Warriors sank to their knees, heads bowed, as the God-King passed among them. Balthas slid from his saddle as Sigmar drew close. Gellius and Faunus both dropped to one knee, and Balthas made to do so as well, but Sigmar stopped him. ‘Up.’ The God-King gestured sharply. He studied the Shimmergate for a moment. The light seemed to brighten beneath his attentions. He turned.
‘Come with me, Balthas.’ Sigmar turned and crunched through the snow. Balthas hesitated and glanced back at Miska, who motioned for him to go. As he followed Sigmar, he tried not to stare at the ground – the God-King left no tracks. The snow shifted beneath his weight, but there was nothing to mark his passing.
Sigmar glanced back at him, a half-smile on his face. Balthas realised, with some embarrassment, that the God-King somehow knew what he was thinking. ‘I forget, sometimes, about leaving tracks,’ he said. ‘I remember the sound. The wet crunch of snow beneath my feet, the feel of the icy wind, cutting through my furs. The weight of Ghal Maraz in my hands. But I forget other things – the way your weight displaces the snow. The ache that comes with hard travel, the way your lungs strain. Sweat.’ He stopped before an outcropping. ‘It’s easy, to forget.’
They stood in silence, gazing out over the horizon. Somewhere, a mountain eagle shrieked, as it took wing over its kingdom. Sigmar watched the bird, for long moments. Then, he turned. ‘You wish to go to find the rogue soul.’
Balthas nodded, uncertain as to where this was going. Had Sigmar not already given his permission? ‘Aye, my lord. It – he – escaped me. But he shall not do so a second time. I have the scent of his soul.’ He hesitated. ‘And there is only one place he could go, now.’ He glanced back towards the Shimmergate. ‘The boughs of the World-Tree bend low.’
‘Nagash has broken the order of things. The dead stir in every realm, shaken from their long sleep. I see the soil shift on forgotten graves, and bones gleam in the moonlight. Ghosts wander through the streets of the cities of men.’ Sigmar frowned. ‘Even here. Even here, the effects of his imprudence are felt.’ His hand clenched, and the sky shuddered with thunder. Lightning flashed in his gaze.
‘He has unleashed a cataclysm from which the realms will be slow to recover,’ Balthas said. He could still feel the echoes of that hellish reverberation in his bones. Wild magic boiled on the air, invisible to all save those with the wit to see.
‘We have entered a new, more deadly age,’ Sigmar said, watching the horizon. ‘Only time will tell whether it proves to be the last, or merely the latest.’ He smiled, but there was little humour in it. ‘Many crimes can be laid at the feet of the Undying King, but being boring was never one of them.’ Sigmar threw back his head and laughed.
The sound boomed out, shaking rocks and snow from the high peaks, and nearly pitched Balthas from his feet. ‘The wars we waged, Nagash and I. The schemes we concocted. We stole fire from the belly of Symr, Balthas. We cast up mountains and filled seas with the blood we shed against our enemies.’ His laughter trailed off, and his smile grew thin and strained. ‘And now we are at war once more. Heaven and Death, and all the realms caught between them.’ He looked at Balthas. ‘I can see your guilt burning in you.’
Balthas froze, but only for an instant. Sigmar sighed. ‘You blame yourself for your brother escaping. You think of it as a failure, rather than simply a thing that happened.’
‘It was my weakness that allowed it – him – to fall…’
‘It was not. Others had the opportunity to stop him. They did not succeed.’
‘Others are not me.’ Balthas cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth. But Sigmar merely nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.
‘I have heard similar sentiments before.’ He sank to his haunches and scooped up a handful of snow. Even crouched, he was massive, and Balthas felt as a child must, when a parent seeks to impart a lesson.
Sigmar held his hand out, and the snow swirled and shifted, taking shape. For a moment, it resembled a tree, and then something that put Balthas in mind of the interior of an anthill. ‘You hold yourself to a higher standard than your brothers.’
Balthas did not reply.
Sigmar did not look up from the snow as it twisted and changed shape. ‘You see yourself at odds with them, even if you do not admit it.’
‘Not at odds, my lord,’ Balthas said softly. ‘Never that.’
Sigmar nodded, not looking at him. ‘No? Perhaps not. Perhaps you are wiser than the gods, Balthas. I hope so.’
Balthas did not flinch. ‘If I am wise, it is because you made me so, my lord.’
Sigmar rose to his feet. ‘You flatter me.’ He held out his hand, and gestured to the swirling snow. It had expanded, taking the shape of a walled city. ‘Do you recognise the city?’
‘Glymmsforge,’ Balthas said, after a moment.
‘Yes. In the underworld of Lyria. That is where you are going. That is where you will find what you seek.’ Sigmar gestured again, and the snow melted and reformed – a man’s face, this time. Balthas recognised Pharus Thaum. ‘I felt his soul shatter as the cataclysm caught it. The energies of the Anvil ran wild, and a true son of Azyr became something less. A moment repeated too often for my liking.’
‘And mine, my lord.’
‘I told you before, Balthas, that you must hunt this prey for me. But for now, set your eyes upon a new quarry. Look.’ Again, the snow changed. It rose and spread, became a sphere, and then a column. Something was familiar about it. Balthas thought he had seen it before. Sigmar nodded, as if he had spoken. ‘You saw this in his mind as you confronted him, did you not? Do you recognise it?’
‘He was… guarding it?’
‘Yes. The duty he gave his life for. The Ten Thousand Tombs.’ Sigmar turned his hand, causing the image to rotate and spread. ‘A warren of catacombs, old when Lyria was young. A poisonous crop, planted by the hand of a dead man, against the day it might be needed. The souls of fallen heroes and bloodthirsty conquerors, imprisoned and awaiting the day of their freedom. Black souls that might rend the city asunder, if they were to be freed.’
Balthas grunted. ‘Does Knossus– do they know?’
Sigmar nodded. ‘It was discovered soon after the Shimmergate was claimed. The city was built atop it, in part to protect the tombs from those who might try to open them. One of the many unspoken responsibilities your Stormhost bears.’
‘Pharus has fallen. Who guards it now?’
Sigmar looked down at him, and Balthas nodded in understanding. ‘That is why you are letting me go – I am to take up where Pharus left off.’ He looked away. ‘It is fitting. I failed him in life. In death, I must make amends.’
Sigmar nodded. ‘If that is the way you wish to view it.’
‘And what of Pharus Thaum, my lord?’ Balthas asked. ‘Am I to just… abandon his soul to its fate?’ He shook his head. ‘Let someone else play the sentry, my lord, please. Let me find Thaum and bring him to Azyr’s light once more. Let me wash clean the stain of failure. Please.’
Sigmar’s expression was sad. ‘Would that I could, my son. But I cannot.’
‘But why?’ Balthas asked, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself. ‘How can we abandon him?’
Sigmar sighed. ‘Nagash has his soul now, Balthas. I can feel it. I felt it too late to stop it – did not recognise what was happening in time. It is as if a piece of me is trapped, somewhere in the dark.’ The God-King opened his hands and let the snow drift to the ground, to rejoin the carpet of white.
He looked down at Balthas. ‘He is lost to us – to me – whatever his fate. But as you saw into his mind, so too will Nagash. And he will know the secret of reaching what we have hidden from him, all these years. His servants will seek out the Ten Thousand Tombs and attempt to open them. This cannot be allowed. Even if Glymmsforge itself falls, the Ten Thousand Tombs must remain sealed.’ Sigmar set a heavy hand on Balthas’ shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’