‘No.’
Sigmar’s voice rumbled out like thunder, momentarily overcoming the tumult. ‘No. This shall not be.’ The God-King was suddenly there, swelling like a storm cloud, growing larger, his glowing form piercing the smoke. He caught a cracking pillar in either hand and forced them back into place with a roar of tortured stone. He thrust his shoulder against the slumping roof and held it steady. ‘This will not be.’
As his words struck the air, lightning snarled and stretched in crackling lines across the crumbling walls. Damaged stone grew hot and reformed, and the ruptures in the floor sealed themselves. With the pillars in place, Sigmar raised his hands and slammed them against the roof. More lightning flashed, shrieking from the point of impact. Falling stones reversed course, tumbling upwards to reform most of the roof.
Balthas stared in wonder until a cough from Tyros shook him He looked down at the other lord-arcanum ‘Brother - are you…?’ Tyros’ armour had been burnt and crumpled in places, and his azure robes were tattered and blackened.
‘Still breathing,’ Tyros panted. ‘Just cracked my ribs. And broke several other bones. I’ll be fine.’ He caught hold of Balthas’ robes. ‘Go after it, brother. Don’t let it escape. Do your duty.’
Balthas nodded and stood. He extended his hand and exerted his will. His staff hissed through the air like a crossbow bolt. He caught it and spun it in a slow, precise circle, calling the celestial winds to him It was more difficult than it ought to have been, but slowly, the smoke was dispersed, revealing the far side of the chamber.
He saw the Anvil, still spewing purple light. The floor was still shaking as he strode past, hunting his prey. He could see the scorch marks where his blast had cast the lightning-gheist. And more, he could see the marks on the wall, where it had climbed, seeking escape. His eyes followed the black trail up and up, to the shattered dome overhead. He saw a flash of light, past the broken glass.
‘There you are.’ He had to get up there, and swiftly, before the lightning-gheist escaped. He raised his hands. The aetheric winds were still in upheaval, but he managed to find the edges of the power and draw it to him Lightning leapt through the dome and arrowed down to strike his staff. He spun, dragging the lightning around him, as if it were a cloak. It resonated with the storm-magics that permeated his body, and he felt himself thin and stretch as he was reduced to a ghost of hissing aether.
Spells of translocation were dangerous. It was all too easy for even the most skilled mage to lose themselves in the celestial currents and become part of the aether. But Balthas saw no other option. He shot upwards, his form twisting and curling like smoke.
As Balthas rose, his perceptions expanded. He could feel Sigmar’s presence, as heavy as Mallus itself and as blinding as the sun. He saw the soulfire parts of his fellow Stormcasts and felt the twisting currents of the aether. It was akin to trying to swim through storm-tossed waters, and it took all of his concentration to avoid being swept away by the cosmic riptide. Time and space stretched around him He could hear the dolorous, bone-deep groaning of Mallus, and the wild screaming of the stars. More, he could hear something that might have been darksome laughter, booming up from some distant realm. The sound clawed at his soul, threatening to drag him back down, but he tore free. As he cleared the dome, he wrenched himself loose from the aether.
He fell to the roof and rolled to his feet, wreathed in steam and spots of light. His senses swam, readjusting to the physical world. He braced himself with his staff, as the tower shook. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up.
Balthas froze. Stared. The heavens were burning. Shimmering ribbons of amethyst fire rippled upwards and outwards, rising from the lightless gulfs below. Where the ribbons touched, reality shuddered, as if in revulsion - or fear. The Sigmarabulum shook as from a shock wave, and towers collapsed in clouds of dust. He could hear the screams of those caught in the wave of devastation as it passed over the ring. Far below, fires burned as the weapon-forges and ore-processors ruptured and spat molten sigmarite into the streets.
He spun, as a soul-mill cracked open with a roar of splintering stone, disgorging a storm of lightning into the tortured air. The freed souls swirled in a riotous tempest, their cries joining the general clamour. Some dissipated, their essences lost to the cosmic winds. Others fell towards the streets, their shapes twisted out of joint, becoming crackling nightmares.
