I made a dismissive noise. ‘Yes, yes, all we bear is made and given by the grace of the God-King, but this was a gift, given from his keeping and into mine. He saw my halberd remade, when even the Smith himself had said that it could not be done.’
‘So you will just leave?’ said Akturus. ‘You will build the hopes and faith of those under my ward, only to knock it down, and make the task impossible for whoever is charged with its repair when you are gone?’
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to save the Seven Words. On the contrary. I wanted to do it myself, single-handed and in full view – maybe give in and let them build their statue. But I couldn’t, and not just because Sigmar had given me a sacred quest. Sigmar could give me an order with about as much expectation of being obeyed as Frankos of the Heavens Forged. My immortality, and perhaps even the health of my soul, depended on my finding Ikrit and Malikcek, though I could hardly say that to Akturus.
My… affliction was one of the few tales I was content to keep between myself and my god.
‘I don’t want to, but I must.’
‘Why?’
I did a passable impersonation of someone who was justly appalled. ‘Sigmar has given me a sacred quest.’
‘Then just wait here. Hold the Seven Words with me. The skaven will surely come to you before too long.’
‘And they will be led from the front, you think?’
The muscles in Akturus’ jaw seemed to unclench one by one, and he appeared to shrink an inch in height. ‘You are a Knight-Questor. I am a mere Lord-Castellant. Who am I to argue the writ of the God-King?’
‘That’s the spirit, brother.’
‘At least if you are successful then some good may come of it. Perhaps if word can be spread that that is what you are doing, and why you are leaving, then the populace will take heart. Yes. I will see to it that Frankos begins spreading word of your new status immediately.’
‘Good.’
This was, frankly, more like it. Spreading the glorious word of my adventures and glories was exactly the sort of thing that Frankos should have been doing.
‘What can you tell me of the skaven?’ I said, leaning forwards. ‘Anything to suggest where to start my quest?’
Akturus shook his head solemnly. ‘The vermintide began shortly after you were lost to the Nevermarsh. First it was the logging camps in the Low Gorwood, then the watch forts and winter lodges in the heights. Those few that were able to outrun it brought stories of a horde without number, of slave-taking and murder, and feasting on the flesh of the dead. I have sent warriors to hold the Gorwood, but they never brought a single clanrat to battle.’
That would have been at Vikaeus’ urging. Akturus’ instinct would always be to draw behind a shield, wait for the enemy to show his colours and then grind them under his Thunderhead brotherhoods. Had it been me I would have had Prosecutors constantly in the air. I would have despatched dozens of Vanguard sorties into the High Gorwood and I would have led them myself. But then one of us had been lured into a trap, captured and killed. The other hadn’t. I kept my opinions to myself.
‘So where were they?’
‘Elsewhere. Always. All my retinues ever returned to me was ill-tidings of some other distant redoubt aflame. I stopped sending them out, and instead called all who had not yet fled the forest back to the Seven Words. There is nothing left for the skaven to pick at, and while the Azyr Gate remains open then we can outlast them. If they wish to take the Seven Words, then they will have to come to me.’
I smiled, that being the sentence that will forever characterise Akturus Ironheel best.
‘This amuses you?’ said Akturus, inexpressive.
I bared my teeth. ‘Eagerness for the fight, as always. Go on.’
‘That is all.’
‘What of the skaven leader? Ikrit?’
‘I have not heard the name. The skaven come in the night and strike as a tide, withdrawing with the dawn. I have seen or heard nothing to speak of a leader.’
I gave a melodramatic sigh. ‘Then I should probably move on. I am but one man, am I not? Perhaps the skaven will not melt from me as they do from the brotherhoods of the Imperishables.’
‘One can but pray.’
‘Hah!’ I reached across and thumped Akturus roundly across the pauldron. ‘Hamilcar is back in the Ghurlands now. Your need for prayers is passed.’
I rose, and Akturus stood up after me. I extended my hand, but for some reason the Lord-Castellant hesitated before taking it. When he did, his grip was unexpectedly tentative, as if my vambrace had been scratched with unwholesome runes.
‘I will bid you well then, Knight-Questor,’ he said, with stiff formality. ‘But if it is all the same to you then I will pray to the God-King, and implore him to send us more swords.’
‘Ask him for Lord-Celestant Settrus, perhaps. Then at least you will have a proven warlord in charge.’
I liked Settrus. He could be stiff, but he suffered no nonsense and made things happen. Even I minded my manners when he was nearby.
‘War is not confined to the Gorkomon or this corner of the Ghurlands,’ said Akturus, as though this was somehow news to me. ‘He marches instead with the remainder of the Imperishables to bolster the garrison at Glymmsforge.’
‘He has a special loathing of the Undying King,’ I recalled.
Akturus nodded.
I released my grip on his forearm and nodded back. I hadn’t been expecting this particular farewell to be hard. ‘Keep your lantern to hand, brother. The assassin, Malikcek. Be wary of him. These walls, your guards, they will not stop him getting in here if he or his master should wish it.’
‘I am always wary.’
‘If he can scale the walls of Malerion’s palace, walk the Black Maze, evade the mirror-traps and the shade-hounds and almost get back out alive, then he can break into the Seven Words.’
‘I know how to hold a castle, Hamilcar.’
Before I could try another avenue of persuasion, I heard a commotion from the other side of the doors. Voices, raised in argument. Armoured bodies scuffling in a hallway. I turned, just as the doors were thrown open and Frankos of the Heavens Forge shouldered his way between the two Retributors trying in vain to keep him out.
I was aware of my mouth hanging open.
Frankos?
The Lord-Celestant looked exactly as I remembered him. The face of a child-king, the purity of a child of Dracothion. His beatific features were unworn by any duty or care or the passing of the centuries. His hair was the gold of Sigmar’s throne. His eyes were light. And yet, he was different. His breastplate – though I challenge anyone to look directly on that much gold in direct sunlight and make out much – depicted the Anvil of Apotheosis, the Heavens Forge, six lightning bolts shooting from the centre to form the spokes of a Celestial ring. His cloak dragged across the ground. It was heavy, woven not of cloth or hide, but hammers.
He looked as though he had been encased in an idealised statue of himself.
Or me.
‘Frankos?’
‘Hamilcar. By the God-King, it’s true.’
The Lord-Celestant’s sternness evaporated into something luminous and he extended his arms, brushing off the Anvils of the Heldenhammer as he strode towards me and drew me into his embrace. I laughed and met strength with strength, crushing his breastplate into mine and knuckling his perfect hair. Almost as soon as I did, however, he pulled back, pushing me off as if I had just grabbed his face and tried to kiss him.
Frankos has ever been an open tome. The kind with woodcuts, in fact. If there is a thought in his head or a passion in his heart, then it is there for the realms to see and to make their peace with. What I saw on his face then was an inarticulate mashing together of horror, disgust, and a hatred of himself for harbouring such a base response towards a mentor and a brother. It was as if he had reached out for his best friend and found a daemon masquerading in his skin.