I had done my best to forget everything that Ong and his caricatures – and yes, even Sigmar himself – had tried to tell me about the injuries that Ikrit had caused to my soul. Because any problem that can be readily ignored was never a problem at all. Now I thought about it, it occurred to me that Zephacleas had behaved somewhat oddly when I took his hand. And the Anvils of the Heldenhammer that had greeted my arrival through the Realmgate had definitely been feeling something other than awe at my presence. Frankos had always been difficult to ignore. That was what had made him such an exceptional Heraldor; why he may yet make a worthy successor to me as Lord-Celestant.
He didn’t even need to speak to reach you exactly where your heart beat.
‘What?’ I said, not sure I wanted to know, but knowing that I needed to ask. ‘What is it?’
‘It is… difficult to describe.’ Frankos backed off, staring at me as though to catch me in some unclean act. ‘It’s like looking upon a holy vessel, taking it up in your hands, only to find its contents befouled.’
I snorted. ‘No offence taken.’
‘My lord. Forgive me.’ For once, Frankos’ golden tongue failed and he stuttered, bowing low, ostensibly in apology, but with every outward appearance of simply not wishing to look upon me a moment more. ‘Pray… I meant no–’
‘It’s alright, brother. I was joking.’
‘I felt it also,’ said Akturus, behind me.
So that was what the expression had been when our fingers had touched. I felt an odd sort of triumph at the fact that it had just been my poor broken soul, and that I had not unwittingly offended him again in my brief stay.
‘You see now why I can’t stay,’ I said.
‘I do.’ Akturus turned to the Retributor who was still filling the doorway like a storm cloud. ‘It is alright, Kephos. The Lord-Celestant will not be staying long.’
‘Your will be done, Lord-Castellant.’
The door was closed very deliberately behind him.
‘By all that is good and glorious,’ Frankos declared, rounding on me as it shut. ‘What has been done to you, lord? What wickedness could the vile skaven be capable of inflicting that even the blessed fires of the Anvil itself cannot undo?’
I could still hear grumbling from outside, but ignored it. It was probably just the Retributors again, complaining about Frankos.
‘I cannot discuss it,’ I said. And preferred not to. ‘Only that Sigmar has charged me with bringing the warlock responsible back to him in Sigmaron.’
‘Then by the Twelve Points of Sigendil and the eternal fires of Dracothion you shall go with every sword, hammer and bow of the Heavens Forged beside you.’
‘No,’ said Akturus, calmly. ‘He will not.’
‘You dare give me orders? I am Lord-Celestant in the Seven Words, and the warriors of the Heavens Forged are mine to command.’
Akturus raised an eyebrow.
I took an unconscious step back.
‘He goes for the very jugular of the beast,’ Frankos cried, articulating with a grabbing motion of his hand. ‘The Astral Templars would join him in the hunt. Share the danger, and the taste of blood when it is spilled.’
That was Frankos, ever willing with a turn of phrase.
‘That’s enough,’ I said. ‘Akturus is right.’
‘He’s–’
Whatever the Lord-Celestant had been about to declaim was cut short by a severely disgruntled Retributor.
‘There is a runner from the Realmgate, Lord-Castellant,’ he said, pushing the door aside. ‘Vikaeus Creed has returned with a Thunderwave Echelon of Knights Merciless. She urgently requests the presence of both you and Lord-Celestant Frankos in the High Hall.’
Vikaeus.
Sigmar had sent Vikaeus after me.
The thought both thrilled and terrified.
I was thinking of a cell with a view in the Forge Eternal, and the centuries I had to look forward to spending in it.
‘You are welcome to join us, lord,’ Frankos said, sternly, spreading his glare evenly between Kephos and Akturus.
‘No, no,’ I said, declining as naturally as I could. ‘She asked just for the two of you, I’m sure she has her reasons.’
‘Come, lord,’ said Frankos. ‘You are only just arrived, she cannot know yet that you are here or she would have summoned you as well.’
Of that I have no doubt.
‘She’ll know where to find me.’ I took his pauldron. He cringed, doing a poor job of hiding it. ‘I’ll be out there, with them, where I belong.’
Frankos bowed low.
‘I will have Kephos escort you back to the wards,’ said Akturus.
‘No need,’ I said, waving the offered Retributor off. I was already eyeing the door he was standing in. ‘I remember the way out.’
Chapter seventeen
Lord-Veritant Vikaeus swept into the keep like a cold wind. The Dracoth she rode padded over the cracked flagstones with the cool deliberation of an alligator returning to water. Its scales were the blue of Celestial hoarfrost, its armour white, tack and harness glittering in the torches that burned sporadically in the handful of sheltered sconces about the disarming chamber. With cold-blooded patience it surveyed the weapons benches and alcoves, and the chipped stone columns that lined the east wall. I hid behind the farthest column and tried not to breathe. While the Dracoth satisfied itself, two Concussors in the frost-white bastion plate and silver trim of the Knights Merciless drew in alongside. They had their lightning hammers drawn and their Sigmarite Shields raised. They all had their helmets fitted. That confirmed my worst suspicions.
The Knights Merciless donned their war-masks only when in hostile lands, or in the dispensation of Sigmar’s justice.
They were here for me.
Vikaeus swung one foot out from the stirrup and slid down the Dracoth’s scaly flank, landing in a clump of sigmarite that she nevertheless made graceful. Drawing her abjuration staff from its saddle sleeve, she left a lingering hand on the beast’s jaw as she turned to scour the chamber’s crannies with habitually suspicious eyes.
The sight of her stole the breath from my lungs, even reaching into my veins to pick their pockets too. My blood felt thick. The pounding of my heart left an echo in my head. Part of me was tempted to hand myself over there and then, simply to know what it would feel like to have my gaze returned. I had to physically put my hand on my breast and push myself back into hiding.
‘I am sorry, Cryax, I know. But this is not Sigmaron. You will have to remain here.’ Vikaeus turned to the two Concussors. ‘I will not be long.’ With that, she turned and strode away, behind another column and out of my view.
‘Welcome back, Lady Vikaeus,’ came another voice that I couldn’t see the owner of from where I was hiding. A mortal by the sound of it, a woman, and walking towards the Lord-Veritant from the door to the main halls. ‘The lords Frankos and Akturus await you in the High Hall.’
‘That is swift. Good. What I have to say to them is urgent.’
Her footsteps thudded further into the obscurity of the keep, and I felt myself breathe easier with her gone. I glanced back to see the two Concussors still idling by the open gate where Vikaeus had left them.
‘Strike,’ I swore.
As I watched, one of them slid from his saddle and approached Vikaeus’ Dracoth. The Paladin caught its bridle armour almost playfully in one hand and whispered something that I assumed to be reassuring in its ear. What words might reassure a Dracoth I had no idea, and less interest in knowing.
Only the purest of spirit or the noblest of purpose could hope to tame a child of Dracothion.