Soul Wars

Chapter three Sigmarabulum

In the scented pavilions of Thurn, daemons were screaming. Mortal slaves and warriors, swaddled in silks and silver chains, fled the inhuman wailing, their hands pressed to newly burst ears and their bloody eyes clamped shut. Vainly they sought respite in the far pavilions, sprawled across the rocky convolutions of the Felstone Plains, or in the wilds, staggering into the smouldering darkness of the Aqshian night. But nowhere was free of the daemonic shrieks.

In the Pavilion of Roses, Havocwild, Headsman of Thurn and Lord of the Six Pavilions, winced as the screams grew in volume and poured himself another goblet of wine. He was a tall man, bronzed by the sun and clad in black silks and golden war-plate, engraved with the sixty-six verses of Slaanesh. He had been handsome once, but more than a century of warfare could wear the lustre off almost anything.

He stood on a basalt dais, festooned with thick cushions and closed off by curtains of tattered silk. Various weapons and pieces of armour were scattered around the dais and on its slabbed steps. Empty jugs of wine, and trays covered in rotting meats and fruits, lay among them, discarded where his slaves had dropped them before they’d fled.

Behind him, the screams of the daemons rose in pitch, and the jug in his hand vibrated, cracked and burst, spattering his armour with the dregs of the wine. He sighed and sniffed the contents of his goblet. It was an exquisite vintage, made from grapes grown in the volcanic soil of the Tephra Crater. He tasted it and frowned. The screaming of the daemons had turned it sour. He tossed the goblet aside and turned.

On the great rugs of magmadroth hide that covered the ground, dozens of daemonettes twisted and writhed. But not with their usual sense of elation. Normally, the Handmaidens of Slaanesh were poetry in motion, graceful and hypnotic. At the moment, however, they lacked all grace, twisting and twitching as if afflicted with ague. Their screams became even shriller, and his eardrums ached in a most unique fashion.

But like all new sensations, it quickly became tiresome. ‘Enough,’ he snarled, groping for the haft of his headsman’s blade. The massive, two-handed sword had earned him his sobriquet as well as mastery of the Six Pavilions. ‘Either cease screaming, or cease being – but do so swiftly.’ He snatched the sword from its sheath of tanned human flesh and swung it up over his head as he advanced on the closest of the daemons. ‘Whatever game this is, it has become tedious. Stop. Stop!’

The daemonette continued to howl, tearing at its own androgy­nous features with crustacean-like claws. It had gouged out its own eyes, as if it had seen something beyond its ability to bear. One moment, the creatures had been cavorting for his amusement as usual. The next, they had succumbed to these strange convulsions. He had never seen the like before, but rather than exciting him with its novelty, the sight made him uneasy.

He held his blow, uncertain. Then, the ground shook. He was nearly knocked from his feet by the force of the tremor. The ground cracked and split, spewing volcanic gases. The shaking increased, as did the screams of the daemons. They began to tear at each other and the ground in a growing frenzy. It was as if they had been driven mad – or madder.

A daemonette lurched to its hooves and stumbled towards him, squalling. It slashed blindly at him, gibbering something that might have been a name over and over again. Disgusted, Havocwild beheaded the creature with a looping blow. He staggered towards the entrance as the ground buckled.

As he stepped into the open, he heard the creak of bone and looked up. The skulls of all those he’d killed, gilded and decorated with flowers and fine gems, covered the sides of the immense tent. An eerie green radiance flitted from skull to skull as he watched. Then, as one, they began to twitch and clatter on their barbs. He heard a sound as of a thousand voices, murmuring all at once and close by. Some of them screamed, in memory of pain they could no longer feel, or for a vengeance they would never claim.

He laughed, delighted, and his eyes were drawn to the sky above. It seemed to convulse, in time with the tremors that wracked the ground. Striations of amethyst light passed slowly through the dark, and the tremors grew fiercer. He watched in growing awe as the stars began to wink out, one by one.

‘How exquisite,’ he whispered.

