Champion of the Gods

Chapter seven

Day and night didn’t exist in the warren, but the skaven had their own uncanny sense of routine. Sunrise came for me on the point of a spear in my ribs or in my back, depending on where my captors had left me to pass out the night before. There would be a squeak from the gloaming dark and then my two favourite rats in the eight realms would exchange spears for buckets. The first would contain a grisly slop that, the first time it had been spooned out and onto the floor of my cell, I wasn’t sure whether it was intended as a meal or a cellmate. I’d fought Chaos spawn with fewer tubes, eyeballs, and fingernails than one spoonful of what I reluctantly decided was breakfast.

For several days I refused to cooperate, and not just because I was waiting for my breakfast to make the first move.

For all our differences, you and I, we are more alike than not. I am a man still, albeit one who has passed through the Cairns of Tempering, and I would starve as well as any man would. I considered it. Death is never something to be welcomed, but when it ceases to be the end of all things… well, then certain unpalatable options become open to consideration. The only thing that made me hold my nose and eat was the knowledge that starvation would be a slow death, and Milk Scar undoubtedly had ways of forcing sustenance upon me were I to refuse indefinitely.

My brothers in the Hallowed Knights would have seen that as a capitulation, but that’s Hallowed Knights for you, bear them no mind. I prefer to see it as finding victories where you see them.

After all of that was dealt with, I would be taken to Ikrit.

We would always start with questions.

‘The Anvil of Apotheosis, how does it work-work?’

‘It is duardinium, mined from the heart of a still-living star by Grungni’s pick and kept alight by the prayers of ten thousand skink priests.’

‘How is the work-labour shared between the Smith-God and his servants?’

‘The Six Smiths are all just aspects of Grungni. If you look close enough you can see the differences in the character of the Stormhosts and the sigmarite they wear.’

‘The reforging – how does it hurt-feel?’

‘Like showering under starlight. Sigmar is a just and loving god.’

If you were to delve deep enough into the Well of Eternity, the font of all knowledge that resides at the heart of the Impossible Fortress, then you would surely find Hamilcar Bear-Eater shouting nonsense from the bottom.

With each day that this went on my lies became progressively more stretched and extravagant, until I was earnestly explaining how Sigmar had traded the mortal memories of the Stormcasts to Malerion in exchange for the secret of immortality and how every item of sigmarite was hand-nurtured from a single Dracothion scale. It is just not within me to keep quiet when invited to speak, and feeding my captor the most outrageous falsehoods I could imagine was an act of defiance. It was what got me through each day.

Ikrit, however, was unfazed by any lie. He would take his time to consider every answer, no matter how ludicrous, and then simply ask another question.

One time, I found him tinkering with my warding lantern.

The warlock had the ornate device held between a set of browned metal clamps, measuring, poking, poring over every groove and embellishment in the casing with a lensed instrument, which res­embled a crystal butterfly that had been turned inside out. The lantern was glorious despite its confinement, and my chest swelled for the sight of it, the timely reminder that the same might also yet be said of me. My armour and my weapons are extensions of my soul. My warding lantern is an extension of Azyr as well, a sigmarite outpost of the Mortal Realms where I and the Celestial overlap, and I felt a glow simply from being near to it again.

‘How does it work?’ Ikrit would ask, as though speaking through his array of lenses to the lantern itself rather than to me. ‘Does energy come from within or is it sent-drawn from Azyr? Or from you? How does it chose-choose between those it heals and those it burns?’

I answered those questions in the same way as I had the others.

And regardless of how it began, how I chose to defy him, it would end with torture.

I call it that because I can’t think of any other word to describe it, but as soon as the implements were drawn and I was suitably restrained he would ask no further questions.

With tiny knives, he would cut into my veins and bleed me, filling vials that he would then subject to harsh lights and Chaotic energies. One day he neglected to question me at all, so excited was he by some new frolic he had in mind for us both. Between thumb and foreclaw of his gauntlet, he showed me what looked like a fleck of iron dust, explaining, so enthused was he, that it was a miniscule automaton of his own creation. Then he forced a vial full of the tiny constructs into my mouth and clamped my nose shut with his claws. Even a Stormcast Eternal cannot hold his breath forever. For days afterwards, I was laid low with hacking coughs and fevered dreams with the sense of things crawling beneath my skin. It was a period in which Ikrit seemed almost animated by what, in his words, his machines ‘told him’ about my body’s innermost workings. He would burn me, freeze me, hook me up via thickets of cables to spinning, ball-armed devices and jolt me with sorcerously generated power.

