecture on events of centuries gone by. Even Balthas himself, and more than once.

  But here, the dead walked freely, if in silence, passing among the stacks, replacing tomes and scrolls from where they’d been taken. The library was a labyrinth of thousands of high shelves, each crafted from balewood and taller than a gargant. The shelves seemed to stretch in all directions, a forest of polished wood. Each one was burdened with more books than it could handle. In places, the excess had been stacked haphazardly on the floor, and scrolls piled in loose hills of papyrus.

  Above him, the upper galleries twisted in a tight spiral, rising towards the curve of the domed roof. He saw shadowy figures prowling the stacks there, and heard the murmuring of hushed voices.

  On the lower floor, he turned a corner, and startled an aelf clad in blue-green robes that smelled faintly of the sea. The aelf hurried past him, and Balthas felt a flicker of unease as he caught a glimpse of the other’s soul with his storm-sight – silvery bright, like a fish sliding through sunlit waters. The aelf vanished in moments, lost in the winding maze of shelves. But he was not the only visitor on the lower level.

  Balthas glimpsed others – some human, some not – crouched on the floor, poring over grimoires, or hurriedly copying the contents of yellowed scrolls. The souls he glimpsed were coloured by every realm, and the voices he heard spoke with many accents, some unfamiliar even to him. He paid little attention to them.

  Others might be content to dig through the dust of the Mortal Realms for nuggets of wisdom. He had come looking for something else. Something older. A quick glance at the shelves told him that it was as the ancient texts had said – the library was organised by epoch. More recent volumes were higher, and older ones lower.

  A spiral staircase led him down to the lower galleries, those far below ground level. The lower he went, the fewer dead men or visitors he saw. Drifts of dust and cobwebs covered the floors. Books were chained to the shelves, their covers padlocked, as if in fear that they – or what lay within them – might escape. Scrolls rustled softly as he passed ­honeycomb shelves, and he heard a whisper of voices, as if from far away.

  Ghostly shapes moved by him, like visual echoes of visitors past. They did not interact or give any sign that they noticed his presence, and he did not interfere with them. As he prowled the stacks, he lifted his hand and whispered a single syllable. A tiny light blossomed on his palm. A second syllable sent it whisking away from him. The light would lead him to the books he sought.

  It flashed between shelves and around the edge of the gallery, moving swiftly. He followed, and found himself in a circular space, lit by iron lanterns. Curved shelves lined the walls, and the books shifted in their nests of dust, like startled birds. The light bobbed along the shelves, pausing every so often before zipping away once more. The whispers were louder here, and the phantoms more prevalent. Some even seemed to take note of him.

  The light stopped, bobbing in the air, and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. The books before him were not as aged as he’d thought they’d be. Indeed, their bindings were fairly new. Basilisk hide, if he was any judge. He pulled one down and gently turned the roughly cut pages. The script was not one he knew. It was not any dialect of Azyrite, or Ghurdish, or even Aqshyan. And yet, it was achingly familiar. As if he had seen it somewhere before, but forgotten it.

  ‘Al… al-kahest,’ he murmured, sounding out one of the unfamiliar words. He blinked. For a moment, a man’s face had filled his mind’s eye – a ship’s captain, by his look, but wearing a style of clothing that was popular only in certain districts of Azyrheim. The man was grinning as Balthas handed over a golden ingot. Only it was not truly gold, Balthas knew, but lead. But by the time the fool learned the truth, Balthas would be…

  He closed the book with a snap. Replacing it, he selected another. The script was different, but as before, the bindings were new. Herein were strange, swooping runes that reminded him of the writings of certain aelfish philosophers. ‘Ahrain… daroir… cynath…’ he said, the unfamiliar vowels tangling his tongue.

  Again, he closed the book. He peered down the line of the shelves, and his heart quickened. He felt as a hunter must, upon seeing that first track in the snow. What he was searching for might well be here, among these strange words. And yet… there was something else. He could feel it at the edge of his perceptions. Like an old ache in the bones.

  There was magic here. He’d sensed it the moment he set foot in the library, but it had been diffuse. Now, it was more concentrated, as if he were closer to the source. He looked down at the floor, eyes narrowed. There was another level, below even this one. The peak had been hollowed out to make room for the library and all it held. And perhaps more than just the peak. He set the book aside and sank to one knee.

  He pressed his palm to the floor and felt it, then. A faint resonance, like the distant boom of thunder. Or the beating of a heart. He closed his eyes, and tried to attune himself to the magics he felt bleeding upwards through the stones. A moment later, he jerked his hand back and opened his eyes. For an instant, it had been akin to standing at the edge of a mighty tempest, and knowing that at any second it might sweep over you.

  As he rose to his feet, he heard the soft rustle of cloth against armour. The sound came from above him. One of the upper galleries.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’

  The voice that echoed down was oily, and proud. As if the speaker were trying his best to restrain laughter. Balthas looked up.