Balthas Arum sat back with a sigh, his black-and-gold war-plate creaking. The lord-arcanum rubbed his eyes, more out of habit than because they ached. He closed the tome he’d been studying, set it atop the pile to his left and reached for the next. The wide table, made from a single slab of dark stone, was covered in small hills of paper – stacks of volumes and papyrus jostled for space with duardin bead-books and strange, golden plaques. Candles rose like wax towers and cast a pallid glow over the confusion.

Balthas, like all Stormcast Eternals, was larger than a mortal man. He bore the black-and-gold livery of the Anvils of the Helden­hammer proudly, and was clad in the war-plate and robes of his office. An ornate staff of sigmarite and gold lay against the table, the stylised lightning bolts that adorned its head flickering softly.

He bore a blade when he rode to war, but rarely used it, for such was not his purpose. He was no lord-celestant, to hurl himself into the thick of war, but instead a lord-arcanum – an aether-mage and master of a Sacrosanct Chamber. The fury of the cosmic tempest was his to command. Of what use was a sword or hammer, however well-crafted, to one who could wield lightning? With a word, he could crack stone or ride the aetheric winds, as swift as a thunderbolt.

Balthas ran his hands through his dark hair. He stared at the book before him, sizing it up the way a warrior might study a new opponent. The cover was made from the crimson scales of an Aqshian magmadroth, with brass clasps and bindings. Runes – but not duardin ones – were stamped on it. He tapped it with a finger, considering his avenues of attack. He had laid siege to this tome before and always come away defeated. It required careful thought. It was composed of unknown runic characters, etched by an unknown hand, on an unknown subject. An enigma.

He glanced at his helmet, sitting nearby. It was plated in gold, with runic sigils carved into the brow and cheek-guards. He tapped it fondly. ‘I can draw down the lightning as easily as I draw breath. I am a master of the aetheric storm. I can peer into the heart of any living creature, and I have matched my will against those of the dark gods. But I cannot crack this cipher.’ He frowned. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

Balthas opened the book, careful not to damage it. ‘Perhaps today will be the day.’ He scouted the first pages, studying the familiar, unintelligible lines of script, the strange illustrations – some species of herb, he thought. But what species, found where? He reached for a goblet, sitting near his hand. He lifted the cup without looking at it and found it empty, save for a few sour dregs. He peered into it, momentarily confused.

‘I could have sworn I had a full goblet a few moments ago,’ he said, out loud. He sighed and reached for a nearby jug. It too was empty. He set it aside, searching for any sign of the novice priests who attended to such menial tasks. He recalled, belatedly, that he’d asked to be left alone. Evidently, they had taken him at his word. He looked around.

The Grand Library of Sigmaron was silent. Shafts of light fell through the high, oblong windows to streak the dusty air. High, heavy shelves of smooth stone and fossilised wood lined the walls or else stood freely, stretching past even the limits of his preternatural sight. The concentric arrangement of these semi-circular shelves mirrored the circular shape of the library itself – a world within a world.

Azure-robed priests and priestesses strode silently through the shadowed pathways between shelves, retrieving books for patrons, or replacing those borrowed earlier. The priests wore heavy record books marked with the Sigendil, the High Star of Azyr, chained to their bodies. With these, they kept track of what books were read, when and by whom. Most were armed, too, however lightly. Libraries were dangerous places, even in Azyr.

The Grand Library was one of the oldest structures in the great palace-city, and one of the few that continued to grow and expand with every passing century. The agents of the God-King scoured the Mortal Realms for esoteric knowledge, bringing all that they found back to Sigmaron. Somewhere below him, in the Halls of Illumination, twelve-thousand monks – not all of them human or even alive – worked tirelessly to record and transcribe this knowledge.

The wisdom of nations long vanished, of generations past, of sages and seers without number, all gathered here, beneath a dome of glass and stone. All of it at the fingertips of any who wished to avail themselves of it. The thought made Balthas’ heart skip a beat. Once, in a life he could but dimly recall, he might have wasted his days stumbling from one shelf to the next, seeking what revelations might come. Seeking knowledge for its own sake was a vice he had often indulged in.

