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?’