‘Frankos,’ said Vikaeus.
‘Frankos?’
She nodded.
‘He blows my trumpet!’
‘You will have to find another warrior to do that from now on, because he is Lord-Celestant Frankos of the Heavens Forged now.’
Don’t misunderstand me: Frankos was as fine a choice as any to take command of the Bear-Eaters in my absence. He had a breezy confidence that reminded me a little bit of myself, while his apparent youthfulness endeared him to the common soldiers in a way that few Stormcast Eternals could ever dream of or even wish for. But I was feeling quite cuckolded, and publicly, over this development, which wasn’t putting me in the most charitable of moods towards my younger replacement. After all, in a century and a half of warfare and all the long decades of campaigning before the Gates of Azyr were cast wide, Sigmar had never made me a Lord-Celestant.
‘When I received this summons, Frankos all but begged to be allowed to attend in my place,’ said Vikaeus.
‘You dissuaded him, I see.’
‘I did.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘Things go badly in the Gorkomon, Hamilcar. The skaven and their allies have overrun every outpost, camp, and trail lodge in the Gorwood. Their attacks on the Seven Words itself worsen by the day. The fortress relies entirely on the Azyr Gate for its reinforcement and supply now, but wars rage across the mortal realms and there is little additional aid that Sigmar can spare to one of Heaven’s farthest-flung bastions. Even with the Heavens Forged and the Imperishables strengthened with additional conclaves we barely hold the outer walls.’
‘Just how big are the Bear-Eaters…’ I gritted my teeth. ‘…the Heavens Forged now?’
‘Over five hundred swords.’
This got better and better. ‘All the more reason to send me back,’ I said.
‘You are one warrior, Hamilcar. Do you honestly think that you would make the difference?’
She could have been speaking of any warrior, but the words hurt me more than they should have. More than the same truism coming from Ramus or Zephacleas or even Ong would have managed. I swelled my chest, folding my arms over it as if to obscure the conspicuous wound she had landed on me.
‘Are we talking about the same Hamilcar Bear-Eater?’
‘I’m sorry,’ grunted Ong. ‘Believe that or don’t, it’s up to you, but you’re not going anywhere until I decide what’s to be done with you.’
‘How many times do I need to say it – I’m fine.’
Before the god could answer, Vikaeus struck the ferrule of her staff on the ground, the shutters of her abjuring lantern falling away to let the Light Celestial burn through the encrusting rings of ice. It speared through the celestite bars, making them sing, and driving me back from them with a roar of pain. I tripped over the chair that I’d just kicked over, tangling with it as I fell. With no greater warning, the light was shuttered again, leaving me gasping in agony on the floor of my cell.
‘A little warning next time, lass,’ said Ong, in the same tone that I might have used had someone lit a pipe in my bath chamber. ‘You left your sovereign at the door.’
‘I knew that his light could not harm you,’ said Vikaeus.
Ong’s brow furrowed. Storm clouds gathered. ‘Well, however it was done, it does seem to about settle it, doesn’t it?’
Unpeeling myself from the ground, I tottered back towards the bars. I gripped them and stared at my judges and accusers, my so-called brothers and sisters, with what I intended to be naked ferocity, but which my scorched hair and bloodshot eyes probably rendered closer to lunacy. ‘Then send me alone. No warrior chamber. I’ll be an Errant-Questor. I’ll go after Ikrit and Malikcek myself, and never go near another stormhold until they are both dead.’
‘Errant-Questor,’ Ramus mused, as though it was something he was surprised to have never considered before. ‘Interesting.’ I’d known that the Shadowed Soul would be intrigued by that before I’d said it. He would have taken the vows himself had he not allowed his desire for vengeance to become confused by duty and guilt.
‘I don’t see you as the solitary type,’ said Vikaeus, slowly.
Ong nodded his agreement. ‘I was barely able to put you back together again the last time. I don’t know what’ll happen to your soul should you be killed again.’
‘Then I won’t get killed. We all win.’
‘No, lad. No. I’ve got to see if what this mad warlock’s wrought can be undone, or if there’s a flaw in you all that’ll need to be changed in later Strikings.’
‘I’ll not wait out the Age of Sigmar as a prisoner of the gods,’ I hissed, knowing how Ramus, at least, would take those words. I extended my hand to him. ‘Help me.’
The Lord-Relictor’s face was torn although not, apparently, quite badly enough. ‘Forgive me. But if a reforged soul should display a flaw then it is the task of the lords-relictor to catch it before it can do harm. My duty in this matter is clear.’
I shifted to Vikaeus, but my words suddenly dried up in my mouth. She regarded me in turn, a man struck stupid by the beauty of a woman as men like me have been since before the World-That-Was, without recognising the emotional sledgehammer that had just struck me in the gut or even (which was worse somehow) noticing it at all.
Now you are probably wondering what it would eventually take for me to realise what Vikaeus had been to me in life. You are thinking that Hamilcar Bear-Eater is a champion fool as much as he is one of Azyr, and you would be in some fine and celebrated company if you did so, believe me. But you have to remember that these feelings were as unfamiliar to me as they were to Vikaeus. Much easier to dismiss them as arcane fancies, scattered through my memories for some fell purpose of Ikrit’s than to acknowledge them for what they were.
‘You… wish me to intercede with the God-King on your behalf?’ she said hesitantly, scrutinising my face like an autist faced with a Mask Impassive. ‘I cannot. Ong is right to fear what has been done to you, but Sigmar is compassionate, and he has always held you in peculiar esteem. I fear he would not judge you as objectively as he should.’
I worked my tongue in a bid to moisten my mouth, maybe even remind it how to talk.
That left Zephacleas.
‘Don’t even ask,’ he said.
‘I’m a child of ice wastes and wild stars,’ I said. ‘You can’t keep an animal like me in a cage.’
With a rumbling sigh, the Beast-Bane walked towards my cell. He held up his hand and grunted as I took it in mine, the muscles of our arms bulging as we each pitted our strength against the other’s grip. A strange look of discomfort crossed his face as my hand edged his down, and he drew his hand sharply away.
‘And he calls me imperfect,’ I said, throwing a nod towards the seated Smith.
‘Get better, brother,’ Zephacleas said, still staring at me, but with a drifting tone that implied he suddenly wished to be elsewhere.
‘If I get any better then Sigmar will need to make room for me in the gold chair.’
Zephacleas’ smile was equally contrived, but we are Astral Templars – lying to each other about what we’re really feeling is part of what we do best.
I glanced unconsciously towards Vikaeus.
‘We will find a solution,’ she said.
‘You can’t just…’
‘We’re done here.’
Ong’s voice struck like a gavel as he rose from his stool, the three Stormcast Eternals dissolving into crackling zephyrs as he did so before dispersing onto the aether winds. I stared at the after-image that Vikaeus had left in the air, a longing that I couldn’t explain pulling on my chest.
‘What did you do to them?’
The Smith gave a snort, puffing out his chest and stuffing his thumbs under his belt. ‘You think I’d just invite those three into the Forge Eternal? No one gets to see the Six Smiths, lad, not even the lords-arcanum of the Sacrosanct Chambers. That’s one of Sigmar’s rules, and doesn’t he have plenty of them.’