  ‘Who’s there? Who speaks?’

  ‘One who is surprised to see you. You Stormcasts are not known for being bookish.’

  ‘And who are you, that you would know anything of us?’ Balthas said, as he turned, scanning the upper galleries for any sign of the speaker. The voice sounded
familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t tie it to a face, or a name. He heard boot heels on the stone floor, and the clink of spurs. The speaker was moving through the shelves at the edge of the gallery just above, keeping out of sight. Even with his storm-sight, he saw little more than a flicker of sickly, amethyst radiance – a will-o’-the-wisp flitting among the shadows.

  ‘Is there one of you, then, who does not know me?’ Laughter slithered down from above. ‘I do not know whether to be insulted or pleased.’ A pause. ‘Did you feel it, then?’

  ‘Feel what?’

  Another laugh. ‘You know of what I speak. Answer me.’

  Balthas gestured surreptitiously. A ball of blue light blossomed in his hand. ‘Reveal yourself, and I will.’ The light flickered and swelled. He tossed it up, and it expanded like a miniature sun, filling the chamber, and searing away the shadows. He heard a strangled cry from above, and then one of the great shelves was tottering on its base.

  The shelf toppled from the gallery, shattering as it struck the floor. Balthas leapt back as scrolls and ancient tomes were scattered in all directions. More shelves followed suit, one after the next, an avalanche of balewood. Balthas was forced to twist and dodge out of the way as each one smashed down. In the meantime, without his concentration, the light faded, and the shadows surged back once more.

  As the darkness swelled, he heard the rustle of a cloak, and the sharp whisper of a blade leaving its sheath. Then, a form was falling towards him, sword raised. Instinctively he interposed his staff, and caught the blow. The strength behind it was unexpected, and he found himself driven back a step. Another blow followed the first, and then a third. His attacker was swifter than any mortal, and stronger.

  The sword crashed down again, biting into the sigmarite of his staff. He twisted his shoulders and wrenched it from his attacker’s grip. It slid away, and his foe cursed. Balthas jabbed his staff forward, and lightning snarled, momentarily illuminating his opponent. He saw baroque, sharp-ridged armour and a pale, narrow face, scooped to a vulpine point. Bare arms corded with muscle swept out, the clawed hands limned with witchfire.

  Balthas paused. With his storm-sight, he saw more than just the physical corpus before him – he glimpsed the rot nestled within it. A bestial shadow, roiling within a shell of long-dead flesh. Ever-hungry and all-consuming.

  ‘Soulblight,’ he muttered. A vampire. Nagash’s curse upon the living and the dead alike.

  ‘You’re no swordsman, but you have some skill,’ the vampire said, as his eyes blazed crimson. Fangs bared, he slashed his hands out. His claws scraped the air, drawing forth purple flames that convulsed and lashed out.

  Balthas slammed his staff down, and the malign spell unravelled even as it washed over him. His opponent raised an eyebrow.

  ‘More than some,’ Balthas replied, haughtily. He swung his staff up and levelled it like a spear. ‘Name yourself, leech.’

  The vampire smirked and drew himself up, every inch the arrogant lordling he resembled. He inclined his head with mocking graciousness. ‘Mannfred von Carstein, at your service.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know me now, man of Azyr?’

  ‘I do.’ Von Carstein was a name etched on the skin of history, not just here in Shyish, but in all realms. All Stormcasts knew the reputation of the Mortarch of Night, even as they knew that he had been responsible for the deaths of many of their brethren. Sigmar had decreed that the vampire was an enemy of Azyr, to be captured on sight. ‘There is a bounty on your head, leech. The God-King himself wishes to discuss certain matters with you.’

  ‘Still?’ Mannfred smirked. ‘You’d think he’d grow tired of pursuing me, when there is greater prey to be had.’ He took a step back, and Balthas pursued. He had no intention of letting the vampire escape his sight. ‘Fair is fair, I’ve told you my name – tell me yours.’

  Balthas paused. There was danger in giving a vampire your name, or so he’d heard. But pride compelled him.

  ‘Balthas Arum. Lord-Arcanum of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. And you are in my custody.’ Even as he spoke, he wondered where the librarians were. Someone should have come by now, to investigate the commotion. Then, perhaps the dead had wisely chosen not to interfere.

  ‘I’ve heard that name before.’ Mannfred’s expression became one of curiosity. ‘Have we met?’ His eyes flicked about, as if searching for something. ‘There’s something familiar about your scent, beneath the harsh tang of Azyrite sorcery.’

  ‘If we had met, you would be in a cage already.’

  Mannfred bared his fangs in a smile. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Quite certain,’ Balthas said, though not with as much assurance as he’d have liked. ‘The librarians let you in?’