A hiss of burning air reminded him that they were not the only lightning-gheists at large. He turned, slashing out with his staff. The creature jerked back, distended maw snapping. It had lost all semblance of human shape and rationality. Faces made from pure energy formed on its body, all screaming in the same voice. It slithered towards him, growing new limbs in its haste. Balthas faced it, staff held across his body.
It surged towards him, setting the air aflame as it moved. Balthas thrust his staff out, catching it between the jaws and focusing his will. A lightning-gheist was nothing more or less than a living storm - and how to control the storm was the first lesson an aether-mage learned. He spat incantations, matching his voice against the creature’s screaming. It writhed, caught suddenly by bands of air and light. Tendrils of lightning flailed down, battering him. His war-plate grew warm, then hot, as the strikes washed over him His robes and cloak smouldered, then burst into flame. Even enchanted cloth had its limits.
Balthas twisted his staff, drawing some of the lightning-gheist’s substance into it. The creature shrieked and redoubled its struggles. ‘Hear me, Pharus Thaum - hear me, Anvil of the Heldenhammer. Yield - do not let pain and fury lead you to destruction. There are wars yet to be fought, brother - do not force me to destroy you!’
The creature howled like a hurricane. Its struggles turned the stones beneath their feet black. It squirmed away from him, dragging against his magics, trying to pull free. But it was caught fast, and he braced himself, resisting its attempt to break away. He began to weave an incantation to cage it.
Another shock wave struck the Sigmarabulum Purple light blazed up, blinding Balthas momentarily. He staggered, losing his hold on the lightning-gheist. As his vision cleared, he saw it tear away from him, and he leapt after it, staff raised.
He drove his staff down, like a spear, trying to ground the creature. But as his staff struck, the edge of the tower sheared away beneath them Instinctively, Balthas flung out his hand and caught the broken periphery. He slammed back against the tower, hard enough to rattle his teeth. He saw the lightning-gheist spinning away, not towards the Sigmarabulum, but the starlit void. Balthas watched it fall, unable to prevent it. It shrieked as it receded, tumbling faster and faster, until it was merely one more shimmering speck in the firmament.
Breathing heavily, Balthas hauled himself to safety. He bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer for the soul of Pharus Thaum ‘I am sorry, brother,’ he said softly. He used his staff to push himself to his feet. He looked out over the ring, trying to gauge the limits of the devastation. But all he could see was fire.
The Sigmarabulum was aflame.
And somewhere, a god was laughing.
Chapter six
Nadir
FREE CITY OF GLYMMSFORGE
The taste of victory was not so sweet as Calys Eltain recalled. The Liberator-Prime sat on a toppled pillar, staring at the gryph-hound that lay listlessly beside her. Calys reached down, and Grip pulled back, out of reach, growling softly. Calys retracted her hand. ‘I am angry as well,’ she said softly. There was no telling whether the beast understood her or not. ‘He seemed to be a good leader. A good warrior. That he is not here now is a… mistake.’
Warriors died. That was their purpose. To die, so that another might not. That was why the Stormcasts were reforged - so that they might die as many times as was necessary, until the war was won. She took a grim satisfaction from the thought. Only Sigmar’s chosen had the will to endure such torment.
But it had gone wrong.
She had been ready to die again. Pharus had saved her, at the cost of himself. A debt she would do her best to repay, when he returned. If he returned. Sometimes it took longer than it ought. Some souls could not be reforged in days, or even months. They took years. Some were lost on their way back to Azyr, drawn to the edges of the realms, where the raw stuff of magic gnawed at the borders of existence.
She feared that whatever disaster had gripped Glymmsforge was not limited to Shyish. She felt it, deep in her bones - a sense of something wrong. As if the fundamental alignment of the realms had been thrown off somehow.
‘What was it?’ she muttered.
‘A cataclysm,’ a deep voice intoned. ‘One unlike any this realm, or any other, has ever weathered before.’
Calys looked up. Lord-Relictor Dathus stood nearby, watching her. He had his skull-faced helm under one arm, and his black mortis armour was covered in ash and other, less identifiable substances. ‘You did well, Calys Eltain. Took command, when it was needed, and held the line. Such qualities are much sought after.’