But now, he had a greater purpose than his own aggrandisement. He had been remade, given form and function beyond that of mortal man. Made an engine of necessity, guided by the wisdom of a god. Balthas stared down at the book, willing it to surrender those secrets it so stubbornly held. He had defeated a thousand others just like it, and would defeat this one as well. There could be no other outcome.

‘Lord-arcanum.’ The voice was soft and thin with age. Balthas turned, irritated by the interruption. His annoyance evaporated when he saw who had addressed him. The priest was old, especially by the standards of mortals, and all but swallowed up in his blue robes and chains of office. His dark skin bore faded, celestial tattoos in the fashion of the Sword-Clans of the Caelum Desert, and his hands and cheeks still bore the scars of an earlier time.

‘Chief Librarian Aderphi,’ Balthas said, in polite greeting. He had known the old man since he had been anything but. Aderphi had come to the Grand Library as a novice, hands still stained with blood and his heart full of fire. Now, that fire had dimmed, and the blood had long since dried, but Balthas could still see the ghost of that young warrior in the bent figure before him.

‘I trust I am not disturbing you,’ the old man said. He took a seat opposite Balthas without waiting for a reply. He looked at the book. ‘Ah. The Guelphic Cipher. A stubborn opponent, I’m told.’

‘Fifty years,’ Balthas said, with some bitterness. ‘That’s how long I’ve been trying.’

‘I know. You were studying it the day I took up my post here, as a mere novice.’ Aderphi smiled. ‘Still not cracked it, then, my lord?’

Balthas raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a jest?’

‘A small one, I assure you.’ Aderphi picked up the empty jug and shook it. ‘You are out of wine.’

‘I may have been sitting here for some time.’

‘Two days since you last asked for food and drink, according to the brothers. A long time to stare at dusty tomes and texts.’

Balthas frowned. That explained the slight ache in his back and shoulders. ‘I have done so for longer, in the past,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon, if my presence has disturbed you.’

Aderphi smiled. ‘Only you could make an apology sound like an insult.’

Balthas’ frown deepened. The old man made a habit of familiarity. As if his age exempted him from showing proper deference to his betters. ‘If I am not proving disruptive, why have you chosen to interrupt me, Chief Librarian?’

Aderphi pointed. ‘You have a visitor.’

Balthas blinked and turned. Another lord-arcanum, clad in the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, strode towards his table. Tyros Firemane raised his staff in greeting. ‘Fear not, Balthas, I come to rescue you from your self-imposed exile.’ His voice boomed out, startling the tiny starwyrms that nested in the high places of the library. The little, winged reptiles hissed and swooped over the shelves, scattering clouds of dust. Tyros paid them no heed, even when one flitted past his ear. The ferrule of his staff clanged against the stone floor, and Aderphi winced slightly with each reverberation.

‘Tyros,’ Balthas said simply, as he turned back to his studies.

The Chief Librarian rose. ‘I will leave you to it, my lords.’ Balthas watched, somewhat bemused, as the old man hobbled off.

A moment later, Tyros leaned over the table, balancing on his knuckles, the silver sigmarite digging into the wood. The heavy-set, red-bearded lord-arcanum grinned. He had a wide face and hawk-like nose, lending him a fierce air. ‘Still hunting, eh, Balthas? Caught anything yet?’

‘Nothing of import, I fear.’

‘Bit of a waste, then, wasn’t it?’

Balthas sighed. ‘How I spend my free time is my business, brother.’

‘I merely question whether you’ve seen the sun, lately.’

‘I have light enough.’

Tyros frowned and straightened. ‘Yes, well, I come to tear you away from your dusty friends. Your duties await. We are required at the Anvil of Apotheosis.’

‘Already?’ Balthas sighed. Among the many duties of a Sacrosanct Chamber was to oversee the reforging process, as those Stormcast Eternals slain in battle were wrought anew and made whole. The process was not without its dangers, and required warriors of a certain mettle to meet to them. Ones more attuned to the aetheric, with the ability to wield the raw power of the Heavens in Sigmar’s name.

‘It’s been a week, Balthas. Twelve chambers have stood their watch. Now twelve more must take their place – and that includes their lords-arcanum.’

