Unable to speak, Balthas bowed his head. Sigmar laughed softly. ‘If I do, I suspect it is not enough. You hunger for things other than my appreciation. As it should be.’ He waved a hand. ‘Return to your contemplations, please. I would speak with Balthas.’
‘Me, my lord?’
‘Your name is Balthas, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then yes.’ Sigmar smiled. He pointed. ‘Tell me what you see, Balthas. Not just with your eyes, but everything.’
‘I…’ Balthas hesitated. ‘I see death. The stain of Shyish is upon their souls.’
‘Yes. The servants of Nagash wage war upon our territories – Glymmsforge, Gravewild, even the Oasis of Gazul. The dead hurl themselves at our ramparts, seeking to drive us from their ancient demesnes.’
‘Madness,’ Balthas said.
‘Is it?’ Sigmar looked down at him. ‘One could argue that we are interlopers, with no more claim to those territories than any other invader.’
‘Nagash ceded those lands to us himself.’
‘Under duress. And now he wants them back. Such is the prerogative of a god.’ Sigmar held out a hand, and the light contracted about it, turning cobalt. ‘It is in our nature to be changeable. We are not omniscient. We are but manifestations of the realms, a part of them, given voice and thought. Some of us are stronger than others. Some more in tune with the raw stuff of creation that flows through the realms we claim for our own. Nagash has ever desired to be more than what he is. To be more than a manifestation of Death, to be Death itself. A universal force, mightier even than the entropy of the Ruinous Powers.’
‘He is a monster.’
‘Now? Yes. Once… perhaps. Perhaps even then, he was mad. But I do not think so. I cannot think so. For if there was never anything else in him, then my sin in freeing him was worse than any other I have committed.’
Balthas stared at him. It was unnerving to hear a god speak of such things. To admit failure, as if he were no more certain of events than those who served him. He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but the way you speak of him…’
Sigmar nodded. ‘Once, we were friends. If we can be said to have friends. We fought side by side against ancient horrors undreamt of even in the nightmare realms of the Ruinous Powers. The King of Broken Constellations and the Devouring Light. The Abyssal Dukes and Symr, the First Fire. They and a thousand others came against us, in those first dim days before the Mortal Realms settled into firm shape. And we fought them all, Nagash and I.’
Sigmar smiled sadly, and for a moment, Balthas almost forgot that the being before him was a god. Instead, he seemed merely a man, tired and alone. Then the moment passed, and the God-King was himself again.
‘Others came later. Alarielle and Tyrion. Gorkamorka and Malerion. The brothers, Grimnir and Grungni. Aye, and many smaller gods as well. Little gods and powers, like the Six Smiths, whose names have been forgotten by all save myself, seeking to join our pantheon. But always, there was Nagash. My brother.’
‘He betrayed you,’ Balthas said softly.
‘You do not have to remind me, Balthas. I was there. As was he. And whatever the truth of that moment, only we can say, and yet neither of us knows.’ Sigmar looked down at him, and Balthas felt the heat of his power. Not just the storm, but the stars and the sun. Sigmar’s gaze encompassed things vast and inconceivable.
Balthas looked away, unable to bear it. Sigmar set a hand on his shoulder. ‘They say you spend too much time studying what was.’
‘Who says? Miska? Tyros? Knossus?’ Even as the words left his mouth, he felt ashamed. ‘Perhaps they are right. But I cannot shake this shadow that clings to me, my lord. I feel as if there is some piece of knowledge, just out of reach. If I could but grasp it, I might…’ He trailed off. Sigmar’s grip on his shoulder tightened.
‘You might be made whole.’
Balthas looked up. ‘Yes.’
Sigmar nodded, not looking at him. Instead, he watched the reforging, his expression unreadable. ‘A good thought, Balthas,’ the God-King said, after a moment. ‘Hold fast to it, whatever others say.’ He looked down at Balthas. ‘I need you to hunt this prey for me, my lord-arcanum. Such is why I drew your soul – and the souls of your brothers and sisters – up from lightless depths and clad you in raiment of star-iron.’
Before Balthas could reply, shouts from below drew his attention. ‘Something has gone wrong,’ he said, gripped by a sudden unease.
Sigmar frowned. ‘A soul is not listening to the song. He is–’
Down below, a soul erupted from the Anvil, lashing out with tendrils of crackling lightning and bellowing in agony. Its human form, unfinished, slipped away as something new took its place: a thing of all shapes and no shapes – a living bolt of lightning, driven mad by the agony of its own existence.
A mage-sacristan was swept from his feet by a wild blow. The armoured warrior crashed down several yards away in a broken, smouldering heap. The lightning-gheist hauled itself off the dais, growing and shedding flaring limbs as it rampaged towards the other aether-mages. Helios and the other Celestors darted towards it, seeking to corral the rogue soul. It shrieked and lunged to meet them.
Balthas caught the edge of the platform’s balcony and made to swing himself over, but Sigmar’s voice stopped him. He glanced back at the God-King and saw Sigmar clutching at his head, as if it pained him. ‘Lord Sigmar–?’ Balthas began.
Sigmar screamed.
Thunder rumbled, shaking Balthas to his bones. He heard glass break and stone grind against itself. The chamber – no, the entire tower – was shaking. Cracks speared upwards along the walls. The Anvil blazed up, brighter than before, not with a holy light but something darker. An amethyst radiance that shone forth, drawing long shadows and causing those Stormcasts it touched to spasm and fall. The lightning-gheist swept aside those that dared to confront it, seeming to grow larger as the tower’s shaking grew worse.
The observation platform shuddered, and lords-arcanum were knocked sprawling. He heard Tyros shouting curses as a pillar twisted on its base and toppled to the floor, shattering into hundreds of jagged chunks. The platform bent and swayed. Balthas, already off balance, had no choice but to move with it. He dropped from the shuddering platform and landed heavily, cracking the marble floor beneath his feet. He rose, staff in hand.
He glanced back and saw Sigmar standing atop the buckling platform, lightning cascading from him. The God-King was still gripping his head, and his voice echoed out, wordless and furious – a solid pall of frustration, perhaps even pain, that washed through the chamber and across every soul in it. Nearby Stormcasts staggered, holding their own heads or crying out in shock. Balthas could feel the God-King’s pain as keenly as if it were his own, but he forced himself to turn away.
All was confusion. The ground bucked and ruptured as the marble floor split. Pillars collapsed, and jagged cracks ran along every wall. Through the dust and smoke, he could see several mage-sacristans, including Miska, struggling against the amethyst energies blazing from the Anvil. They had it contained for the moment. He heard the crackle of lightning and the crash of steel, but could see nothing for the smoke. Voices shouted battle-prayers or called out for aid close to hand.
He stepped back, just as the body of a Celestor tumbled past him. Balthas knelt by the unconscious warrior. The swordsman’s armour had been scorched free of all heraldry, and he was barely breathing. He murmured a healing incantation, soothing the warrior’s hurts as best he could while he scanned the smoke. He could hear the crackle-scrape of something moving, just beyond the limits of his vision.
Abruptly, the lightning-gheist reared up over him, tearing through a shroud of smoke and dust. It shrilled, its cry that of a man stretched to the limits of audibility. Something that might have been a face wavered within it, distorted features twisted in an expression of unending pain. It had grown, and its agony swelled unchecked.