Gods & Mortals Read online

  She sprinted towards the fallen construct, her sword and staff held in perfect parallel. She leapt to drive her tempest blade into the Retort’s side. Ancient flesh blackened and parted, necromantic bindings fraying at the touch of her sanctified weapons.

  The Retort swiped at her with its myriad arms, but the blows were clumsy. Ammis dodged them almost without looking, and the construct’s long, clawed fingers closed on empty air. Rastus stepped up to guard her back, cutting at the Retort’s flailing limbs like he was hacking through thick brush. In moments, Ammis had opened a hole in the construct’s side, and Averon hastened to join them, already singing the spells that would ward them against hexes woven into the thing’s interior.

  Inside the Retort was a confusion of torn flesh and broken shadeglass. The Cursebreakers found themselves in a long hall lined by tall ribs of blackened bone. They made their way across the uneven floor, dodging bits of rubble that shifted as the construct spasmed and shook.

  A host of hexes descended upon them like biting flies, keyed to twist, and burn, and slay. Averon swept the dark magics aside, the arcane redoubt woven by his wards proof against all but the most fell enchantments.

  ‘Stay close.’ Averon could feel the power that burned within the Retort – not only the energy of the spiritual essences the creature had consumed, but something far more powerful, and familiar. Bruise-coloured flames limned the necrotic walls as the Cursebreakers made their way towards the centre of the thing.

  The hall opened into a central chamber, a long, bone-columned gallery of obsidian tile and whip-tight sinew overlooking the raging amethyst flames below. Souls struggled in the fire, their incorporeal forms like tallow fed to a forge. Above the furnace hung an enormous cauldron of gold-flecked obsidian in which some manner of foul, metallic liquid bubbled.

  Intent on studying the process, Averon peered towards the cauldron, but Rastus’ heavy, gauntleted hand closed on his shoulder, dragging him back. Averon drew in a breath, about to chastise the young Stormcast when a jagged shadesteel blade stabbed up through the floor of the gallery where Averon had stood a moment before. As the Knight-Incantor regained his balance, more blades cut away the floor before them. Attached to long, segmented arms, they extended up to dig into the walls of the chamber.

  The thing that emerged from the hole was an abomination of black iron striated with veins of gold. It had no head Averon could see, only a spinning maelstrom of glittering shadeglass suspended in a circular cage of steel and bone. Eight arms were spaced equidistant around the horizontal axis, their ends terminating in jagged, scythelike blades.

  ‘A shadesteel golem.’ Ammis dropped into a fighting crouch, weapons pointed at the creature. ‘But like none I have seen before.’

  ‘More fuel for the great working.’ The golem’s voice came as a cacophony of screams, a chorus of raw throats babbling incoherent pleas that somehow formed words.

  ‘I think you will find us far less appetising than your usual prey.’ Rastus stepped past Averon to level his gleaming blade at the golem. It perched spiderlike in the broken gallery, limbs poised in terrible anticipation.

  ‘Thunder booms, but where is the storm, little one?’

  ‘Fear not.’ Rastus gave a booming laugh. ‘I shall show you.’

  Averon studied the golem with his sorcerous sight. Necromantic energy swathed the creature in amethyst shadows, clouds of power illuminated by the occasional flash of brilliant light. As he studied the golem, a creeping disquiet took root in Averon’s chest. ‘Rastus, stay back!’

  But the Evocator was already moving.

  Rastus burned like a streak of lightning, his armoured form little more than a shadow against the glare. Although he struck the golem with the force of a charging demigryph, the thing barely shifted. Tempest blade and stormstaff left no mark upon the golem’s limbs, the energy of Rastus’ assault bleeding into the maelstrom of churning shadow that surrounded the creature.

  It batted Rastus aside with contemptuous ease, pinning him to the ground with one scythelike arm even as it raised another for the killing blow.

  ‘By Ghal Maraz!’ Horror whetted the Evocator’s cry to razor sharpness. He stared, wide-eyed, at the veins of gold running through the golem’s metallic arm. ‘That is sigmarite!’

  Ammis leapt to intercept the falling blade, weapons angled not to oppose but deflect. Celestial lightning crackled up the golem’s arm as it met her stormstaff. Even so, gold-flecked shadesteel cleaved the tiles mere inches from Rastus’ face.

