Gods & Mortals Read online

  But of his purpose, he could see no sign. Searching up and down the uncanny shore, he spied a robed figure clutching a staff in three hands. Bayla did not recognise its sort, and was suspicious of it, but having no option he made his way towards it.

  ‘Sanasay Bayla,’ the creature said raspingly as the mage halted a staff’s length away. ‘You have come to discover your purpose in life.’ Its robes were a crystal blue, and a stylised eye topped its staff.

  ‘I have,’ said the mage.

  ‘Here the worlds of Ghyran are born from nothing. This is a place of purest magic. Everything can be seen. Behold!’ said the creature. It opened out its arms, and pointed to the roiling energies beyond the final shore.

  A vision of Bayla as a wise lord appeared, surrounded by adoring subjects.

  ‘To be a king?’ he asked the being. ‘Is that my purpose?’

  ‘More. Watch!’ commanded the creature.

  A procession of images paraded through the sky. Bayla saw himself in his library, moving faster than the eye could follow as time accelerated and the years coursed through the land of Andamar. New buildings sprouted, fashions changed. Wondrous devices were installed around the city, but Bayla did not age. His library grew in size and content. Knowledge unbounded filled his mind; he felt an echo of what he might learn, and was amazed. The great and the wise of many nations and peoples consulted with him. His name was known across time and in every realm. He watched avidly, eyes wide, and yet, and yet... There was something missing.

  ‘Where is my wife?’ he asked. ‘My family?’

  ‘They are not what you desire,’ said the creature. ‘Else why would you be here?’

  The thing’s words rang falsely, and Bayla set his powerful mind to work on the stuff of creation where the vision played. He found it easy to manipulate. The creature shrieked out a spell, but its staff flew from its hand at a thought from Bayla and he refocused the scrying. The mage saw his wife and children grow old, unloved and neglected. As he succeeded, they failed, and were shunned. Palaces were constructed in his honour, while their graves were choked by vines and crumbled into the dirt. Realisation hit him. He wrenched the focus of the vision to the present, back to his home.

  His wife waited for him. They had a new house, it seemed, and she bore all the trappings of success. Yet she looked sadly out over the minarets of Andamar. He was shocked at the signs of age that had settled on her, though she remained beautiful. His eldest son came to her side, to discuss some matter of business, and he saw he had been forced to become a man without his father to guide or nurture him.

  Bayla stepped back in shock. ‘I have been away too long!’ he said. ‘What am I doing?’

  The creature was hunched over, two of its long-fingered blue hands clutching at the scorched third. ‘Eternal life, ultimate power. These things are within your grasp,’ it croaked. ‘That is what you desire! Pledge yourself to my master, and they will be yours.’

  The vision wavered, back to the hollow glories of an endless future. Bayla’s face softened a moment at the opportunity offered, but hardened again.

  ‘No. That is what I think I should want, but it is not.’ He concentrated, and the image shifted back to the domestic scene. ‘That is what I wanted, all along. To be a father and a husband. That is the purpose of a man in life. Power is fleeting. Family is eternal.’ And it was. He saw son after daughter after son being born to the line of his people. Among them were many who were mighty and wise, and Andamar prospered under their guidance. It seemed it would remain forever so, until suddenly fire rent the sky, and the city fell into ruin as a great cataclysm passed over all the realms.

  ‘Too much!’ screeched the creature. The vision fled like ripples over water. Bayla looked at the thing sharply.

  ‘What was that?’ he said, rounding on it. Arcane power glowed around his hands. ‘I do not know what you are, but I know of your kind. You are told of in the oldest books, the things of the formless realms. The daemons of Chaos.’

  The creature laughed, and raised its hands in conjuration. But Bayla was a mage beyond even the servants of Tzeentch, and he blasted it from existence. Its soul fled shrieking into the maelstrom, and passed beyond the fertile voids of Ghyran’s edge, whence it would not return for thousands of years.

  Bayla was troubled. War would come, one day.

  Perhaps he had found two purposes.

  He would warn the gods.