He wanted to trap the storm and measure it, to see where the man ended and the scaffolding of the gods began.

The worst days though were when he went into my thoughts, and with claws of Light and of Shadow dug deep into my memories.

I saw Ramus of the Shadowed Soul, the look in his mortis helm as I charged through the Bone Sea Gate to save his life. My old friend and comrade, Brakka, lost to the soul-mills for a hundred years and still counting, frowning at a beast spoor in the snow. Vikaeus, the Lord-Veritant, standing in the blustery great hall of the Seven Words in armour of ivory and azure and frowning up at me on my throne. Then Vikaeus again, same frown, but different. Her long hair was free, unbound, dusted with goldspar, a gown of sablewool and zephyr­arch feathers arousing feelings in me that I was not sure one of the God-King’s blessed Eternals should be permitted to hold. The memory wasn’t one of mine, I was sure of it, but it tapped a wellspring of emotion that left me gasping.

And what I saw, Ikrit plundered.

‘You do not remember your life before,’ he said, withdrawing his gauntlet from my forehead so as to glare into my eyes. ‘There are times I think-wonder if it is the gods’ spite. They cannot stop me now, so they take-cheat from what was. Fool-fool. Superstitious, I am. Yes-yes. They do not have that power. Mortal flesh as ours is not built-made to be as we have become. That is all.’ Then he closed his gauntlet over my brow again, and I ground my teeth in readiness of more pain. ‘I thank you, Stormcast. I understand now.’

It was unusual for my captor to speak at all at these times, never mind so candidly about himself, but after the day’s trials I had not the energy or the wit to ply him for any more.

I would find out what he had in mind for me soon enough, of course, and pine for such simple torments as these.

Now that Ikrit had himself a newer plaything in me, my green-skinned friend in the cell across from mine slowly recovered his strength.

His name was Barrach.

‘How are you faring this morning, friend?’ I mumbled as I slipped free of unconsciousness for another day of the same.

That too had become part and parcel of my daily routine, and I measured the passage of time by Barrach’s progression from monosyllabic grunts to actual words, generally inviting me to shut my mouth and die.

‘Stronger,’ he grunted, balling up his fists, his voice like wind-blown leaves scuttling across the empty passage.

It did not seem to occur to him that he was recovering from his mistreatment in order to suffer more mistreatment once Ikrit grew bored of me. He was a warrior, and if nothing else, I could say that I knew warriors. We are simple souls, pleased by simple things, and he revelled only in his recovering strength.

‘You look it,’ I said, though in truth it was difficult to see much of anything in the dark. He sounded it. ‘How long have you been awake?’

The darkness shrugged. ‘A while. You were having a bad dream.’

In tried and tested fashion, I laughed it off. I doubted that Barrach could have seen my expression from over there, but mossy skin and autumnal hair generally went hand-in-glove with a variety of uncanny talents, so I thought it better to go overboard.

‘Nightmares dream of Hamilcar,’ I added.

‘You were calling out for someone called Broudiccan,’ he said, in a flat tone that made it plain that this was not an invitation to discuss it further. ‘I thought you were going to bring the guards.’

I scoffed, silently cursing my body for its aches as I stiffly set it upright. Had I not been a King of the Winterlands? The Winterlands had once had hundreds of them, of course. Kings, that is. Still, even reforged, you’d have thought that my body would have been more accustomed to lying on undressed stone.

‘I don’t know how you stay in such high spirits,’ said Barrach. ‘The warlock must be going easier on you than he did on me.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said, cheerfully. Despite my admittedly well-earned reputation for vainglory, I knew the difference between inspiring by example and simply inspiring.

‘How do you still smile?’

Practice, same as anything, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Hope.’

‘Hope.’ He sneered for a moment, then fell into an aggressive, brooding kind of quiet.

