The halo that had been drawn above her head, however, made me wonder.
The air before me trilled with gentle power.
Sparks came off my fingers.
I had a third advantage that those I meet are often prone to overlook. I am, when all is said and done, a champion of Sigmar. My intentions towards the Stormvault were more-or-less pure.
Nassam breathed deep.
‘Do you smell that, my lord? The air is so sweet. So pure.’
I nodded. ‘Sigmar once stood here.’
‘May I ask a question, lord?’
‘As many as you like.’
‘Why are we here? Should we not be pursuing our quest, or aiding in the battle above?’
‘Fear not, my friend, the God-King would give some sort of sign if we were to go astray.’
Nassam nodded, believing every word out of my mouth as though it were hand-blessed by the arch-lector. The only downside to this, as I would later discover, was that he remembered everything too. Like all the best lies, however, it was based on truth. A Knight-Questor’s geas ruled him completely and despite my outward bluster and free-spiritedness, I don’t think I could take any action that did not in some way serve Sigmar’s purpose for me.
Fortunately for the Mortal Realms, I have always been extraordinarily good at convincing myself, and others, of what is and is not Sigmar’s will.
‘Are we not disobeying Lord-Celestant Settrus’ orders?’ he said.
‘Fear not, Nassam. I am a Knight-Questor, unbiddable even to Lord-Celestants.’ Particularly if the Lord-Celestant in question wasn’t there to stop me. ‘You will be safe from censure with me.’
‘But–’
I put my finger to my lips.
Nassam obediently fell quiet.
‘Ready your weapon.’
‘But–’
‘This is the resting place of a potent artefact or the prison of a terrible beast,’ I growled. ‘I know not which, but judging from the art that surrounds us, I think it safe to assume the latter.’
Reluctantly, the Jerech drew his greatsword.
I drew my own halberd from the bracket on my backplate.
A wooden portal lay ahead of us, man-sized, utterly inconsequential amidst the gilt and grandeur of the hall, and yet divine instinct drew me towards it. I extended my hand to the door. I felt nothing. Or, at least, nothing more overt and extraordinary than oak grain and old, polished brass. I looked at Nassam and caught him watching me rather than the door. I bared my teeth in a savage grin. Alone, I might have persuaded myself at the last moment to obey at least this one of Sigmar’s laws and turned around, but with the Jerech there with me, there was no way I would change my mind now.
And people ask me why I keep him around.
I pushed open the door, and stepped through.
Impossible machinery whirred.
A cosmic orrery of grand scale filled the central vault, concentric rings of brass and starsilver turning relentlessly about a central orb, a whooshing, grinding motion, akin to a sigmarite warblade pressed to the grinding wheel of the gods. It radiated heat. Not the muggy warmth of the Unchained Lands, but a white heat that purged the mind and turned thoughts to smoke. Liquid metal sluiced through buried channels. Glowing runes hissed. There were no guys or supports. As far as I could tell it floated under its own power. The way a moon did. And yet for all its size and power and waning influence, it was a challenge to dwell upon directly. The rotation of the rings was profoundly hypnotic. The runes’ heat stung my eyes and made my eyelids droop.
I knew the handiwork of Grungni’s disciples when I was stuck in a room with it.
But I almost forget! The vault contained one last object.
It was a bed.
An apse.
A throne with rings on the arms for chains.
I’m still not entirely certain what it was.
An old woman sat on the low dais at the foot of it, her head resting on what appeared to be an aetherdown cushion. She was garbed in pale, shapeless linens. Light chains trailed the short distance between the... let’s settle on chair, and her ankles and wrists. It was the woman from the frescoes whose internment had brought about such rejoicing. The one for whom this Stormvault had been constructed and its magic lain. It could be no other. She didn’t stir as I entered. Were it not for the raw hum of piety in my teeth, I might have imagined her long dead.
I held my hand out to bid Nassam behind me as I inched towards the chair.
The woman lifted her head towards me.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
I cried out, scalded. Her eyes were rheumy and tired, but they burned with a glory that would have bent even a warrior-devout like the Steel-Soul to one knee.
‘Who are you?’
‘Lord!’ Nassam cried, charging to my side, only to fall to his knees with a whimper as the woman graced him with her gaze. His greatsword fell from his fingers with a clatter of toughened glass.
With a crinkling of ancient fabrics, the woman straightened.
Her light appeared to shrink.
She sighed, her voice becoming smaller. ‘You interrupt my prayers.’
‘What…?’ My mouth worked as though Sigmar had ordered me to read the entire Great Library of Sigmaron. ‘What are you?’
She smiled tiredly. ‘An impertinent question to ask a lady.’
I took a cautious step towards her, wary of her light returning full force. ‘My name is Hamilcar Bear-Eater, Knight-Questor of Sigmar Heldenhammer, the God-King of Azyr and of the Mortal Realms. My lady.’ I bowed. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of me.’
‘I have been here, in this vault, for an age of the world.’
I knew that.
But I still thought it possible.
‘How times change,’ she whispered, apparently to herself. ‘Once, Sigmar would scour the realms for those who would serve as his champions. Now it would seem he simply makes his own.’
‘You are one of the Devoted?’ I asked.
‘Ansira was my name. High priestess of the temple at Ambersand. The highest seat of the cult in all of Ghur.’
I looked at the machinery around me. ‘Then why did his followers imprison you here?’
The woman, Ansira, snorted. Her intent was probably to appear contemptuous, but tears shone in her eyes before she could close them. When she opened them again, she, too, was looking up into the spinning chambers of the cosmic orrery. ‘A Penumbral Engine. Built by Grungni, although the design was not his. I do not know who bears that honour.’ She looked down. ‘The faithful ask no questions. For all that I took this seat willingly, I was a prisoner.’
‘Why?’
‘Where were you back then, Hamilcar Bear-Eater, Knight-Questor of Sigmar Heldenhammer, God-King of Azyr and of the Mortal Realms? You ask the questions I never thought to.’
I shook my head.
That had not been my intent.
Serving Sigmar is a blessed gift, one that any man or woman should be honoured to hold. I’ve never been able to figure out why anyone would give their strength to any god but him.
‘You are probably unaware of an event or two from the last few dozen centuries,’ I said. ‘The Great Necromancer, Nagash, in your time Sigmar’s ally and brother, has unleashed a plague of dark magic upon the Mortal Realms that–’
‘The Shyishan Necroquake,’ Ansira sighed. ‘Yes, I know. The Arcanum Optimar. The Time of Tribulation. The Age of Chaos.’ In spite of the waves of molten heat issuing from the cosmic orrery, she shivered, suddenly seeming very old and very frail indeed. ‘My internment within the Penumbral Engine was not the peaceful slumber that I had envisioned or was promised by the Smiths of Grungni.’