  Turning away from the formless spaces, Bayla began the long journey home.

  The mirror cleared of mist. Sigmar and Alarielle stared at their own faces caught in the silver.

  ‘That was why he made us the mirror,’ said Sigmar. ‘Little attention we paid to his warnings.’ The God-King shook his head in regret. ‘Bayla was rare among men. He learned wisdom. With his gifts he could have risen and joined the ranks of the gods, but at the last he turned back. He understood that immortality is not to be craved, that the end of life gives the little span it has great meaning.’

  ‘The gift of all mortals,’ Alarielle said. ‘They are free of the burden of life eternal. There is no surprise in this, and no new wisdom.’

  ‘Every time they learn it, it is new,’ Sigmar insisted. ‘So few of them realise it from the beginning. Their lives are so short, their fear of death prevents them from recognising the gift they have.’

  ‘You are immortal,’ said Alarielle. ‘They will find your sympathy false.’

  ‘I did not seek to be so,’ said Sigmar. ‘I would have happily lived and died a mortal king. Some higher power had other plans for me.’ He looked at her earnestly. ‘Many chose Chaos because they had no other choice. They can be redeemed, even those whose hearts may seem black. But there are always those that seek to cheat death, and the lords of Chaos offer a way to do so, and are cunning enough to allow a few to ascend to become their immortal slaves. That is how they gained access to the realms in the first place. We became too distant from our charges, and they grew afraid. Chaos offered them immortality, of a sort. They did not know it was a trap.’

  ‘Then what do you want of me?’ said Alarielle.

  ‘You have held yourself aloof for many ages, my lady,’ he said. ‘It would aid us all in defeating the four powers for good if you went again among the mortals. Teach them your wisdom. You of all the gods understand the ebb and flow of mortality best, and that death is but a turning of the way.’

  ‘I do not know what becomes of the souls of men,’ she said. ‘Does even Nagash? You ask me to lie to them.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I wish you to invest in them a love of all that is natural and alive, to appreciate its power and fecundity. If they learn to follow the rhythm of life’s wondrous patterns, fewer of them will be tempted to fear its end. There always will be those who are incapable of fellow feeling, or whose greed outmatches their empathy,’ he said. ‘Many others can be saved by you.’

  ‘I cannot do this,’ she said. ‘What is the point? Chaos rules already.’

  ‘Cannot, or will not?’ said Sigmar. ‘You were worshipped all throughout Ghyran and beyond once, my lady. You can be again. You have become warlike to respond to a time of war, but you must reach inside yourself, and find that gentler creature you once were. We need to look beyond the end of this war, and prepare for peace. If we do not, then there will be another golden age, but soon enough Chaos will return and shatter the realms anew.’

  ‘Victory and defeat has a cycle of its own,’ she said. ‘It is the way of things.’

  ‘Maybe war and Chaos are the only constants of reality,’ he said. ‘But I do not have to accept it, and I will fight it for all time if I must. I cannot believe this is how the realms were meant to be. Send forth your spirits to speak with the wisest women and canniest men. Chaos has long used such missionaries against us. We shall do the same, and we have the advantage, for Chaos lies.’

  Alarielle sighed, and t
he sound was of the wind in the boughs of a sleeping forest. She stared off across the plains of Azyr, still cloaked in the dark. The sun rose high enough to strike through the columns, casting long shadows across the city of the Highheim. When it struck Alarielle, she closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of it. Her body became translucent, and began to fade.

  ‘I will do what I can, Sigmar Heldenhammer,’ she said, her form becoming indistinct. ‘But if I have learned one thing in my long existence, it is that humans rarely listen, and their males more rarely still.’

  The motes of light diffused. Her outline hung in the air a second. They flared and vanished, leaving a cloud of petals to drift to the floor.

  Sigmar watched the day enter the city of the gods. As the golden light of Azyr’s sun flooded the empty streets, he remembered a better time. He did not know if there were higher gods set over him to guide him as he shepherded his mortal kin, but he gave a silent prayer to them that finer times would return.