‘My thanks, my lord. But I did only what was necessary.’
The lord-relictor of the Gravewalkers nodded. ‘Yes. But you recognised what that was, at the time. Few warriors do.’ He came and sat beside her. ‘He requested that you be sent down here, you know. He asked for your cohort, specifically.’
Calys blinked. She hadn’t known. ‘Why?’
Dathus looked away. ‘Who can say? Pharus could be ridiculously cryptic when he put his mind to it. It was one of two reasons he was stationed here, in the dark.’
‘And what was the other?’
‘He was a brave warrior.’
Calys looked away. ‘He liked apples.’ She didn’t know why she said it, but it seemed appropriate. Dathus looked away. Somewhere, in the dark, bells were ringing. ‘The aftershocks of the cataclysm have faded, but the dead are still in uproar, still stalking the lightless avenues. It will take many weeks to lay them all to rest.’
‘Then it was necromancy?’
Dathus frowned. ‘Some are calling it a necroquake. As good a term as any.’ He looked at her, his face expressionless. ‘Lord-Celestant Lynos has agreed that it is best that I take command down here for the duration of the current crisis. I have spoken to Briaeus and the others. Now I come to you.’ He studied her. ‘You have only recently come down here. If you wish your cohort to be rotated out, I feel it only fair to give you the opportunity.’
Calys glanced down at Grip. Then she shook her head. There was no need to consult with her cohort. Tamacus and the others would follow her lead. ‘No. We will stay.’
‘Good.’ Dathus did not sound as if he had doubted that she would. He leaned on his staff and stared out into the dark ruins. ‘The aether is in uproar. The winds of magic blow strong, even down here. The gate of every tomb rattles, and the shadows are full of faces. We will need to be wary, in the coming weeks and months.’
Calys looked around, though there was nothing to see. ‘It sounds as if Nagash has declared war on Azyr.’ Calys glanced at the lord-relictor.
Dathus laughed harshly. ‘He did that long ago, sister. This is just a renewal of hostilities.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Azyr and Shyish. Apex and nadir. The Heavens are potential writ large. They stir the soul and feed the soil. They bring light to the darkness and cast long shadows. All things are possible, if one but looks to the stars.’ He gestured to the roof of the cavern. ‘But in Death, potential ends. It damps the fires of creation and brings silence to all places.’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘I hear him, in the hollows of my soul. Like a great bell, tolling the end of all days. He wishes to recast us all in his image and make all souls one with his own. He will devour us, wholly and utterly, if we let him.’
Calys ran a hand through her hair. ‘Is the city safe?’.
‘For the moment, and so long as we keep watch over the Ten Thousand Tombs,’ the lord-relictor said. ‘Do you know what lies within them?’
Calys shook her head. ‘Rumours, only.’
‘An army. A legion of the dead, sealed away against the day of Nagash’s return, many centuries ago.’ He smiled coldly. ‘But we found them first and ensured that they would never awaken. Not while the Anvils of the Heldenhammer stood watch here, in the dark. That was Pharus’ task, and one he relished.’
‘And now?’
‘It will be mine, until a suitable replacement can be found.’ He studied her for a moment. He looked as if he wished to say something, but the sudden clangour of bells interrupted him He sighed and got to his feet. ‘Another empty tomb has been found. Another black soul, loose in these catacombs.’
Calys made to follow him, but Dathus waved her back. ‘No. Briaeus and I will deal with it. You will see to the evacuation of the wounded. We will speak more later.’ He turned, eyes narrowed. ‘I fear that the cataclysm was but a prelude to something worse. Keep your sword close, Calys Eltain.’ His words echoed after him as he strode away. She watched him go and then looked down at Grip.
‘What was it Pharus said? An adventure every day?’
The gryph-hound yawned. Calys snorted. She needed to rejoin her cohort and resume her duties. She looked up. The dark seemed to stretch out in all directions and swallow every sound. An eternal void. She lost herself in it for a few moments. Or perhaps longer. Then, she heard Grip growl. She blinked and shook herself.
