In every instance, it had been the Anvils of the Heldenhammer who had put the rebellion down. Calys had participated in one such purge only a few months ago, dealing with a coven of Soulblight vampires hiding among the city’s gentry. The leeches had turned entire Azyrite families of impeccable lineage into blood-hungry fiends, and then sought to manipulate the city’s growth for their own ends. Calys had sought out and beheaded the coven-leader, casting the creature’s still-shrieking head into a bonfire herself.
She wondered if it had been that action which had brought her to the attention of Lord-Castellant Pharus. She’d had no time to ask him – and no intention of asking Dathus. There was a time and a place for such things, and now wasn’t it.
‘Behold, the Shimmergate – the path of starlight,’ Dathus said. She looked ahead. The streets had widened, spreading into a vast plaza. It was lined with massive statues of jasper and gold, only a few of which had been broken during the cataclysm. The statues, she knew, depicted the city’s founders, the Glymm. Curious, she studied those carven faces as they passed through the shadows of the statues.
‘They were from Azyr, originally,’ Dathus said, noting her attentions. ‘Warrior-mages from the Nordrath Mountains, they came seeking new opportunities in the years after the Gates of Azyr had been cast wide. New lands to conquer, new fortunes to be made. Minor aristocrats like the Glymm became veritable kings in the underworld of Lyria.’
‘Glymmsforge doesn’t have a king,’ Calys said. The last royal son of the Glymm line had died defending the city against Vaslbad’s legions, leaving no known heir. Now, the city that bore his family’s name was overseen by a conclave of aristocrats, merchants and philosophers.
‘No. Perhaps it is for the best.’ Dathus sounded bleakly amused.
The representatives of the conclave stood at the other end of the plaza, waiting for their honoured guests to arrive. Most were clad in the finery of their office, though the representative of the Freeguilds wore his mauve-and-black uniform. His only concession to formality was an engraved, silver-plated breastplate and a high-crested helm of the same. Unlike the others, he was armed, though the blade was ceremonial.
Towering above the mortals were a trio of Stormcast Eternals. Two of them wore the black of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, but the third wore the gold of the Hammers of Sigmar. The security of the city was shared between the two Stormhosts, though the latter had no permanent garrison in Glymmsforge.
Instead, they rotated chambers, on a seasonal basis. At the moment, it was the task of the Adamantine – a Warrior Chamber that had earned its battle-honours mostly in Aqshy, from what little Calys knew of them. The lord-celestant of the golden-armoured warriors stood beside the commander of Calys’ chamber, Lynos Gravewalker, and the Lord-Veritant, Achillus Leechbane.
At the other end of the plaza was the foot of the Shimmergate. The realmgate that connected Lyria to Azyr sat at the top of twelve, spiralling stairways of purest amethyst. The stairways intertwined as they rose to meet the shimmering blur of light that hung in the skies over the city, like a tear in the firmament.
At the moment, a cloud of cobalt mist billowed from the light and rolled down the steps. It brought with it the smells of clean water and cold heights. The air thrummed with aetheric tension. Calys shifted uncomfortably as the tang of lightning played across her senses. Beside her, Grip fluffed out her feathers and scented the air with a contented chirrup. ‘The winds of Azyr,’ Dathus murmured. ‘So clean as to pain the senses.’
The plaza, normally full of merchants and citizens going about their business, had been cleared for the evening. Bands of Glymmsmen stood watchfully at the entry streets, leaning on halberds or carrying crossbows. The Freeguild soldiers seemed on edge. Then, perhaps it was understandable. For most of them, the Shimmergate was as close to Azyr – and Sigmar – as they would ever get.
Calys led her cohort towards the gathering of notables. Dathus walked beside her, his previous good humour seemingly evaporated. As they drew close, she studied the golden-armoured lord-celestant. She’d heard stories of the Hero of Klaxus. Most Stormcasts had. Orius Adamantine had been among the first of their kind to march to war, and the list of his battle-honours took up an entire tome in of itself.
He stood at ease beside Lynos. The two lords-celestant were of a similar size, though where Lynos was pale, Orius was dark. He held his tempestos hammer in the crook of his arm, and his black hair was bound in long, serpentine locks and tied back. His golden war-plate showed the signs of hard use, and his heraldry was chipped and marred. Orius, it was said, had little interest in appearances – only in effectiveness.
He nodded in greeting. ‘Dathus. I thought you hidden away forever, down in the dark. Tell me, do the dead still sleep uneasily?’
‘When they sleep at all, lord-celestant.’ Dathus bowed slightly to the two lords-celestant. ‘I trust I was not called away from my responsibilities simply to see old friends?’
‘Hardly,’ Lynos growled. ‘The Shimmergate opens. Reinforcements from Azyr. Command of the city is to be turned over to them.’ He said it flatly and with no small amount of bitterness. Calys understood. Lynos had led the defence of the city for three decades, and in that time had turned back enemies both living and dead. Now, apparently, he was expected to turn his responsibilities over to another – and an unknown, at that.
‘So I heard,’ Dathus said mildly. ‘Who?’
‘We do not know. Sigmar has not seen fit to tell us.’ Orius smiled mirthlessly. ‘Perhaps he was busy keeping the stars from falling out of the sky.’
Lynos glared at him, in a not altogether unfriendly fashion. ‘We will know soon enough, I suppose,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly. He turned to the representatives from the city’s rulers and moved to speak to them.
Calys relaxed slightly, having safely delivered Dathus. She peered up at the statues that rose like siege-towers around them. ‘They were a mighty people in their day,’ a deep, harsh voice said, from behind her.
She turned to see Lord-Veritant Achillus watching her. His war-plate was covered in marks of purity and warding, as was the cloak of rich crimson he wore. The Lantern of Abjuration mounted at the top of his staff flashed softly as he joined her. Unlike most Stormcasts, who were warriors first and foremost, the duty of a lord-veritant was to root out corruption and evil in those territories claimed by Azyr.
‘It has been some time, Calys,’ Achillus said, nodding to her. ‘The last I saw you, you were covered in gore and carrying the head of a Soulblight vampire.’
‘It was an honour to assist you in that matter, lord-veritant.’ Calys bowed her head.
‘You did well. One of the reasons I recommended your cohort to Lord-Castellant Pharus. You have the stomach for war against the dead. A trait we are in need of.’
‘Is it to be war, then? The cataclysm…’
‘Was a precursor to something greater, yes.’ Achillus looked down at Grip. He sank to one knee, and the gryph-hound sidled towards his outstretched hand. ‘This is Pharus’ gryph-hound,’ he rumbled, stroking Grip’s neck. He looked up at Calys. ‘Are you caring for her now?’
‘She cares for herself, mostly.’
Achillus stood. ‘They do that. Pharus would be pleased to see it, nonetheless.’
‘Is there…’ She hesitated. It was not her place to ask such things.
Achillus shook his head. ‘No.’ He looked towards the realmgate. ‘Perhaps our reinforcements bring word.’ Calys turned.
The mist pouring from the Shimmergate had thickened noticeably. There was a sound, like crystal breaking, and lightning flashed within the tear. Then, shapes appeared in the mist, moving with disciplined swiftness. Stormcasts, from their bulk, but unlike any she had ever seen before. They wore the heraldry of the Hammers of Sigmar, but crackled with a strange radiance. ‘Who are they?’