‘A week?’ Balthas leaned back and stretched. ‘That would explain the gnawing sensation in my belly, I suppose.’ He had not bothered to eat before coming to the library. Knowledge sustained him – or if it didn’t, it should.

Tyros snorted. ‘That’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.’

‘Just as well. I’m in no mood to eat.’ Balthas carefully stacked the tomes and stood. He pinched the flames of the candles out and retrieved his helmet and his staff. Tyros waited impatiently, thick arms folded over his chest.

‘How many times have I had to come and dig you out of this mausoleum?’ he growled. ‘A dozen? Two dozen? Why do you spend so much time here?’

‘As you said, I’m hunting. That is our duty, remember?’ Balthas gestured to the tomes. ‘I seek our prey in the forests of antiquity, following the ancient trails wherever they might lead.’ He spoke with more passion than he’d intended, but he could not help it. The answer he sought was somewhere in these records. He was certain of it.

Somewhere within the Grand Library, within these tomes and scrolls, was the key to allaying the flaw that cursed all Stormcast Eternals. Death was not the end of a Stormcast’s service, and those who fell in battle could be reforged and returned to the fray. But not without cost. The reforged, with few exceptions, became both more and less than they had been. Sometimes what stepped off the Anvil of Apotheosis was more akin to a tempest cloaked in human flesh than a mortal warrior.

These side effects of the reforging process were becoming steadily more pronounced as the war against the Ruinous Powers raged on. If victory – true victory – were to be achieved, a solution had to be found. Among the many duties of the Sacrosanct Chamber, the hunt for that solution was the most important.

Tyros shook his head. ‘I doubt what we seek can be found in such records as these. The world-that-was is gone, brother, and all its secrets with it. We must look to the realms as they are, not as they once were.’ Tyros was an explorer by temperament. He preferred to spend his days hunting through broken ruins and shadowed barrows, rather than studying ancient texts and scrolls.

Balthas frowned. ‘That’s ignorant, even for you, Tyros.’

Tyros glanced at him, his gaze equanimous. ‘I know you forget how to talk to people when you spend all your time buried in books, so I’ll forgive your lack of tact this once, Balthas.’ He held up a fist. ‘But call me ignorant again, and I’ll bust that pretty nose of yours.’

Balthas blinked. Then, he nodded with a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me, brother.’

Tyros grunted. ‘I am technically your superior, you know.’

‘Technically. What is a few months’ difference in reforging?’

‘I’ll tell Knossus you said that. He’ll be relieved.’

Balthas grunted sourly but didn’t reply. Tyros chuckled.

Side by side, the two Stormcasts left the library. Sigmaron rose about them, a palace-city of ivory towers and golden aetherdomes, clustered on the cloud-wreathed upper slopes of Mount Celestian. It had grown over the course of millennia. Its ramparts and walkways now spilled across the thunder-shaken crags, connecting distant peaks – now given over almost entirely to forges and workshops – in an unbroken ring of sigmarite and celestine.

Far above, the High Star, Sigendil, shone down, casting its eternal radiance across the city and mountain both. Sigendil never moved from its appointed place, a source of unwavering certainty for even the sternest soul. Bathed in its light, Sigmaron was like an island in the starlit emptiness of the celestial sea, a starburst of gold amid the black. And at its peak, Balthas knew, lay the silent ruins of Highheim, the parliament of the gods. That vast acropolis had been deserted for aeons, since the dissolution of Sigmar’s pantheon. It was forbidden to all but the most trusted of Sigmar’s councillors, and even then, visits were only permitted in the company of the God-King himself.

Great storms vented their fury upon the highest of the aetherdomes; their strength was funnelled into the citadel’s forges, and the rains were siphoned into the many gardens and groves scattered throughout the palace-city. The celestine vaults of the citadel rang with the clamour of unceasing industry, and great masses of humanity strode to and fro along the colossal walkways and ramparts. The whole of Sigmaron seemed to resonate with activity.

Balthas and Tyros made their way easily through the crowds. They were composed of servants, mostly, and so made way hurriedly for the Stormcast Eternals. Sigmaron was home to thousands of mortal attendants. Many worked in the vaults and gardens, while others were scribes or messengers, carrying armfuls of parchment. An honoured few were allowed to serve in the inner chambers of the palace, where Sigmar himself held court.