  Then he too vanished, leaving the Highheim to the silence and the light.

  VAULT OF SOULS

  Evan Dicken

  Knight-Incantor Averon Stormsire scowled at the rows of listing colonnades that marked where the twisted, shadowy streets of Shadespire gave way to the mad architecture of the Nightvault. Like the shell of an idoneth mollusk, the ancient prison necropolis spiralled deeper and deeper, its lower reaches lost to clinging darkness.

  ‘At last.’ Rastus’ words boomed from behind his golden mask. The broad-shouldered Evocator cocked his head, hefting his heavy tempest blade with practised ease. ‘But say the word, Knight-Incantor, and we shall drag Thalasar from his decrepit lair.’

  ‘I doubt winnowing out the katophrane will be so easy.’ Ammis spoke from behind Averon. Disliking how it restricted her vision, she had yet to don her high-crested helm, her attention fixed not on the entrance to the Nightvault, but on her tempest blade and stormstaff. Concentration cut deep grooves in her darkly tanned face, her lips pressed into a tight line as she checked and rechecked the network of arcane formulae that bound the glittering conduit of celestial energy to her weapons.

  Averon held up a fist to silence his companions. It would not do to come so close to their prey only to have Thalasar slip away again. Anger and frustration burned in the Knight-Incantor’s breast. There was no way of measuring time in the cursed half-light of Shadespire, but Averon and his Cursebreakers had spent far too long plumbing its maddening depths for the secrets of true immortality. Tasked by Sigmar himself, they sought a way to end the slow rasp of memory and soul that the Reforging process inflicted upon their fellow Stormcasts.

  Closing his eyes, Averon reached out with his arcane senses, sifting through the fog of death energy for a hint of Thalasar’s sorcery. He could feel the souls still trapped within the Nightvault, their struggles like candles guttering in the murk. In shaking the foundations of Shadespire, the Shyish necroquake had also breached the Nightvault, laying bare arcane knowledge locked away since before the cursed city was cast into shadow. It was the dark promise of these secrets that had drawn Averon and his Cursebreakers to the ancient prison, and to Thalasar.

  A thin glimmer of gold threaded the necromantic gyre that shrouded the upper reaches of the Nightvault. Cloaked in shadow, it drew Averon on, just as it had captured his attention the first time he had sensed Thalasar’s enchantments – so unlike that of his katophrane peers.

  There was something different about it, something familiar. Averon had put a score of necromancers and unquiet shades to the question, and found that even among the most ancient katophranes, Thalasar’s creations were spoken of with jealous awe. If anyone in Shadespire held the key to slipping the terrible loss of Reforging, it was Thalasar, Averon was sure of it.

  ‘Knight-Incantor.’ Ammis stood. She slipped on her helmet, gaze fixed on the gloom. ‘Something moves in the darkness. I cannot see it, but I can feel its power.’

  ‘I sense it, too.’ Rastus interposed himself between his companions and the growing shadow, storm energy crackling around his weapons.

  ‘Do you want to bring every gheist within a dozen miles down on us?’ Averon shouldered past the tall Evocator, who lowered his blade and staff with a frustrated grunt. ‘Douse those weapons and remain here until I call for you.’

  ‘You are too hard on him.’ Ammis stepped to Averon’s side.

  ‘I don’t recall asking for your advice.’ Averon picked up his pace. ‘Or your company.’

  She lengthened her stride, long legs easily keeping step. ‘Rastus is young.’

  ‘Rastus is a fool,’ Averon snapped back. ‘A boy who fancies himself a hero. His power is unrefined and uncontrolled, he overestimates his abilities.’

  ‘As did we all, once.’

  Averon grunted, brushing away her reply. Rastus’ anger was understandable; unlike his companions, he had yet to be reforged. Like a fresh banner, his soul shone in the dark – bright, heroic and untattered in a way that Averon could hardly remember being himself.

  Rather than respond, he studied the tides of death energy swirling around the Nightvault. Amidst strange, shadowy illusions that swathed the ancient prison, he noticed a thread of sorcery glimmering like a candle within the tides of dark energy.

