‘You are Frankos’ Lord-Castellant now?’ I said.
‘Lord-Castellant Broudiccan Stonebow, of the Heavens Forged.’ His voice was resonant, as if echoed by an empty shell of armour before emerging from his mouth slit.
‘And Crow?’
The gryph-hound opened its beak and hissed at me as if I were a stranger. Coming from my boon companion of over a hundred years, that cut deeper than beak or claws.
‘I come seeking no approval from you.’
He lowered his halberd like a barrier, bidding the pursuing Liberators to stop.
They did.
‘Hamilcar never surrenders,’ I said, grinning fiercely. ‘You should know that.’
Broudiccan was quiet for a moment. His mask turned down. ‘I do. I think. I remember dying on a nameless hill for your pride.’
‘It had a name.’
‘A name you gave it. A name to embellish your legend.’ He swung his halberd, striking sparks from the cobbles and forcing me to scramble backwards. ‘You always considered yourself the greatest among us, Hamilcar Bear-Eater. Prove it now. Let us settle this as champions.’
The growing evil in me did yearn to test my skills against Broudiccan’s, but do you recall when I said I could count the Stormcasts who could best me on the fingers of my hands?
Broudiccan’s name is number four.
Self-interest won out, but it was close fought.
‘I will not.’
‘You fear being bested.’
‘I won’t fight you here, brother. Not in anger. Not like this.’
‘Brother? You mistake what we had for friendship. You were my lord and I was your second. You were an embarrassment to the reputation of the Astral Templars.’
I knew that these words he spoke were a product of the Smith’s hammer on poor Broudiccan’s soul, distorting and destroying his memories. He wept when Sigmar returned him again to my service, some years later. Wept. Even so, they struck harder than any blow from a starsoul mace or a castellan’s halberd ever could.
I was still reeling from them when someone behind me yelled.
‘Hamilcar, Sigmar, and the Seven Words. Fire!’
The air about me exploded with gunfire, lead shot and sigmarite-tipped armour-killing rounds riddling Broudiccan’s amethyst breastplate.
The giant shrugged through the fusillade and swept up his halberd to skewer me to the cobbles before finally succumbing to the punishment.
I grinned for the briefest of moments, before it dawned on me what was going to happen.
My heart stopped.
‘Gods, no.’
Thirty men in leather and glass armour and bronze halfmasks depicting the unsetting sun blocked the street behind me in ranks. Powder smoke from their discharged pistols shrouded them and the bulk of the Gorkomon at their backs. ‘Reload!’ The front rank knelt and began doing something arcane with their firearms. ‘Target the Liberators!’
My face screwed up in concentration.
I recognised the leader.
Hamuz el-Shaah. The captain from Jercho. I cursed. The one city in the Mortal Realms where my star shone even brighter than it did in the Seven Words.
‘Fire!’
Another barrage of whistling cracks and explosive bangs riddled the scattered retinue of Liberators. Covering twice the range and four times the number of targets, the salvo lacked the stopping power that had put down Broudiccan, and the Liberators recovered with surpassing skill, unhitching shields and forming a line.
Crow lashed his tail and crouched protectively over Broudiccan’s body. No lightning bolt had consumed it to ferry his soul back to Azyr. He lived.
For now.
‘First and second ranks. Draw swords.’ There was a long, drawn-out scrape as the fourteen soldiers comprising the front ranks drew Jerech quartzswords from their scabbards. ‘Third and fourth ranks. Fire!’
Another fusillade of shot split the air above me. A bullet nicked Crow’s beak. He shrilled. A Liberator went down with a pinhole in the middle of his shield and disappeared in a crash of Celestial lightning that stove in doors, cracked stone, and splintered wooden shutters.
What had I done?
Half a day in the Mortal Realms and I had somehow managed to incite the Seven Words into armed rebellion and seen an Astral Templar cast back to the Forge Eternal.
Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.
I had to get out of the Seven Words, and now, before this uprising could spread any further. Flattering though it was, I had no wish to see the Seven Words torn apart in my name. We still had the skaven for that. I looked around for ideas. Gor Lane was tempting, but it only led down to the Morkogon Gate and there would be hundreds of Heavens Forged between me and escape. The catacombs were always an option, but they weren’t unguarded either. Akturus himself would doubtlessly be there by now, and if there was one thing I did still want to avoid then it was that.
An aetar shrieked, way above, and I looked up, my heart sinking.
That was a lot of mountain.
Chapter nineteen
I had been climbing for about a quarter of an hour when the inevitable finally came.
‘Go no further, Hamilcar. You are surrounded, above and below.’
An Azyrite warmth prickled at my back, melting the scab of hoarfrost that had formed over my plate. I pressed my cheek against the rock face to look back over my shoulder, my beard gusting wild, and caught sight of the Prosecutor-Prime behind me. He was one of Akturus’ Imperishables, his black armour embellished with morbid symbols of death and eternal life. Every beat of his wings was an assertion of Azyri dominance, denying the lesser gods of earth and sky the right to dash his heavily armoured body against the rocks below. I saw no weapon in his hand, but knew that it would take but a prayer on his part to summon one from the Cosmic Storm.
‘Begone!’ I bellowed into the gale.
With my gauntlets, I probed the rock face for another handhold. I couldn’t find one, resorting once again to punching one for myself. With a grunt of effort, I dragged myself another few feet, reassigning my boots to the holds that freed up.
I scowled breathlessly at the rock.
In cruel mockery of the numbness in my fingertips and in the skin of my face, my muscles felt as though they were turning slowly and painfully molten. It was worst in my hands, particularly along the outside edges, but no muscle in my body seemed immune to the burn. My legs. My back. My stomach. Even the muscles of my lips and eyes. As if even grimacing in pain had become an effort. I looked down. I know that this is what climbers in every realm are warned not to do, but I was born a child of the mountains. I had no fear of high places.
Then I looked up.
That was arguably less wise.
Breath steamed out of my mouth in a rasp.
The summit was so far above me that I couldn’t even see it yet amongst the lesser ridges and crags. If someone had appeared to me in spirit form to tell me that it was only ten times the distance I had already scaled yet to go, then I would have taken it and kissed that spectre’s hand. The uncounted legions that had warred over the Seven Words for so many thousands of years had shared little in common beyond an acceptance that the Gorkomon was unconquerable.
I hated proving people right.
‘I will not relent,’ I hollered to the Prime over my shoulder. ‘Not to Frankos. Not to Vikaeus. And definitely not to Akturus.’