Spells of translocation were dangerous. It was all too easy for even the most skilled mage to lose themselves in the celestial currents and become part of the aether. But Balthas saw no other option. He shot upwards, his form twisting and curling like smoke.
As Balthas rose, his perceptions expanded. He could feel Sigmar’s presence, as heavy as Mallus itself and as blinding as the sun. He saw the soulfire parts of his fellow Stormcasts and felt the twisting currents of the aether. It was akin to trying to swim through storm-tossed waters, and it took all of his concentration to avoid being swept away by the cosmic riptide. Time and space stretched around him. He could hear the dolorous, bone-deep groaning of Mallus, and the wild screaming of the stars. More, he could hear something that might have been darksome laughter, booming up from some distant realm. The sound clawed at his soul, threatening to drag him back down, but he tore free. As he cleared the dome, he wrenched himself loose from the aether.
He fell to the roof and rolled to his feet, wreathed in steam and spots of light. His senses swam, readjusting to the physical world. He braced himself with his staff, as the tower shook. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up.
Balthas froze. Stared. The heavens were burning. Shimmering ribbons of amethyst fire rippled upwards and outwards, rising from the lightless gulfs below. Where the ribbons touched, reality shuddered, as if in revulsion – or fear. The Sigmarabulum shook as from a shock wave, and towers collapsed in clouds of dust. He could hear the screams of those caught in the wave of devastation as it passed over the ring. Far below, fires burned as the weapon-forges and ore-processors ruptured and spat molten sigmarite into the streets.
He spun, as a soul-mill cracked open with a roar of splintering stone, disgorging a storm of lightning into the tortured air. The freed souls swirled in a riotous tempest, their cries joining the general clamour. Some dissipated, their essences lost to the cosmic winds. Others fell towards the streets, their shapes twisted out of joint, becoming crackling nightmares.
A hiss of burning air reminded him that they were not the only lightning-gheists at large. He turned, slashing out with his staff. The creature jerked back, distended maw snapping. It had lost all semblance of human shape and rationality. Faces made from pure energy formed on its body, all screaming in the same voice. It slithered towards him, growing new limbs in its haste. Balthas faced it, staff held across his body.
It surged towards him, setting the air aflame as it moved. Balthas thrust his staff out, catching it between the jaws and focusing his will. A lightning-gheist was nothing more or less than a living storm – and how to control the storm was the first lesson an aether-mage learned. He spat incantations, matching his voice against the creature’s screaming. It writhed, caught suddenly by bands of air and light. Tendrils of lightning flailed down, battering him. His war-plate grew warm, then hot, as the strikes washed over him. His robes and cloak smouldered, then burst into flame. Even enchanted cloth had its limits.
Balthas twisted his staff, drawing some of the lightning-gheist’s substance into it. The creature shrieked and redoubled its struggles. ‘Hear me, Pharus Thaum – hear me, Anvil of the Heldenhammer. Yield – do not let pain and fury lead you to destruction. There are wars yet to be fought, brother – do not force me to destroy you!’
The creature howled like a hurricane. Its struggles turned the stones beneath their feet black. It squirmed away from him, dragging against his magics, trying to pull free. But it was caught fast, and he braced himself, resisting its attempt to break away. He began to weave an incantation to cage it.
Another shock wave struck the Sigmarabulum. Purple light blazed up, blinding Balthas momentarily. He staggered, losing his hold on the lightning-gheist. As his vision cleared, he saw it tear away from him, and he leapt after it, staff raised.
He drove his staff down, like a spear, trying to ground the creature. But as his staff struck, the edge of the tower sheared away beneath them. Instinctively, Balthas flung out his hand and caught the broken periphery. He slammed back against the tower, hard enough to rattle his teeth. He saw the lightning-gheist spinning away, not towards the Sigmarabulum, but the starlit void. Balthas watched it fall, unable to prevent it. It shrieked as it receded, tumbling faster and faster, until it was merely one more shimmering speck in the firmament.
Breathing heavily, Balthas hauled himself to safety. He bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer for the soul of Pharus Thaum. ‘I am sorry, brother,’ he said softly. He used his staff to push himself to his feet. He looked out over the ring, trying to gauge the limits of the devastation. But all he could see was fire.
The Sigmarabulum was aflame.
And somewhere, a god was laughing.
Chapter six
Nadir
The taste of victory was not so sweet as Calys Eltain recalled. The Liberator-Prime sat on a toppled pillar, staring at the gryph-hound that lay listlessly beside her. Calys reached down, and Grip pulled back, out of reach, growling softly. Calys retracted her hand. ‘I am angry as well,’ she said softly. There was no telling whether the beast understood her or not. ‘He seemed to be a good leader. A good warrior. That he is not here now is a… mistake.’
Warriors died. That was their purpose. To die, so that another might not. That was why the Stormcasts were reforged – so that they might die as many times as was necessary, until the war was won. She took a grim satisfaction from the thought. Only Sigmar’s chosen had the will to endure such torment.
But it had gone wrong.
She had been ready to die again. Pharus had saved her, at the cost of himself. A debt she would do her best to repay, when he returned. If he returned. Sometimes it took longer than it ought. Some souls could not be reforged in days, or even months. They took years. Some were lost on their way back to Azyr, drawn to the edges of the realms, where the raw stuff of magic gnawed at the borders of existence.
She feared that whatever disaster had gripped Glymmsforge was not limited to Shyish. She felt it, deep in her bones – a sense of something wrong. As if the fundamental alignment of the realms had been thrown off somehow.
‘What was it?’ she muttered.
‘A cataclysm,’ a deep voice intoned. ‘One unlike any this realm, or any other, has ever weathered before.’
Calys looked up. Lord-Relictor Dathus stood nearby, watching her. He had his skull-faced helm under one arm, and his black mortis armour was covered in ash and other, less identifiable substances. ‘You did well, Calys Eltain. Took command, when it was needed, and held the line. Such qualities are much sought after.’
‘My thanks, my lord. But I did only what was necessary.’
The lord-relictor of the Gravewalkers nodded. ‘Yes. But you recognised what that was, at the time. Few warriors do.’ He came and sat beside her. ‘He requested that you be sent down here, you know. He asked for your cohort, specifically.’
Calys blinked. She hadn’t known. ‘Why?’
Dathus looked away. ‘Who can say? Pharus could be ridiculously cryptic when he put his mind to it. It was one of two reasons he was stationed here, in the dark.’
‘And what was the other?’
‘He was a brave warrior.’