  It was Thalasar’s work, of that he was sure.

  Carefully, Averon sent a seeking spell after the glittering strand of arcane energy. A lesser mage would not have been able to tease the thread from the deathly morass swirling around the Nightvault, but Averon was a Knight-Incantor of the Sacrosanct Chamber, possessed of power and skill accrued over several lifetimes of study.

  He caught the glittering thread, pulling ever so gently.

  The shadows fell away to reveal a creature from Averon’s nightmares.

  Easily the size of a castle keep, the hulking undead monstrosity was supported by dozens of mismatched legs. Assembled from the mangled corpses of gargants, dracoliths, krakens and creatures Averon did not recognise, the construct lumbered along the upper levels of the Nightvault, its long, multi-jointed arms plucking struggling souls from among the rubble of the ancient prison. He and Ammis had drawn close enough now to see the jagged shards of shadeglass embedded in the monstrosity’s quivering exterior. They glittered with reflected light each time a shrieking spirit was fed to the amethyst flames that burned deep within the thing’s patchwork maw.

  ‘What is that creature?’ Ammis spoke with horrified awe.

  ‘It seems to be transmuting spirits into raw death energy, like some manner of Necromantic Retort.’ Averon studied the enormous undead monster, watching the flare of arcane light as another soul was fed to the fire. ‘I can feel the power gathering within. Somehow, it distills the spirits, collecting purified essence.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘I do not know, but I plan to find out,’ Averon replied.

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘Even heroes have their uses.’ Averon looked back over his shoulder. ‘Rastus!’

  The Evocator hurried up to them, clashing his blade and staff together to release a shower of crackling storm energy.

  ‘I stand ready!’

  Ammis spared Rastus’ theatrics an irritated glance before turning back to Averon. ‘Is Thalasar inside?’

  ‘I sense his power, but I am unsure.’ Averon ran a hand through his beard, frowning as one of the Necromantic Retort’s long skeletal arms plucked another struggling bit of soulstuff from one of the cells that hived the massive columns.

  ‘Why would the katophrane create such a thing?’ Ammis asked.

  Averon had no answer for Ammis’ question – at least, none he cared to give. That kind of knowledge caused more harm than good. The Knight-Incantor had counted many regrets during his long tenure in the Sacrosanct Chamber of the Hammers of Sigmar, and vowed he would see neither of his companions added to the list.

  Averon laid a
hand on his spirit flask, standing a little straighter as he drew strength from the churning maelstrom of souls within. Ignoring the concern in Ammis’ stance, he fixed his gaze upon the Necromantic Retort.

  ‘Rastus, bring that abomination down.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ The hulking Evocator charged the construct, a corona of energy gathering like a thunderhead around him. With a shout, Rastus brought his weapons together, an arc of brilliant energy ­hammering into the Retort’s side. Forks of celestial lightning played across the construct’s exterior even as Rastus’ stormstaff set the thing’s legs ablaze. Laughing, the Stormcast brought his heavy sword around, hacking through burning scale and bone.

  The Retort listed, then crashed into the blackened basalt columns that flanked the street, patchwork limbs thrashing as it lay like an overturned beetle. A flailing arm knocked Rastus tumbling to the ground, but the Evocator was up again in a moment, slashing and hacking as the creature swiped at him.

  ‘Was that wise?’ Ammis asked.

  ‘Have I grown so senile you feel comfortable questioning my decisions?’ Averon snapped back.

  ‘No, Knight-Incantor.’ She bowed her head.

  Averon bit back a flash of regret. Ammis was a talented mage, one of the best he had seen in decades. She deserved better than an old man’s acrimony.

  He forced the gruffness from his voice. ‘We are not the only ones who seek Thalasar. Now that the Retort’s masking enchantments have been broken, the others will be quick to descend.’

  ‘Then we shall have to be quicker.’ Ammis nodded at Averon, her tone light. ‘Do try to keep up, old man.’