Besides the servants, there were representatives from Azyrheim and the other great cities of Azyr, including Starhold and Skydock, and their retinues. Among them were captain-generals of the Freeguild, dressed in their ostentatious uniforms, and the merchant-princes of the far-flung realmports, come to seek Sigmar’s blessings for their financial ventures in the wider realms.

These last travelled with much pomp and circumstance, accompanied by retainers and exotic bodyguards, including gold-bedecked fyreslayers, brutal ogors and, in one case, a hulking gargant, who plodded along sedately in his mistress’ wake.

‘The palace-city has become crowded, of late,’ Tyros remarked, as the great brute stomped past them. He turned, watching the gargant. ‘Once, these walkways would have been empty of all save the chosen of Sigmar.’

‘Once, we feared the realms lost to us, and Azyr adrift and alone.’ Balthas strode along, heedless of the mortals scattering like quail before him. ‘That Sigmaron boasts such life is a sign that we follow the correct course.’

‘Spoken with the confidence of an academic.’

Balthas glanced at the other lord-arcanum. ‘I have fought my share of battles, brother. But I can see the wider tapestry before me. If you would but open your eyes, you might as well.’

Tyros laughed. ‘Sometimes, brother, I fear you are so concerned with your tapestry that you miss the finer details.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender before Balthas could reply. ‘But who am I to gainsay you? We are both masters of the storm, by Sigmar’s grace.’

‘Yes, a fact I will never cease to question.’

Tyros laughed uproariously, startling several nearby mortals. A moment later, Balthas joined him, if less boisterously. While the Hallowed Knights were, by and large, joyful souls, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were more restrained. But for all their differences of opinion, there were few souls Balthas trusted more than Tyros. He was a rock of faith and dogged in pursuit of his duties. Qualities Balthas could respect. Tyros caught him by the shoulder. ‘Come on, brother. Our chariot awaits. And the Sigmarabulum as well.’

Balthas glanced up. Far above Sigmaron, to the south of Sigendil, the Sigmarabulum encircled the broken remains of Mallus, the world-that-was. A fabricated ring of soul-mills, forges and laboratories, it was also home to the Chamber of the Broken World, and the Anvil of Apotheosis. There were only a few routes between the world-ring and the palace-city. Most were glacially slow – even the swiftest aether-craft would take days to reach the Sigmarabulum. But the Thunder-Gates could take one from Sigmaron to the Sigmara­bulum almost instantaneously.

Designed by Sigmar and crafted by Grungni, the Thunder-Gates stood at the heart of the great orrery-bastions that revolved eternally on the outer ring of the palace-city. Each of the bastions was shrouded in a constant cascade of lightning from above. The lightning was caught in the massive, oscillating rings, to be stretched and subsumed, where it did not drip down to crawl in crackling patterns across the stones of the platform.

Only those clad in blessed sigmarite could pierce the veil of lightning safely and enter the bastions. Thus, these routes were barred to all but the Stormcast Eternals.

As they crossed the stone walkway that led to one of these orrery-bastions, Balthas cast his gaze over the wheeling stars of the firmament. The skies in Azyr were alive, in some sense. They roiled and crashed like the waves of the sea, albeit silently. Stars flared and dimmed, worlds spun in an eternal dance. Sometimes, if one stared too long into the dark, great, inhuman faces seemed to take shape and look back.

These days, Balthas knew better than to stare. Whatever watched from behind the veil of stars was far beyond him, and he saw no reason to attract its attention. That was a matter for the gods.

They stepped through the curtain of lightning, and Balthas felt invigorated by its touch. He raised his hand, drawing it to him and letting it play across the contours of his gauntlet. He released it, as they entered the carefully carved stone archway that led into the orrery-bastion.

Within was a circular chamber, where the majority of the lightning was drawn down and reflected and refracted among innumerable celestine mirrors. As it shot back and forth, its fury was diffused and used to power the great clockwork mechanisms that clicked and groaned beneath a gigantic dais, composed of a number of concentric rings, which occupied the heart of the chamber. The air was thick with the smell of ozone.

