It was an honour to be called to Sigmar’s service. But that honour weighed heavy on even the strongest soul. He looked at Knossus. ‘What is it that you want me to see, brother? That they are afraid? That they are brave, for all their fragility? I know this.’ Then, after a moment, ‘I never doubted it.’
‘If you know it, then you know nothing is more important than what we do here. Glymmsforge must stand. Whatever else, it must stand. Else these people – our people – will perish, and their souls will be added to the tally of the dead.’
Balthas glanced back at the Shimmergate, rising above them. He groped for an answer – a logical solution to the problem at hand. ‘Why not evacuate them?’
‘Would you abandon Sigmaron? Or would you fight to the last, to defend it?’
‘This is not Sigmaron.’
‘But it is their home.’ Knossus stepped back. ‘I need you, Balthas. The deathstorm approaches, and we must stand against it. All of us – mortal and immortal alike. The Ten Thousand Tombs are defended. I need you here, in the open air.’
He sighed and looked out over the desert. Balthas waited, growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Finally, Knossus shook his head. ‘If Sigmar sent you, that means he suspects that there is an ulterior motive for what is to come. Perhaps I should let you do as you wish. Even if it means weakening the defence of the city.’ Knossus looked away. ‘For the first time, in a long time, I do not know the best course ahead, and it troubles me.’
Balthas hesitated. Part of him rejoiced, for here was victory. Knossus at a loss, for once. But instead of enjoying it, he remembered Sigmar’s words.
You see yourself at odds with them, even if you do not admit it.
Not at odds, my lord. Never that.
Perhaps you are wiser than the gods, Balthas.
‘If I am wise, it is because you made me so, my lord,’ he murmured, feeling small within his shell of sigmarite. Knossus looked at him in confusion. Balthas sighed. ‘Perhaps we should find common ground upon which to make our stand, Knossus.’
He reached up, as if to clasp Knossus’ shoulder, but could not bring himself to go that far. He let his hand drop. ‘Sigmar placed me under your command, brother. So command me, and I will do all that I can to see it – and my own duty – fulfilled.’
Knossus smiled. ‘Sometimes, Balthas, I am proud to be your brother.’
‘As you should be,’ Balthas said.
From the avenue below, Miska watched the two lords-arcanum converse, and sighed. Helios shook his head. ‘He wastes so much energy on resentment.’ He stood nearby, balancing his stormstaff on the end of his blade, much to the enjoyment of the urchins lurking nearby. He had his helmet off, as did she. It eased some of the discomfort mortals felt in their presence, if they could see the faces of the Stormcasts who walked among them.
‘It is not resentment.’
‘What would you call it?’ Helios flipped his staff with his blade, caught it with his free hand and sent it spinning up into the air. The children laughed and clapped.
Miska watched them, unsmiling. ‘Balthas is akin to a mechanism. He has his lines, and he runs on them. The messiness of the world causes him much consternation.’ And this was a messy situation, to be sure.
The city wore a mask of order, but beneath that was only confusion. Glymmsforge had been rocked by the necroquake, its foundations cracked and the certainties of its citizens cast to the wind. Now, as people from outside sought safety in its walls and the dead rose, the city was balanced on the razor’s edge. One misstep, and it would be lost.
Helios laughed softly and caught his staff. ‘He will have to get used to it.’ He bowed slightly to the urchins, who cheered. ‘The masque is finished, the veil cast aside. We stand revealed, for good or ill.’
Miska grunted and leaned against her staff. Helios spoke the truth – few mortals gave them more than a second glance, now. One Stormcast was very much like another, to them, barring differences in heraldry. ‘Very poetic.’
‘Well, I am a poet.’ He looked around the courtyard, his stormstaff bouncing against his shoulder. Miska followed his gaze. Soldiers, scribes and citizens hurried about their business around them. A man selling hot potatoes from a rickety cart called out his wares as he navigated the press of bodies. Fishermen, coming from the Glass Mere with baskets of fish on their backs, threaded through the crowd, pursued by opportunistic cats. Life continued.
Miska did not often lose herself in the few memories of her mortal life she possessed. But here, for a moment, she was tempted. Instead, she shook the thought off and signalled to Porthas, who loitered nearby. The Sequitor-Prime ambled towards her, bouncing a steaming potato on one palm. He took a bite and chewed noisily. ‘Do we have our orders?’ he asked, around a mouthful.
‘Not yet, but I have no doubt we will, soon enough. I want you ready to move, when it happens. Where are the others?’
Porthas swallowed a chunk of potato. ‘Waiting in the plaza beneath the Shimmergate.’ He looked around. ‘The city is on edge. I can feel it.’ He took another bite. ‘Good potato, though.’
Helios laughed. ‘It’s the simple things, eh, Porthas?’
‘A potato is a potato, whatever the weather,’ the big Stormcast said. He looked at Miska. ‘You can feel it, can’t you, mage-sacristan? The fear. The confusion.’ He popped the last of his potato into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
Miska watched the faces of the mortals around them. There was fear there, to be sure. Uncertainty. They could smell death on the wind as easily as she. But also determination. That was good. They would need that resolve.
She heard a sharp sound – the clangour of small bells – echoing from somewhere close by. Curious, she turned in the direction of the noise. ‘Stay here,’ she said to the others. ‘I would see what that is.’
‘Not unaccompanied, you won’t,’ Helios said mildly. He glanced at Porthas.
‘She won’t be,’ Porthas said. ‘You wait here, for the lord-arcanum.’ He fell into step beside Miska. She shook her head.
‘I do not require a bodyguard.’
‘It is not about what you require,’ Porthas said. His blunt, scarred features twisted up in a smile. ‘You are our mage-sacristan, my lady, and due a certain respect.’
‘Only when it suits you, I notice.’
Porthas shrugged. ‘And it suits us now.’ He patted the haft of his greatmace. ‘Besides, we are strangers here, and this city is on edge. No telling what might happen. Helios and I are expendable, my lady. You and the lord-arcanum are not.’
‘We are all expendable, Porthas,’ Miska said. ‘That is why the Anvil of Apotheosis was made.’
‘Now you sound like the lord-arcanum.’
She glanced at him. ‘He has his moments, brother.’
Porthas grunted, but didn’t reply. Miska frowned. Porthas rarely let anything resembling an opinion slip. Taciturnity was his art, and he was a master of it. That was why Balthas favoured his cohort over others. The lord-arcanum preferred his followers to act without speaking, when possible. Sometimes, she thought Balthas would prefer an army of automatons over living warriors.
The sound of the bells continued, leading them through the press of the avenue and out into the western market square. It was a wide, twelve-sided plaza, banded by market stalls and storefronts. Wooden buildings rose at awkward angles, tottering arthritically over the open space of the plaza. Broadsheet sellers wearing heavy wooden placards wandered among the crowd, shouting out the latest news or getting in brawls with one another. There were at least four active printing presses in the city, locked in an unending battle for dominance. Elsewhere, spice merchants hawked their wares to passing trade, and fishmongers chopped away at the bounty of the Glass Mere.