  ‘Averon, what is this abomination?’ Ammis shouted as she shouldered aside the arm pinning Rastus, allowing her companion to roll to his feet. They circled the golem, dodging and parrying. Whenever they tried to strike at the thing, their blows were deflected in a flash of brilliant light. The golem moved with a mechanical grace, no wasted movement, its arms slashing with clockwork precision – almost as if it could anticipate the Stormcasts’ movements.

  Averon shouted incantations, but each spell seemed only to feed the arcane gale that surrounded the golem, the veins of sigmarite running through its limbs glowing white-hot. It seemed impossible that Thalasar could have crafted such a creature, but Shadespire had swallowed entire chambers of the Hammers of Sigmar. The katophrane must have somehow acquired their armour and weapons.

  The Knight-Incantor studied the obsidian vessel above the flame, realising where he had seen this energy before.

  Like all initiates of the Sacrosanct Chamber, Averon had spent years tending the Cairns of Tempering in Sigmaron, healing the souls of fallen Stormcasts, making whole what had been torn asunder, salvaging what he could from essences twisted by dark forces beyond imagining. A cold foreboding settled in Averon’s chest as he recognised the power shielding the golem.

  It was the torn, tormented soul of a fellow Stormcast.

  Although the realisation hit Averon with the force of a charging dracolith, he knew what needed to be done. Tears stung the Knight-Incantor’s eyes as he sang the chants of binding, his voice fracturing along celestial harmonies, becoming a refrain, a chorus. The golem stumbled, one of its legs gone limp. Sparks of lightning spun from the thing’s central core.

  Rastus and Ammis took up the song. Unable to match Averon’s arcane skill, their voices threaded his harmonies, empowering his choir.

  Averon had no Cairn of Tempering, no Anvil of Apotheosis, so he snatched the spirit flask from his belt, coaxing the fragments of tortured Stormcast essence inside.

  Robbed of its stolen celestial energy, the golem stumbled. Averon’s companions were quick to capitalise on the thing’s sudden weakness, Rastus leaping up to hammer at the frame that bound the golem’s spinning core while Ammis flitted between its slashing arms, cleaving joints and shattering exposed shadeglass.

  Averon slammed his Incantor staff into the tiles, all his anger focused into a bolt of coruscating power that burned through the golem. It shuddered and fell limp, limbs twitching feebly.

  ‘Thalasar has gone too far.’ Rastus raised his flickering stormstaff to deal the final blow.

  ‘Wait!’ Averon flung out his hand. ‘The golem may know its master’s whereabouts.’

  If Rastus heard, he gave no sign. The Evocator’s stormstaff arced down, only to be met by Ammis’ tempest blade. The weapons crashed together, spitting sparks as the two Evocators locked gazes.

  For a moment, Averon feared Rastus might continue his assault, but the Evocator tossed his head like a cornered bull, then lowered his weapons, panting.

  ‘My apologies, Knight-Incantor.’

  ‘It is easy to unleash the storm, but far harder to bridle it.’ Averon stepped to Rastus’ side to lay a hand on his heaving shoulders. ‘You must learn to control your power or it will control you.’

  The Evocator nodded. Sheathing his sword, he reached up to remove his helmet, then wiped his brow. Rastus’ olive skin was sheened in sweat, his black hair sl
icked to his scalp. Although he stood still, he glared at the golem, dark brown eyes narrowed, his stance vibrating with barely restrained fury.

  ‘Come closer, cousins.’ The golem’s voice was a mocking whisper.

  ‘We are no kin to you,’ Ammis said.

  ‘And yet…’ The golem chuckled weakly.

  ‘By what means were you forged?’ Ammis knelt to examine one of the golem’s severed limbs, prodding the veins of sigmarite with her stormstaff. ‘How did Thalasar manage to craft this alloy, let alone create weapons from it?’

  ‘My master is a giant among katophranes. We are as dust swept along in the gale of his mighty intellect.’ The golem tried to raise itself, but fell back.

  Ammis looked ready to ask more questions, but Averon shook his head.

  ‘Where is Thalasar’s sanctum?’

  ‘The last place she would look,’ the golem replied. ‘My master shall not be found, not by her, not by anyone – not unless he wishes.’