I hadn’t told him in so many words, but I was actually passingly familiar with his people. I’d never seen them myself, of course – the green skin would have been an immediate giveaway otherwise – but as soon as he’d recovered enough to start talking in whole sentences, I’d recognised his stories of home. His tribe had once been native to the high slopes of the Gorwood, and had weathered the Age of Chaos in service not to Sigmar but to a Ghurite sylvaneth of, I’d imagine, some considerable power. I wasn’t about to call a man out on worshipping a treekin, as I’d probably put my faith in crazier things than that as a mortal. Better a slightly suspect axe than no axe at all, I say. Sigmar had left the Mortal Realms to look after themselves for hundreds of years, nobody was arguing otherwise, and beneath the heady summit of Mount Celestian there existed a great wilderness of gods and goddesses, demi-gods, greater daemons, zodiacal god-beasts and beings both ancient enough and powerful enough to live as gods and command the worship of men. I didn’t know which of those applied to our sylvaneth, for I’d come across her only in the last moments of her sickness. And that would have been after I’d slain the berserk Treelord that had slaughtered her followers and driven the remainder into the Nevermarsh.

I could see why hope would be the sort of word he might sneer at.

‘You’re a warrior, aren’t you?’ I said.

He grunted. ‘How can you tell that from in here?’

‘I can tell.’

I sensed the darkness unclench slightly. ‘I was more than just a warrior. I was Champion of the Wild Harvest.’

I tapped on my head, hard, because he needed to hear it. The scabbed over reminders of Ikrit’s most recent efforts brought out a wince of pain. ‘Being a warrior isn’t about what’s in here. We’re trapped. Unarmed. Underfed. Injured. My people will probably never find us, and neither will yours. Zephacleas will probably be named Lord-Commander of the Astral Templars and make me call him “lord”.’ I tapped my forehead again. ‘That’s what this says.’ I lowered my hand to my chest and tapped on my heart with my middle finger. ‘This is where heroes live. And it’s too stupid to care about any of that. It says that I’m going to kill Ikrit with my bare hands, and that you and I are going to fight our way out of this place together.’

Barrach snorted, the first real laugh I’d heard from him in our weeks together, and the smile it bid from me was equally unforced.

‘Does it say when?’

‘Soon.’

‘You’re a rare one, Hamilcar. You were a champion to your people too, I think.’

I waved, immodestly. ‘Every so often someone tries to raise a statue, but I always talk them out of it.’ I angled my face so that its profile might better catch the luminescence of the walls. ‘Can you imagine this in marble or gold?’

Barrach laughed. ‘My sister always told me I thought too highly of myself. I can’t think what she’d make of you.’

The affection in his voice was as clear as stars on a black sky. I found myself closing my eyes, as if I could feel the light against my face.

‘Is she a warrior too?’

‘In a way. She’s a priestess of the Savage Maiden.’ I’d never heard the name, but assumed that he referred to the god-sylvaneth who had died in my arms about a year before. I was pleased to see that his people had taken the small matter of her death well in their stride. He appeared to shake his head, remembering something. ‘We fought like spring and winter. Every­thing I did displeased her.’

‘Older or younger?’

‘Older. And didn’t she always remind me of it.’

My face softened, my smile growing brittle, though I wasn’t sure why. ‘I… I had an older brother. Three of them. I think. I… don’t remember much about them.’

But Barrach wasn’t listening.

‘The skaven came during the festival of midwinter, when the warriors plant our blades in the earth for the Season of War. I think it was her they came for. My sister.’ His gaze became distant. ‘I held them off. Long enough for her and her sisters to escape. They only took me because I was all that was left. They didn’t want to return to Ikrit empty-handed, I suppose.’

‘How did your sister manage to escape?’ I asked. ‘The assassin that came for me, Malikcek, he doesn’t seem the sort that it would be easy to get away from.’

A thin smile glinted at me from the dark. ‘We have our ways. The Gorkai are not easily found.’

I remembered the grassy woman that I thought I’d seen observing me from the foot of Kurzog’s Hill before the battle, but it didn’t seem important enough to mention at the time.

‘The warlock wants to make himself into a Stormcast Eternal,’ I said, snorting at the sheer audacity of his hubris. And trust me, nobody knows more about hubris than I do. ‘And he’s going to pick me apart until he thinks he knows how to do it. What would he want with you, or your sister?’

‘You really do think a lot of yourself. Are all Sigmar’s warriors like you?’

‘Oh no,’ I said, and no greater truth has ever been spoken.

‘Well–’

The creak of an iron door cut short his explanation.

