In the Pavilion of Roses, Havocwild, Headsman of Thurn and Lord of the Six Pavilions, winced as the screams grew in volume and poured himself another goblet of wine. He was a tall man, bronzed by the sun and clad in black silks and golden war-plate, engraved with the sixty-six verses of Slaanesh. He had been handsome once, but more than a century of warfare could wear the lustre off almost anything.
He stood on a basalt dais, festooned with thick cushions and closed off by curtains of tattered silk. Various weapons and pieces of armour were scattered around the dais and on its slabbed steps. Empty jugs of wine, and trays covered in rotting meats and fruits, lay among them, discarded where his slaves had dropped them before they’d fled.
Behind him, the screams of the daemons rose in pitch, and the jug in his hand vibrated, cracked and burst, spattering his armour with the dregs of the wine. He sighed and sniffed the contents of his goblet. It was an exquisite vintage, made from grapes grown in the volcanic soil of the Tephra Crater. He tasted it and frowned. The screaming of the daemons had turned it sour. He tossed the goblet aside and turned.
On the great rugs of magmadroth hide that covered the ground, dozens of daemonettes twisted and writhed. But not with their usual sense of elation. Normally, the Handmaidens of Slaanesh were poetry in motion, graceful and hypnotic. At the moment, however, they lacked all grace, twisting and twitching as if afflicted with ague. Their screams became even shriller, and his eardrums ached in a most unique fashion.
But like all new sensations, it quickly became tiresome. ‘Enough,’ he snarled, groping for the haft of his headsman’s blade. The massive, two-handed sword had earned him his sobriquet as well as mastery of the Six Pavilions. ‘Either cease screaming, or cease being – but do so swiftly.’ He snatched the sword from its sheath of tanned human flesh and swung it up over his head as he advanced on the closest of the daemons. ‘Whatever game this is, it has become tedious. Stop. Stop!’
The daemonette continued to howl, tearing at its own androgynous features with crustacean-like claws. It had gouged out its own eyes, as if it had seen something beyond its ability to bear. One moment, the creatures had been cavorting for his amusement as usual. The next, they had succumbed to these strange convulsions. He had never seen the like before, but rather than exciting him with its novelty, the sight made him uneasy.
He held his blow, uncertain. Then, the ground shook. He was nearly knocked from his feet by the force of the tremor. The ground cracked and split, spewing volcanic gases. The shaking increased, as did the screams of the daemons. They began to tear at each other and the ground in a growing frenzy. It was as if they had been driven mad – or madder.
A daemonette lurched to its hooves and stumbled towards him, squalling. It slashed blindly at him, gibbering something that might have been a name over and over again. Disgusted, Havocwild beheaded the creature with a looping blow. He staggered towards the entrance as the ground buckled.
As he stepped into the open, he heard the creak of bone and looked up. The skulls of all those he’d killed, gilded and decorated with flowers and fine gems, covered the sides of the immense tent. An eerie green radiance flitted from skull to skull as he watched. Then, as one, they began to twitch and clatter on their barbs. He heard a sound as of a thousand voices, murmuring all at once and close by. Some of them screamed, in memory of pain they could no longer feel, or for a vengeance they would never claim.
He laughed, delighted, and his eyes were drawn to the sky above. It seemed to convulse, in time with the tremors that wracked the ground. Striations of amethyst light passed slowly through the dark, and the tremors grew fiercer. He watched in growing awe as the stars began to wink out, one by one.
‘How exquisite,’ he whispered.
Balthas Arum sat back with a sigh, his black-and-gold war-plate creaking. The lord-arcanum rubbed his eyes, more out of habit than because they ached. He closed the tome he’d been studying, set it atop the pile to his left and reached for the next. The wide table, made from a single slab of dark stone, was covered in small hills of paper – stacks of volumes and papyrus jostled for space with duardin bead-books and strange, golden plaques. Candles rose like wax towers and cast a pallid glow over the confusion.
Balthas, like all Stormcast Eternals, was larger than a mortal man. He bore the black-and-gold livery of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer proudly, and was clad in the war-plate and robes of his office. An ornate staff of sigmarite and gold lay against the table, the stylised lightning bolts that adorned its head flickering softly.
He bore a blade when he rode to war, but rarely used it, for such was not his purpose. He was no lord-celestant, to hurl himself into the thick of war, but instead a lord-arcanum – an aether-mage and master of a Sacrosanct Chamber. The fury of the cosmic tempest was his to command. Of what use was a sword or hammer, however well-crafted, to one who could wield lightning? With a word, he could crack stone or ride the aetheric winds, as swift as a thunderbolt.
Balthas ran his hands through his dark hair. He stared at the book before him, sizing it up the way a warrior might study a new opponent. The cover was made from the crimson scales of an Aqshian magmadroth, with brass clasps and bindings. Runes – but not duardin ones – were stamped on it. He tapped it with a finger, considering his avenues of attack. He had laid siege to this tome before and always come away defeated. It required careful thought. It was composed of unknown runic characters, etched by an unknown hand, on an unknown subject. An enigma.
He glanced at his helmet, sitting nearby. It was plated in gold, with runic sigils carved into the brow and cheek-guards. He tapped it fondly. ‘I can draw down the lightning as easily as I draw breath. I am a master of the aetheric storm. I can peer into the heart of any living creature, and I have matched my will against those of the dark gods. But I cannot crack this cipher.’ He frowned. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’
Balthas opened the book, careful not to damage it. ‘Perhaps today will be the day.’ He scouted the first pages, studying the familiar, unintelligible lines of script, the strange illustrations – some species of herb, he thought. But what species, found where? He reached for a goblet, sitting near his hand. He lifted the cup without looking at it and found it empty, save for a few sour dregs. He peered into it, momentarily confused.
‘I could have sworn I had a full goblet a few moments ago,’ he said, out loud. He sighed and reached for a nearby jug. It too was empty. He set it aside, searching for any sign of the novice priests who attended to such menial tasks. He recalled, belatedly, that he’d asked to be left alone. Evidently, they had taken him at his word. He looked around.
The Grand Library of Sigmaron was silent. Shafts of light fell through the high, oblong windows to streak the dusty air. High, heavy shelves of smooth stone and fossilised wood lined the walls or else stood freely, stretching past even the limits of his preternatural sight. The concentric arrangement of these semi-circular shelves mirrored the circular shape of the library itself – a world within a world.
Azure-robed priests and priestesses strode silently through the shadowed pathways between shelves, retrieving books for patrons, or replacing those borrowed earlier. The priests wore heavy record books marked with the Sigendil, the High Star of Azyr, chained to their bodies. With these, they kept track of what books were read, when and by whom. Most were armed, too, however lightly. Libraries were dangerous places, even in Azyr.