  Averon scowled down at it. Storm sorcery would be of little use extracting answers from the golem. It felt no pain, no fear; ­moreover, it knew they could not truly destroy it, not while Nagash’s curse still ruled Shadespire. Still, Averon knew spells that would lay the thing bare – cruel enchantments acquired over lifetimes spent struggling with the dark powers. Forbidden incantations, the knowledge of which would have seen any but a Stormcast of the Sacrosanct Chamber purged by their peers.

  ‘Knight-Incantor.’ Ammis’ call snapped Averon from his dark ruminations. ‘Something approaches.’

  Averon felt it too: a chill at the edge of his senses, arcane sight distorted by a great nexus of necromantic force.

  ‘You are not the only ones who seek to leash my master’s genius.’ The golem made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. ‘The Briar Queen comes.’

  Averon knew little of the Briar Queen, but what he did gave him pause. The opening of the Nightvault had unleashed many things, most of which were best kept locked away. Ruined souls shrieked the Briar Queen’s name, their laments tracing her mad cruelty in intricate detail. A death mage of consummate power, she stalked the streets of Shadespire at the head of a host of ravening gheists, ravaging all they touched.

  ‘We need more time,’ Averon muttered.

  ‘Then I shall give it to you,’ Rastus replied, already striding away.

  ‘Do not be a fool,’ Averon called after him. Glancing at Ammis, Averon sighed, adding more kindly, ‘The Briar Queen is a force even I would hesitate to challenge.’

  Rastus’ shoulders rose as he stopped short. Averon could see the Evocator was still smarting from his earlier failure with the golem, but there was no time to coddle the young Stormcast’s ego further.

  ‘You shall be her playthings,’ the golem mocked.

  With a snarl, Averon gathered energy to his Incantor staff. There was but one way to get the information they sought.

  ‘Allow me to assist you.’ Ammis stepped to his side.

  ‘Wait outside, both of you,’ Averon snapped back. ‘And be quick about it.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then, seeing Averon would brook no argument, Rastus strode away. After lingering for a moment, Ammis followed.

  Averon turned back to the golem, the forbidden chant sitting like oil on his tongue. He had long accepted the pitfalls of the path he trod, but was loath to expose his companions to the evils he had been forced to embrace.

  Darkness would find them soon enough.

  The chant blistered the air, words twisting over and around each other like dying serpents. Dark forces churned around Averon, sinking into his flesh, seeming to coat his very bones. The golem shuddered as the Knight-Incantor unleashed the full force of the tainted sorcery. His will bored into the golem’s fractured thoughts, sweeping the fragmented shards of its recollection into a patchwork whole.

  Darkness surrounded Averon. Obsidian thorns rent his skin, and his back arced at the unbelievable torment. He saw the souls of his Stormcast brethren trapped within a black obelisk, their noble spirits subject to Thalasar’s mad experiments. Through the haze of pain and madness Averon forced himself to focus, raising bloody hands to grasp at the knife-edged secrets the golem sought to hide.

  Like a dagger, knowledge pierced him, cold fire racing through his thoughts. Realisation came as a bitter, cutting wind. It bore fractured recollection steeped in millennia of pain and suffering, disjointed memories etched into Averon’s own soul by the screams of a thousand tormented spirits.

  He fell back, exhausted, barely able to keep his feet as he staggered from the crucible chamber. Strong hands caught him in the corridor outside. He glanced up to see Ammis in the doorway, her eyes shadowed.

  ‘What did you see?’ Averon asked.

  ‘Nothing, Knight-Incantor.’ She slipped an arm around his shoulders, bearing him along the scabrous hall.

  ‘I told you to wait outside the Retort,’ he snapped.

  ‘My apologies,’ she replied, her voice distant.

  Any further questions Averon might have had were choked off as they stumbled out of the Retort and into the shifting half-light that passed for day in Shadespire.

  ‘Hurry,’ Rastus called, stepping up to help Ammis support Averon.

  Already, he could hear the mad shrieks echoing down the colonnaded plazas that ringed the Nightvault. Although the Briar Queen’s creatures were yet some distance away, the twisted acoustics of the ancient prison made it sound as if they were all around the Cursebreakers.

  ‘Deeper.’ Averon gestured at the spiralling galleries below. ‘We must go deeper.’