A cat was watching her. No, more than one. They prowled among the tombs, tails lashing. Thinking of Dathus’ instructions, she suddenly recalled the child - Elya - and wondered whether she had managed to escape the catacombs. Ordinarily, the child would have slipped her mind entirely. What mattered one child, in such devastation?
Yet… the girl had been important to Pharus. And something about her puzzled Calys. There were hundreds of urchins like her roaming the streets above. So why did this one feel important?
She shook her head, annoyed. Ever since the wraith had touched her, she had been plagued by wisps of memory. Nothing solid, just snatches of a song that might have been a lullaby, the feel of a small hand in hers; frustrating glimpses of a forgotten time. She looked down at the cats. ‘Well? What do you want?’
The cats scampered away. She followed them They led her along winding paths, through a field of fallen pillars and crushed tombs. She heard the voices of her fellow warriors, echoing through the ruin. A crowd of Stormcasts and several mortal priests were gathered around a small, angry shape. ‘Where is he? Where did he go?’ Elya screamed, pounding small fists against a hapless Stormcast’s armour. The warrior held his arms a safe distance from the child, perhaps worried about accidentally injuring her. ‘Bring him back!’
The cats scattered into the dark as one of the priests noticed her arrival and bowed low, making way. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
A Liberator looked at her. One of the ones who had arrived with Dathus. ‘The child - she somehow got past the traps. Our orders-’
‘Our orders are to ward against the dead. Not the living. Let her go.’
‘But-’
Elya squirmed out of her captor’s grip and darted towards Calys. ‘Where is he?’ she cried. ‘Why isn’t he here?’
Calys sank down to one knee, and the child rushed into her unprepared arms. Instinctively, the Liberator-Prime caught and held her. The child felt fragile in her grip, like a thing of spun glass, and small. So small. Murmuring soothingly, she smoothed the girl’s tangled hair. The torn edges of her memory fluttered again across her mind’s eye. It was as if she had lived this moment before, many times. Calys wondered if somewhere in Shyish there were children with her eyes. And if so, did they remember her at all? She pushed the thought aside. ‘Why are you here, Elya? It is not safe.’
‘Where is he?’ Elya glared up at her, on the cusp of panic. She seemed to realise for the first time who she was speaking to. Tear t
racks cut through the mask of filth that covered her thin features as she tried to free herself from Calys’ grip. Uncertain, Calys released her. The child backed away, features sharp with fear and fatigue.
‘You mean the lord-castellant?’ None of the other Stormcasts would meet her gaze, as she looked around helplessly. ‘He… I… Child, he is…’
Elya stiffened. ‘He’s gone, isn’t he?’ she said, in a voice old beyond her years. ‘The nicksouls got him He said they wouldn’t, but they did. The way they got my mother.’
Calys nodded and pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart still hurt, where the wraith had touched it. ‘Yes.’
The child’s eyes were dry, as if she had cried all the tears in her. ‘Father says you come back, when you die. Like Mother.’
Something in the way she said it caused Calys’ heart to spasm. ‘No. We do not come back the way. the way your mother did. But sometimes we do come back.’
‘Will he come back?’
‘If Sigmar wills it.’
‘Will I come back, when I die?’
‘I.’ Calys trailed off. How did one answer such a question? Instead, she opted to avoid it entirely. ‘Your father will be worried. It is still dangerous on the streets. You must go home.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Someone will take you home.’ Then, a moment later, ‘I will take you home.’
The child frowned. ‘You don’t know where I live.’ It almost sounded like a question.
‘You will show me.’
‘Liberator-Prime?’ one of the other Stormcasts said. ‘Shall we accompany you?’
For a moment, Calys imagined a cohort of Stormcasts, tromping through an embattled city to deliver a child back to her father. She shook her head, smiling slightly. ‘No. Stay here. Hold position and continue repairing the defences. I will see her safely home.’ She paused, searching for a rationalisation they would understand. That she understood. ‘It is my duty to evacuate those who need it.’ She looked down at Elya. ‘Come, little sister. It is past time for all children to be asleep.’ She would find Tamacus and the others, and see to beginning the evacuation.
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