‘Azyrheim is still shaking, they say.’
‘Who says?’ Balthas grunted, as he glanced upwards. Above them, the Sigmarabulum was still burning. It hung in the sky like a caged comet, thick scars of smoke stretching out towards the uncaring stars. Mallus, too, burned. The red world shuddered, as if it were a great beast disturbed by some distant sound. He looked away, unsettled by the sight.
Miska shrugged. ‘Many people.’ She looked down at the palace-city. Something flashed, over the western slopes of the mountain. ‘Reinforcements, departing through the Shimmergate,’ she said, shading her eyes. ‘The city of Glymmsforge is under threat. The armies of death ride full upon it.’
Balthas snorted. ‘When do they not?’ He’d already known that. Shyish, more than any other realm, had suffered from the cataclysm. Sigmar’s territories in the Realm of Death – those underworlds and ruins ceded to him by treaty or omission – were under threat from the resurgent forces of the walking dead.
Miska gave him a disapproving look. ‘They are under siege.’
‘They are always under siege. Azyr itself is under siege. Besieged is our default state.’ He gestured impatiently. ‘Forgive me if I am not shocked that a cataclysm of such resonance is soon followed by opportunistic savagery.’ Balthas shook his head. ‘Whatever this necroquake was, it had its origins in Shyish. That much I am certain of. Of course the legions of the Undying King see this as the time to attack – Nagash probably caused this!’
He realised belatedly that he was shouting. He calmed himself and ignored Miska’s raised eyebrow. She looked away. ‘Knossus will be in command, they say. He goes to reinforce Glymmsforge.’
Irritated, Balthas frowned. He’d known that as well, though he’d given it little consideration. It was of no import to him where Knossus Heavensen went. ‘They are very well informed, whoever they are.’ He glared at her, though without any true rancour. Miska was immune to his glare, in any event. She peered at him.
‘It is the talk of the palace. You should unstop your ears and listen – you might learn something.’ Her tone skirted the edge of insubordination. ‘Sigmar throws open the vaults of our temple, and sets us loose at last. The veil of secrecy is cast aside. We will march openly with our brethren, now, for the first time.’
‘We? Is our chamber to march upon Shyish as well, then?’
‘A figure of speech.’
Balthas grunted. Miska was right – he hadn’t been listening. He had buried himself in the hunt for the dead, as penance for his failure on the Sigmarabulum. He had never before allowed a soul to escape, and it weighed on him. Removed from the moment, he knew that it was not his fault. Not truly. But there was a difference between knowing and believing.
He was conscious of Miska’s eyes on him, and straightened. ‘It is of no import. Until I am informed otherwise, our chamber has a mission. There are still maddened souls racing loose through the citadel-crags of Sigmaron. Someone needs to chain them.’
‘As you say, lord-arcanum.’ She knelt and ran her hand through a pile of dust and bone fragments. Something that shone with an azure radiance clung to her gauntlet. It crackled softly as she brushed it into one of the vials that hung from her belt.
She held the vial up to her lips and whispered softly to it. Or perhaps sang. Balthas was never quite sure. Regardless, the spirit would be contained in the vial until such time as she chose to release it – usually with explosive results. She stood.
‘Do you think they resent you, those spirits you hold captive?’ he asked. Some of the vials hanging from her waist held the souls of fellow Stormcasts, reduced to frenzied storm-spirits by a failed reforging process. He couldn’t imagine they were happy with the current state of affairs.
‘I doubt they think at all. To be reduced to such a state is to lose all comprehension of one’s self and one’s surroundings.’ She smiled sadly. ‘They are nothing more than echoes of pain and fear. In my vials, they slumber until such time as Sigmar calls them home.’
‘You hope they slumber.’
Miska sighed. ‘You are more snappish than usual. Is it because Knossus is going to Shyish, and not you?’
He paused. Then, annoyance overwhelmed his reserve. ‘Glymmsforge was founded by our Stormhost. But we are not sent – why?’ He slammed the ferrule of his staff against the stones. ‘I will tell you why,’ he added quickly, before she could speak. ‘Because of my failure. This is punishment.’
‘Do you truly believe that?’
Balthas didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t know. He simply felt. ‘I have asked Sigmar to allow us to go to Shyish,’ he said. He was not asking for her approval, or so he told himself. He was lord-arcanum, and his commands were to be obeyed. Even so, he felt a faint flicker of relief when she nodded.
‘Good. It has been too long since we have gone to war.’
‘War? No. The rogue soul. It escaped – I can feel it. Pharus Thaum yet persists, somewhere in the realms. I suspect Shyish, if only because of what has happened – a simplistic theory, I admit, but we must start somewhere.’ He clenched a fist. ‘I will drag him back to the Anvil, and purge his soul of madness.’
‘He is beyond reforging now, even if we find him.’
‘Then he will be destroyed. But I will drag him back regardless.’ He slammed his staff down again, and lightning crawled across the stones of the parapet. ‘He was chosen, and he must submit. If he cannot bear the weight of such responsibility, then he will add his strength to the cosmic storm.’ He shook his head. ‘This must be done. That is our purpose.’
Miska nodded agreeably. ‘So it is.’ She looked out over the palace-city. Though she said nothing more, he could almost hear the thoughts running through her head. He became suddenly possessed of the urge to explain his determination.
‘Why would a soul fight so hard?’ Balthas looked out over the city. ‘Only pain results from such struggle.’
Miska was silent for a moment. Then, she said, ‘Perhaps some part of him feared losing those things that made him who he was. Memories are the landmarks by which we find our way.’
‘They – we – do not need to find our way, sister.’ He gestured up at Sigendil. ‘There is our way. There is our guiding light. As bright now as it has always been.’
‘And do you not dream, brother? In those rare, few moments of sleep you allow yourself, do you not see what life was, before the thunder claimed you?’
Balthas hesitated. ‘Do you?’
Miska smiled thinly. ‘I know my name, brother. I know the feel of ice, weighing down my furs, and the sound of sled-runners biting the ice.’ Her accent thickened slightly as she spoke. ‘I know the taste of a deer’s heart, steaming and still bloody, on a cold morning. I know the songs of my brothers and the way my father taught a bear to dance, to the delight of our village.’ She looked up at the High Star, her expression almost wistful. ‘I know all these things and hold them close in me. Were I to fall in battle, I do not know that any could take them from me, easily. I, too, might lash out on instinct, if it seemed I might lose myself in the pain of reforging.’
Balthas shook his head. ‘I remember things as well, but nothing I would risk eternity for.’ Idly, he glanced up at Mallus, and then away. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘And that, then, is why you are lord-arcanum. You have the proper perspective for the task at hand.’ She didn’t sound as if she believed him. ‘Let us hope it stays that way.’
Miska was not prone to cryptic pronouncements. If she did not elaborate, that meant she didn’t know. ‘Earlier, before the cataclysm… you sensed something. What was it? The cataclysm itself, or something more?’