As they entered the chamber, a heavy figure greeted them. The lord-castellant turned from the array of lightning-powered mechanisms, his face unreadable behind his war-mask. He wore the golden heraldry of the Hammers of Sigmar, and his armour bore the marks of heavy fighting. Only the truly worthy were given the honour of maintaining the orrery-bastions, having proven their valour against incredible odds. Lord-Castellant Gorgus had done that and more, by all accounts.

‘Call down the lightning, Gorgus,’ Tyros said, without preamble. ‘We have business above and I would be about it.’

The lord-castellant set his halberd and studied them. ‘I expected you before now,’ he rumbled in a chiding tone. Nearby, a gryph-hound looked up from where it lay on its side, glared at them blearily and then flopped back down with a querulous screech.

‘I had to go and dig him out of his books,’ Tyros said.

Balthas ignored him and greeted the lord-castellant respectfully. ‘My apologies, Gorgus. Time escaped me.’

Gorgus nodded, as if this was to be expected. He swept his halberd out, indicating the flat dais. ‘Stand at the heart of the dais, lords-arcanum. The Sigmarabulum awaits.’

They did as he bade. Almost immediately, the dais began to turn. Somewhere below them, gears began to move with a grinding snarl. The rings that made up the outer edge of the dais rose of their own accord, until the whole apparatus resembled an orrery. The rings spun, faster and faster, stretching the lightning between them as they oscillated. In moments, all Balthas could see was a blur of cobalt light, blinding in its intensity.

‘I hate this part,’ Tyros growled.

Balthas said nothing, merely leaning on his staff. Thin strands of lightning played across the raised edges of his war-plate, or coalesced about the tip of his staff. The air tasted of iron and copper, and for a moment, his head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. Then, there was a crash of thunder that shook him to his very bones, and the blue light began to fade. As it did so, the oscillation of the rings slowed and, one by one, they dropped flat, back into place around the dais. When the last glimmer of light had faded, they had arrived on the Sigmarabulum.

They stood on a wide dais – the mirror of the Thunder-Gate – but it was open to the stars, rather than being contained in a chamber. Flickering azure lanterns lined the path leading away from the dais. There were no guards – at least none that Balthas could see. But he felt them, watching him. The pathways of the storm were never unguarded, and the sentinels of the Sigmarabulum never slept.

Instinctively, he looked up, his gaze drawn to Mallus, rising above the highest towers of the Sigmarabulum. The red orb hung like a wound in the firmament, shining with a dull radiance. Unlike Sigendil’s light, that radiance brought no certainty or comfort – only sorrow. Mallus was a reminder that the Mortal Realms were but the latest iteration of the universal cycle – and what awaited them, if Sigmar and his chosen warriors failed.

Balthas stared at the husk of a world and felt as if something were waiting for him there. Part of him longed to walk through the hollow caverns of its core, where Grungni’s lightning-powered automatons excavated raw sigmarite ore. To see and touch the world that had come before all that he knew. All that he thought he knew.

But he knew better than to hope. Mallus was denied to all, save Sigmar. The most Balthas could hope for was to one day translate and read what few ancient histories of that world yet remained. They were kept locked away, deep in the heart of the Grand Library. Though they were available to any scholar, few could read them. Whatever tongue they had spoken in that distant age, it was all but unintelligible now.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Tyros said, as they descended the steps of the dais. ‘Like a haunting melody you cannot quite recall.’ He peered up at the red world. ‘I hear whispers, sometimes, when I look at it. The prickle of memories from a forgotten life. I think sometimes I might have walked there, in another age.’ He sighed. ‘That cursed light gets in your bones.’

‘Maybe it was always there,’ Balthas murmured. He’d often felt as Tyros had – as if Mallus were calling to him. As if he were a part of it, somehow. There were many among the Anvils of the Heldenhammer who felt the same. Something in them resonated with the world-that-was, but he could not say why. Balthas pushed the thought aside. He would find no answer to that question today, or possibly ever. ‘Come, brother. We are late.’