The Grand Library was one of the oldest structures in the great palace-city, and one of the few that continued to grow and expand with every passing century. The agents of the God-King scoured the Mortal Realms for esoteric knowledge, bringing all that they found back to Sigmaron. Somewhere below him, in the Halls of Illumination, twelve-thousand monks – not all of them human or even alive – worked tirelessly to record and transcribe this knowledge.
The wisdom of nations long vanished, of generations past, of sages and seers without number, all gathered here, beneath a dome of glass and stone. All of it at the fingertips of any who wished to avail themselves of it. The thought made Balthas’ heart skip a beat. Once, in a life he could but dimly recall, he might have wasted his days stumbling from one shelf to the next, seeking what revelations might come. Seeking knowledge for its own sake was a vice he had often indulged in.
But now, he had a greater purpose than his own aggrandisement. He had been remade, given form and function beyond that of mortal man. Made an engine of necessity, guided by the wisdom of a god. Balthas stared down at the book, willing it to surrender those secrets it so stubbornly held. He had defeated a thousand others just like it, and would defeat this one as well. There could be no other outcome.
‘Lord-arcanum.’ The voice was soft and thin with age. Balthas turned, irritated by the interruption. His annoyance evaporated when he saw who had addressed him. The priest was old, especially by the standards of mortals, and all but swallowed up in his blue robes and chains of office. His dark skin bore faded, celestial tattoos in the fashion of the Sword-Clans of the Caelum Desert, and his hands and cheeks still bore the scars of an earlier time.
‘Chief Librarian Aderphi,’ Balthas said, in polite greeting. He had known the old man since he had been anything but. Aderphi had come to the Grand Library as a novice, hands still stained with blood and his heart full of fire. Now, that fire had dimmed, and the blood had long since dried, but Balthas could still see the ghost of that young warrior in the bent figure before him.
‘I trust I am not disturbing you,’ the old man said. He took a seat opposite Balthas without waiting for a reply. He looked at the book. ‘Ah. The Guelphic Cipher. A stubborn opponent, I’m told.’
‘Fifty years,’ Balthas said, with some bitterness. ‘That’s how long I’ve been trying.’
‘I know. You were studying it the day I took up my post here, as a mere novice.’ Aderphi smiled. ‘Still not cracked it, then, my lord?’
Balthas raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a jest?’
‘A small one, I assure you.’ Aderphi picked up the empty jug and shook it. ‘You are out of wine.’
‘I may have been sitting here for some time.’
‘Two days since you last asked for food and drink, according to the brothers. A long time to stare at dusty tomes and texts.’
Balthas frowned. That explained the slight ache in his back and shoulders. ‘I have done so for longer, in the past,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon, if my presence has disturbed you.’
Aderphi smiled. ‘Only you could make an apology sound like an insult.’
Balthas’ frown deepened. The old man made a habit of familiarity. As if his age exempted him from showing proper deference to his betters. ‘If I am not proving disruptive, why have you chosen to interrupt me, Chief Librarian?’
Aderphi pointed. ‘You have a visitor.’
Balthas blinked and turned. Another lord-arcanum, clad in the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, strode towards his table. Tyros Firemane raised his staff in greeting. ‘Fear not, Balthas, I come to rescue you from your self-imposed exile.’ His voice boomed out, startling the tiny starwyrms that nested in the high places of the library. The little, winged reptiles hissed and swooped over the shelves, scattering clouds of dust. Tyros paid them no heed, even when one flitted past his ear. The ferrule of his staff clanged against the stone floor, and Aderphi winced slightly with each reverberation.
‘Tyros,’ Balthas said simply, as he turned back to his studies.
The Chief Librarian rose. ‘I will leave you to it, my lords.’ Balthas watched, somewhat bemused, as the old man hobbled off.
A moment later, Tyros leaned over the table, balancing on his knuckles, the silver sigmarite digging into the wood. The heavy-set, red-bearded lord-arcanum grinned. He had a wide face and hawk-like nose, lending him a fierce air. ‘Still hunting, eh, Balthas? Caught anything yet?’
‘Nothing of import, I fear.’
‘Bit of a waste, then, wasn’t it?’
Balthas sighed. ‘How I spend my free time is my business, brother.’
‘I merely question whether you’ve seen the sun, lately.’
‘I have light enough.’
Tyros frowned and straightened. ‘Yes, well, I come to tear you away from your dusty friends. Your duties await. We are required at the Anvil of Apotheosis.’
‘Already?’ Balthas sighed. Among the many duties of a Sacrosanct Chamber was to oversee the reforging process, as those Stormcast Eternals slain in battle were wrought anew and made whole. The process was not without its dangers, and required warriors of a certain mettle to meet to them. Ones more attuned to the aetheric, with the ability to wield the raw power of the Heavens in Sigmar’s name.
‘It’s been a week, Balthas. Twelve chambers have stood their watch. Now twelve more must take their place – and that includes their lords-arcanum.’
‘A week?’ Balthas leaned back and stretched. ‘That would explain the gnawing sensation in my belly, I suppose.’ He had not bothered to eat before coming to the library. Knowledge sustained him – or if it didn’t, it should.
Tyros snorted. ‘That’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.’
‘Just as well. I’m in no mood to eat.’ Balthas carefully stacked the tomes and stood. He pinched the flames of the candles out and retrieved his helmet and his staff. Tyros waited impatiently, thick arms folded over his chest.
‘How many times have I had to come and dig you out of this mausoleum?’ he growled. ‘A dozen? Two dozen? Why do you spend so much time here?’
‘As you said, I’m hunting. That is our duty, remember?’ Balthas gestured to the tomes. ‘I seek our prey in the forests of antiquity, following the ancient trails wherever they might lead.’ He spoke with more passion than he’d intended, but he could not help it. The answer he sought was somewhere in these records. He was certain of it.
Somewhere within the Grand Library, within these tomes and scrolls, was the key to allaying the flaw that cursed all Stormcast Eternals. Death was not the end of a Stormcast’s service, and those who fell in battle could be reforged and returned to the fray. But not without cost. The reforged, with few exceptions, became both more and less than they had been. Sometimes what stepped off the Anvil of Apotheosis was more akin to a tempest cloaked in human flesh than a mortal warrior.
These side effects of the reforging process were becoming steadily more pronounced as the war against the Ruinous Powers raged on. If victory – true victory – were to be achieved, a solution had to be found. Among the many duties of the Sacrosanct Chamber, the hunt for that solution was the most important.
Tyros shook his head. ‘I doubt what we seek can be found in such records as these. The world-that-was is gone, brother, and all its secrets with it. We must look to the realms as they are, not as they once were.’ Tyros was an explorer by temperament. He preferred to spend his days hunting through broken ruins and shadowed barrows, rather than studying ancient texts and scrolls.
Balthas frowned. ‘That’s ignorant, even for you, Tyros.’