  An exhausted glance over his shoulder showed the mob of gheists enter the far side of the plaza. The Briar Queen stood among them like a terrible idol – an apparition of ghastly aspect, her ghostly, thorn-pierced flesh clad in tattered finery, a bent and jagged crown upon her brow. As if aware of Averon’s scrutiny she lifted her skeletal head, the twin abysses of her eyes threatening to drag him into madness. Too far away to reach the Cursebreakers, she extended a bony hand, one long finger pointed at Averon as if to mark him for slaughter.

  With a cry, he tore his gaze away.

  For once, the Nightvault’s maddening geometries worked to the Cursebreakers’ advantage. As they fled deeper into shadow the snarled galleries quickly obscured them from the Briar Queen’s view.

  Averon directed their course. Through the pain, the shadows that edged his vision, the darkness that had taken root in his thoughts, Averon muttered one word, a dark mantra repeated over and over in a voice that was not his own:

  ‘Nightvault, Nightvault, Nightvault…’

  A desiccated beetle scrabbled across the back of Averon’s gauntlet. He flicked it off with an irritated shake, scowling. It was a testament to Nagash’s spite that even the insects of Shadespire could find no rest.

  The Cursebreakers had spent what seemed like days delving deeper into the shifting bowels of the Nightvault, drawn on by the tainted memories Averon had ripped from Thalasar’s golem. Curving corridors of black basalt had slowly given way to dark marble and cracked shadeglass. Most of the ethereal prisons had been shattered either by accident or artifice, the souls within slipping out to wreak whatever torments they could upon the cursed city. Those few that remained in their prisons flickered with pale blue light, the agonised struggles of their captives filling the air with a sharp, actinic odour that reminded Averon of burning phosphorus.

  ‘Curse this vile place. Which way?’ Rastus asked from up ahead, his glowing stormstaff held like a torch as he inspected the branching intersection. The Nightvault’s tunnels curled back on themselves, a tangled web of dusty, shadow-haunted passageways as twisted as the veins of an ancient corpse.

  Clenching his jaw against the sick, heavy feeling in his gut, Averon regarded the intersection. The answer came like the pain of an old wound, a dull ache building
behind his eyes, whetted by the cruel memories he had stripped from the golem. Averon had known of the Nightvault only in the abstract, never realising – never understanding – the desperate torments that infused every stone. Now, the horror of it hung like a chain around his neck.

  He thrust his chin at a set of uneven stairs that led deeper into the prison. Straightening his shoulders with an effort of will, Averon nodded to Ammis and stepped towards the passage. She followed him, concern glimmering through the stern visage of her mask.

  ‘I do not like this.’

  ‘Duly noted.’ Averon gestured for Rastus to continue.

  ‘He may not see what is happening to you, but I do,’ she hissed from behind. ‘There must be a better way.’

  ‘Better perhaps, but none so direct.’ Averon’s words came as a dry croak. ‘You know what pursues us.’

  Ammis glanced over her shoulder. Even swamped in the choking miasma of necromantic energy that pervaded the Nightvault, Averon knew she could sense the Briar Queen’s approach. Like a terrible eye, her sorceries scoured the Nightvault, questing feelers of death magic slipping through the darkness like the barbed tendrils of her namesake. Averon had been able to shield the Cursebreakers from her gaze thus far, but the Nightvault sapped at his strength and blunted his wards. The ancient prison was the Briar Queen’s domain – it would only be a matter of time until she winnowed them out.

  ‘Then allow Rastus and I to assist you,’ Ammis said. ‘If we were to bear some of the burden–’

  ‘Enough.’ Averon turned away, following the glow of Rastus’ stormstaff. Shadows pooled along the stairs, strange humanoid shapes gnarled as old tree roots. They pawed at the light, jagged mouths open in silent screams, their hands held as if to beseech the Cursebreakers for aid. With a chill, Averon recognised some of them – the souls of men and women committed to ageless torment in the Nightvault. Memories of exquisite torture flowered in the dark corners of Averon’s thoughts, cruel blossoms sharp enough to etch strange desires into his breast. The golems had gathered these wretches for Thalasar’s experiments, bits of soulstuff woven into artefacts of such beauty and power as to make the gods weep.