  ‘I asked politely,’ Mannfred said. ‘All who come in peace are welcome.’ He looked around. ‘Besides, you are not the only one who yearns to know the secrets of forgotten epochs, Stormcast.’

  ‘And which secrets are those?’

  ‘You know, I’m not sure.’ Mannfred glanced slyly at Balthas. ‘Perhaps if you tell me why you’re here, it might prod my memory.’

  ‘I am the one asking the questions, vampire.’

  Mannfred shrugged. ‘Ah well, never mind.’ Before Balthas could reply, the vampire lunged to the side. In a burst of inhuman strength he wrenched one of the shattered shelves from the floor and swept it about. The suddenness of the attack caught Balthas by surprise. He was knocked sprawling in a spray of splinters and broken shelves. As he shoved aside the remains of the shelf and scrambled to his feet, ­Mannfred snatched up his fallen blade.

  Balthas thrust his staff forwards and spat a string of clarion syllables. Lightning sawed through the air, and Mannfred leapt aside. Laughing, the vampire stretched out his hand and a gust of spectral wind raced towards Balthas. Phantom skulls gaped, and ethereal claws stretched out, seeking to grasp him. Balthas swung his staff about him in a wide circle, and a shimmering haze of starlight sprang up. The phantasms struck the mystic shield like water, and faded. As the spell dissolved into sparkling motes, Balthas saw that the vampire had fled.

  Even as he cursed himself for allowing the creature to escape, Balthas struck the floor with his staff. He could feel the weight of Mannfred’s tread on the stones, and hear the echo of his boots. Flickering wisps of purple radiance briefly outlined the Mortarch’s footprints. Balthas followed them quickly, wondering as he did so why the Mortarch was here, and whether it had anything to do with the power he could sense pulsing beneath his feet.

  Silence enfolded him as he passed between the lower shelves. Idly, he let his free hand drift out to caress the cracked spines of nearby books. So much knowledge here. So much wisdom. But was any of it what he sought?

  Laughter drifted down from somewhere above him. He looked up, and saw nothing but shadows. When he looked back at the floor, ­Mannfred’s trail appeared to have come to an end. It shimmered before him, almost mockingly.

  ‘Having trouble, Balthas?’

  Balthas turned, trying to pinpoint the vampire. He did not bother to reply.

  Mannfred continued. ‘I think you came here for the same reason I did. You noticed what I already knew… old words, but new bindings. Intriguing, no?’

  Balthas heard the scrape of a spur on wood and spun, as a slim shape leapt across the gap between shelves and vanished.

  ‘Where do they get those old words, do you think? Those ancient languages, unspoken by any mortal of the realms?’

  ‘I do not care.’ Balthas spoke before he could stop himself.

  ‘That’s a lie, if ever I heard one.’ Mannfred’s voice echoed down, and Balthas swept the stacks with his eyes, seeking any hint of movement. ‘I think we’re of a kind, you and I. Searchers into mystery, the pair of us. We yearn to know the unknowable, and make use of it.’ A pause. Then, ‘Are you entirely certain we are strangers? I feel as if I have had a similar conversation. In another age.
’

  Balthas frowned. ‘I would know if I had met you before.’

  ‘True. I’m told it’s quite an experience, meeting me for the first time.’ Spurs clinked against wood. Balthas heard a shelf rock on its base. ‘If you’re waiting for aid, it’s not coming. The librarians and I have… an understanding. I have the freedom of this place, and they remain silent, lest I let slip their location to others less… genial than I.’

  ‘I gathered as much,’ Balthas said. His voice echoed through the gallery. He could feel Mannfred drawing closer. Try as he might, the vampire could not hide the stench of his curse from one attuned to such things. He set his staff, and reached out, letting his thoughts brush across the books around him. They responded, twitching on their shelves. The air thickened and bunched, as he manipulated it like clay.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mannfred called out. ‘I can feel…’

  The first book slid from its shelf a moment later. Then another and another, born aloft by the sylphs he’d conjured from the dusty air. The elementals were small things, barely there at all. But enough for his purposes. More books joined the first. Hundreds of them, rising up like a swarm of bats. They spiralled upwards, covers flapping.

  Then, as one, they swooped towards the dim pulse of Mannfred’s soul. Balthas heard a snarl of realisation, and then the thud of boots on wood. He smiled. The books filled the air, flocking in serpentine fashion, harrying their quarry. They could not hurt the creature, but they might provoke him into making a foolish mistake. His sense of satisfaction faltered as he heard a sound like splintering wood, and then a boom. Another boom followed the first, and then another, each louder than the last.

  The floor shook beneath him, and a belated realisation caused him to turn, even as the shelf to his left began to topple towards him. Instinctively, he dropped his staff and raised his hands, catching the shelf as it fell. The weight was immense, and he grunted with effort. He realised his mistake an instant later, as Mannfred erupted from the shelf in a cloud of splinters, claws reaching.