He glanced at me and I nodded, motioning him back from the bars and out of sight. Milk Scar was more neglectful than cruel, drawing some amusement from the torment of his charges, but only where doing so required the minimum of actual effort on his part. I could just about see Barrach’s outline, an emaciated but still muscular shade hovering just behind the bars. The skaven would still be able to smell him of course, but if you think a Stormcast Eternal looks impressive then you should try smelling one through a skaven’s nose. Their attention would be wholly on me.

Milk Scar strutted between the rows of empty cells, keys jangling against his belly. He sniffed the air. His two henchrats chittered amongst themselves, apparently annoyed at finding me already awake and upright as if I’d made them carry their spears all this way for nothing. The nearest was clearly debating whether to stab me anyway, for the sake of his routine. Milk Scar shook his head and cuffed the ratman over the back of the head, then squeaked and gestured to me.

The henchrat scurried forward with the familiar bucket of odorific swill.

I patted my belly mournfully. ‘Alas, I’m still full from that mouthful of offal I was able to hold down yesterday.’ I held out my hands, ready to be cuffed. ‘I can’t wait to get started, I think Ikrit was really starting to get somewhere.’

Milk Scar snarled at his henchrat, then at me. ‘You think you are brave, Bear-Eater. You are a barking dog. Yes-yes. All yap and no fangs. I expected more fight-struggle from the great Bear-Eater.’ He bared his teeth at the luckless henchrat, who quickly discarded his bucket to drop my manacles on the floor by his footpaws and pole them through to me on the butt-end of his spear.

My sunrise.

I slid them over my wrists and walked to the bars where the ratman deftly fastened the pins. Milk Scar backed away, well beyond the reach of any lunging arms. Meanwhile, the other skaven dropped to his haunches to fasten my foot irons and lock them. By the time he had finished the first skaven was done with my wrists and was picking up the connecting bar from a loose pile of kit on the ground. I raised my shackles to allow him to feed the bar through the eyelet in my foot irons and connect them.

‘Stronger, you say, Barrach?’

‘Much,’ the answer grunted back at me from the shadows.

‘No squeak-talking,’ hissed Milk Scar.

‘Barrach…’

‘What now?’

‘Catch something for me.’

Yanking my hands from the forepaws of the ratman that was still fiddling with my shackles, I snatched the connecting rod from him. Before he had a chance to do much beyond squeak in alarm, I’d popped it from the eyelet in my foot irons and rammed Milk Scar in the chest with it. Hard enough to hurt, I’m sure, but I’m not in the business of spite for its own sake. I leave that sort of thing to the Celestial Vindicators. The blow punted the bulky ratman back and sent him tottering into the arms of an equally surprised-looking Barrach. The henchrat next to me snatched for the rod, only to give a muffled squeal of surrender as I broke every bone in his snout with a squeeze of my free hand.

Maybe there is a little of the Bladestorm in me after all. I’m not proud of it.

I let the stricken ratman slither down the bars. His comrade, though, hadn’t waited to see if he was alive or dead before bolting back down the passage, squealing his verminous little lungs out. I scowled after him, looking back to see Milk Scar hanging nervelessly against the bars of the opposite cell. His creamy white eyes bulged from their sockets. His tongue flopped out of his jaw, already turning blue. Barrach eased his bicep from the ratman’s throat.

‘Season of White Rest it might be, but that felt good.’

I snapped my fingers to get his attention. I would have clapped, but I was at a disadvantage on that score. ‘The keys.’

He blinked at me, confused, before my words hit home. ‘Keys. Keys. Yes!’ He dropped to his haunches, still holding Milk Scar’s neck in a lock, and fumbled around for the fat skaven’s keychain. The ardour of freedom made his hands shake and for a moment I actually thought he was going to drop the things, but at last he managed to get them free and into the lock of his door. He looked up at me.

‘You let them torture you, every day, until I was strong enough to escape. Why?’

‘I am a Lord-Castellant,’ I said, solemnly, as if that explained every­thing. It didn’t, of course, but it did cover the fact that I needed his help as much as he needed mine while at the same time definitely implying that I saw him as a warrior rather than another of Sigmar’s lost souls to be saved.

As I’d expected, the key stopped shaking after that.

Not bad for five well-chosen words.

I gestured with my fingers for the keys. ‘While it’s still the Season of White Rest.’