Balthas gritted his teeth and flung up a hand as a crackling tendril swept down towards him. The aether solidified at his gesture, forming a shield of celestial energy between himself, the unconscious Celestor and the lightning-gheist. It battered at the shield, every blow echoing like thunder. It snarled and gibbered, spitting out pieces of half-forgotten conversations as it attacked.
He pushed aside all thought of what was going on around him. He had his duty, and he was the only one standing between the rampaging entity and freedom. He took a step forwards, using the shield to push the creature back, away from the fallen Celestor. If he could contain it atop the anvil once more, they might stand a chance of salvaging the soul it had been – and if not, it would be easier to destroy it there. The creature resisted, fighting him every step of the way. It was growing stronger with every passing moment.
He forced it back, matching it lightning for lightning. But as he stepped into reach of the amethyst radiance, he felt his connection to the aether dim. Just for an instant, but it was enough. The lightning-gheist lunged, squalling. Crackling fists, larger than a mortal man, slammed down on him, and through him.
He bellowed in agony, every muscle contracting as the lightning inundated his armour. His staff fell from his hand, and he staggered. The creature’s connection to the aether had enabled it to breach the mystic wards that adorned his war-plate. Almost blind, Balthas clawed at it, seeking the nexus of its consciousness.
When he found it, it was like plunging his hands into a freezing river. Images, memories, hopes, dreams buffeted his consciousness. All the pieces of the person the creature had been. He saw a sea of tombs, sealed with silver chains, and heard the purring of cats. He tasted the sweetness of an apple and saw the face of a child – a girl. The face rose to the surface of the maelstrom, and the lightning-gheist wailed desolately. A moment later, the image sprang apart, like a leaf caught in a fire. A torrent of raw emotion threatened to engulf him: shame, anger, fear, sadness.
Balthas weathered the storm, enduring the confusing sensations. They weren’t what he sought – he wanted the thing’s name. Names were the key to identity. With a name, he could draw the warrior from the monster, if there was anything left of them. Despite the pain, the crash of disordered memories, he groped for the silvery thread of the warrior’s self. When he caught it at last, the lightning-gheist twisted, screaming.
‘Thaum,’ Balthas roared. ‘I name thee Pharus Thaum, lord-castellant of the Gravewalkers. I name thee Anvil of the Heldenhammer and loyal son of Azyr. I name thee and I bid thee cease, in the name of he who forged us!’
At the sound of its name, the creature smashed him from his feet and sent him tumbling backwards. He rolled across the floor, trailing smoke. The lightning-gheist surged after him, wailing. Its moans were like a storm-wind, racing across an unsettled sea. It struck him again and again, preventing him from mustering any sort of defence.
He could hear the shouts of the others and feel the floor shuddering. Whatever cataclysm gripped the Sigmarabulum, it hadn’t ended. A pillar cracked, and he only just managed to hurl himself aside. It fell, striking the lightning-gheist, momentarily splitting the creature in two. It reformed itself and shattered the fallen pillar, casting fragments in all directions. Several slammed into Balthas, knocking him sprawling even as he got to his feet. He rolled over, unable to catch his breath, head spinning. He looked up as the creature loomed over him, multifarious limbs crackling and snapping.
Suddenly, Tyros stepped between Balthas and the snarls of lightning, raising his staff to block it. The lightning crashed against Tyros, and clawed at his war-plate, leaving black scars on the silver. ‘Up, Balthas! There’s work to be done.’
‘Where did you come from?’ Balthas said, clambering to his feet. ‘Where is Sigmar? Is the God-King injured?’
Before the other lord-arcanum could reply, the lighting-gheist attacked again. Tyros grunted as the force of its blow knocked him to one knee. As he sank down, Balthas stepped forwards. ‘Leave him, Thaum – look here!’ He spread his hands, drawing the aether into a coruscating orb between his palms. The lightning-gheist swatted Tyros aside, sending him skidding across the floor, as it reached for Balthas. Its human features surfaced again, mouth open in a scream, eyes wide, glaring at something only it could see.
Balthas thrust his palms forwards, unleashing the power he’d drawn from the aether. The explosion knocked him backwards, but it hurled the creature back as well. It crashed away into the smoke, still screaming. Balthas scrambled to Tyros’ side. As he did so, he heard a resounding groan echo down from above.
He looked up and saw that the cracks had reached the roof. Great chunks of masonry were tearing loose, as the roof shifted and the walls bent. It felt as if the whole tower were coming loose from its foundations. The glass dome shattered and thousands of glittering shards rained down, joining the falling stones.
There was no time to run. Balthas raised his hands, trying to draw the aether to him, to shield them both. Strong as their war-plate was, the bodies within could still be pulped. But the celestial winds resisted his call, barely twisting into momentary knots above him before dispersing. It was as if the heavens were in an uproar. The spell fragmented, uncast, even as the first chunks of stone plummeted towards them.
‘No.’
Sigmar’s voice rumbled out like thunder, momentarily overcoming the tumult. ‘No. This shall not be.’ The God-King was suddenly there, swelling like a storm cloud, growing larger, his glowing form piercing the smoke. He caught a cracking pillar in either hand and forced them back into place with a roar of tortured stone. He thrust his shoulder against the slumping roof and held it steady. ‘This will not be.’
As his words struck the air, lightning snarled and stretched in crackling lines across the crumbling walls. Damaged stone grew hot and reformed, and the ruptures in the floor sealed themselves. With the pillars in place, Sigmar raised his hands and slammed them against the roof. More lightning flashed, shrieking from the point of impact. Falling stones reversed course, tumbling upwards to reform most of the roof.
Balthas stared in wonder until a cough from Tyros shook him. He looked down at the other lord-arcanum. ‘Brother – are you…?’ Tyros’ armour had been burnt and crumpled in places, and his azure robes were tattered and blackened.
‘Still breathing,’ Tyros panted. ‘Just cracked my ribs. And broke several other bones. I’ll be fine.’ He caught hold of Balthas’ robes. ‘Go after it, brother. Don’t let it escape. Do your duty.’
Balthas nodded and stood. He extended his hand and exerted his will. His staff hissed through the air like a crossbow bolt. He caught it and spun it in a slow, precise circle, calling the celestial winds to him. It was more difficult than it ought to have been, but slowly, the smoke was dispersed, revealing the far side of the chamber.
He saw the Anvil, still spewing purple light. The floor was still shaking as he strode past, hunting his prey. He could see the scorch marks where his blast had cast the lightning-gheist. And more, he could see the marks on the wall, where it had climbed, seeking escape. His eyes followed the black trail up and up, to the shattered dome overhead. He saw a flash of light, past the broken glass.
‘There you are.’ He had to get up there, and swiftly, before the lightning-gheist escaped. He raised his hands. The aetheric winds were still in upheaval, but he managed to find the edges of the power and draw it to him. Lightning leapt through the dome and arrowed down to strike his staff. He spun, dragging the lightning around him, as if it were a cloak. It resonated with the storm-magics that permeated his body, and he felt himself thin and stretch as he was reduced to a ghost of hissing aether.