Tyros glanced at him, his gaze equanimous. ‘I know you forget how to talk to people when you spend all your time buried in books, so I’ll forgive your lack of tact this once, Balthas.’ He held up a fist. ‘But call me ignorant again, and I’ll bust that pretty nose of yours.’
Balthas blinked. Then, he nodded with a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me, brother.’
Tyros grunted. ‘I am technically your superior, you know.’
‘Technically. What is a few months’ difference in reforging?’
‘I’ll tell Knossus you said that. He’ll be relieved.’
Balthas grunted sourly but didn’t reply. Tyros chuckled.
Side by side, the two Stormcasts left the library. Sigmaron rose about them, a palace-city of ivory towers and golden aetherdomes, clustered on the cloud-wreathed upper slopes of Mount Celestian. It had grown over the course of millennia. Its ramparts and walkways now spilled across the thunder-shaken crags, connecting distant peaks – now given over almost entirely to forges and workshops – in an unbroken ring of sigmarite and celestine.
Far above, the High Star, Sigendil, shone down, casting its eternal radiance across the city and mountain both. Sigendil never moved from its appointed place, a source of unwavering certainty for even the sternest soul. Bathed in its light, Sigmaron was like an island in the starlit emptiness of the celestial sea, a starburst of gold amid the black. And at its peak, Balthas knew, lay the silent ruins of Highheim, the parliament of the gods. That vast acropolis had been deserted for aeons, since the dissolution of Sigmar’s pantheon. It was forbidden to all but the most trusted of Sigmar’s councillors, and even then, visits were only permitted in the company of the God-King himself.
Great storms vented their fury upon the highest of the aetherdomes; their strength was funnelled into the citadel’s forges, and the rains were siphoned into the many gardens and groves scattered throughout the palace-city. The celestine vaults of the citadel rang with the clamour of unceasing industry, and great masses of humanity strode to and fro along the colossal walkways and ramparts. The whole of Sigmaron seemed to resonate with activity.
Balthas and Tyros made their way easily through the crowds. They were composed of servants, mostly, and so made way hurriedly for the Stormcast Eternals. Sigmaron was home to thousands of mortal attendants. Many worked in the vaults and gardens, while others were scribes or messengers, carrying armfuls of parchment. An honoured few were allowed to serve in the inner chambers of the palace, where Sigmar himself held court.
Besides the servants, there were representatives from Azyrheim and the other great cities of Azyr, including Starhold and Skydock, and their retinues. Among them were captain-generals of the Freeguild, dressed in their ostentatious uniforms, and the merchant-princes of the far-flung realmports, come to seek Sigmar’s blessings for their financial ventures in the wider realms.
These last travelled with much pomp and circumstance, accompanied by retainers and exotic bodyguards, including gold-bedecked fyreslayers, brutal ogors and, in one case, a hulking gargant, who plodded along sedately in his mistress’ wake.
‘The palace-city has become crowded, of late,’ Tyros remarked, as the great brute stomped past them. He turned, watching the gargant. ‘Once, these walkways would have been empty of all save the chosen of Sigmar.’
‘Once, we feared the realms lost to us, and Azyr adrift and alone.’ Balthas strode along, heedless of the mortals scattering like quail before him. ‘That Sigmaron boasts such life is a sign that we follow the correct course.’
‘Spoken with the confidence of an academic.’
Balthas glanced at the other lord-arcanum. ‘I have fought my share of battles, brother. But I can see the wider tapestry before me. If you would but open your eyes, you might as well.’
Tyros laughed. ‘Sometimes, brother, I fear you are so concerned with your tapestry that you miss the finer details.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender before Balthas could reply. ‘But who am I to gainsay you? We are both masters of the storm, by Sigmar’s grace.’
‘Yes, a fact I will never cease to question.’
Tyros laughed uproariously, startling several nearby mortals. A moment later, Balthas joined him, if less boisterously. While the Hallowed Knights were, by and large, joyful souls, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were more restrained. But for all their differences of opinion, there were few souls Balthas trusted more than Tyros. He was a rock of faith and dogged in pursuit of his duties. Qualities Balthas could respect. Tyros caught him by the shoulder. ‘Come on, brother. Our chariot awaits. And the Sigmarabulum as well.’
Balthas glanced up. Far above Sigmaron, to the south of Sigendil, the Sigmarabulum encircled the broken remains of Mallus, the world-that-was. A fabricated ring of soul-mills, forges and laboratories, it was also home to the Chamber of the Broken World, and the Anvil of Apotheosis. There were only a few routes between the world-ring and the palace-city. Most were glacially slow – even the swiftest aether-craft would take days to reach the Sigmarabulum. But the Thunder-Gates could take one from Sigmaron to the Sigmarabulum almost instantaneously.
Designed by Sigmar and crafted by Grungni, the Thunder-Gates stood at the heart of the great orrery-bastions that revolved eternally on the outer ring of the palace-city. Each of the bastions was shrouded in a constant cascade of lightning from above. The lightning was caught in the massive, oscillating rings, to be stretched and subsumed, where it did not drip down to crawl in crackling patterns across the stones of the platform.
Only those clad in blessed sigmarite could pierce the veil of lightning safely and enter the bastions. Thus, these routes were barred to all but the Stormcast Eternals.
As they crossed the stone walkway that led to one of these orrery-bastions, Balthas cast his gaze over the wheeling stars of the firmament. The skies in Azyr were alive, in some sense. They roiled and crashed like the waves of the sea, albeit silently. Stars flared and dimmed, worlds spun in an eternal dance. Sometimes, if one stared too long into the dark, great, inhuman faces seemed to take shape and look back.
These days, Balthas knew better than to stare. Whatever watched from behind the veil of stars was far beyond him, and he saw no reason to attract its attention. That was a matter for the gods.
They stepped through the curtain of lightning, and Balthas felt invigorated by its touch. He raised his hand, drawing it to him and letting it play across the contours of his gauntlet. He released it, as they entered the carefully carved stone archway that led into the orrery-bastion.
Within was a circular chamber, where the majority of the lightning was drawn down and reflected and refracted among innumerable celestine mirrors. As it shot back and forth, its fury was diffused and used to power the great clockwork mechanisms that clicked and groaned beneath a gigantic dais, composed of a number of concentric rings, which occupied the heart of the chamber. The air was thick with the smell of ozone.
As they entered the chamber, a heavy figure greeted them. The lord-castellant turned from the array of lightning-powered mechanisms, his face unreadable behind his war-mask. He wore the golden heraldry of the Hammers of Sigmar, and his armour bore the marks of heavy fighting. Only the truly worthy were given the honour of maintaining the orrery-bastions, having proven their valour against incredible odds. Lord-Castellant Gorgus had done that and more, by all accounts.
‘Call down the lightning, Gorgus,’ Tyros said, without preamble. ‘We have business above and I would be about it.’
The lord-castellant set his halberd and studied them. ‘I expected you before now,’ he rumbled in a chiding tone. Nearby, a gryph-hound looked up from where it lay on its side, glared at them blearily and then flopped back down with a querulous screech.