Gods & Mortals Page 19

  With a pained grimace, Averon pushed the alien memories aside.

  ‘Do you think Thalasar will part with his knowledge willingly?’ Ammis persisted. ‘What then? Will you choose the direct way, no matter the cost?’

  Averon pulled off his helmet and scowled up at her. ‘I will do what is necessary to save our brethren from what we have endured. You know what awaits in the Cairns of Tempering – you have walked the Avenue of Saints, heard the cries of those too damaged or broken to reforge.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ She studied his face as if searching for something. ‘As I have read the names etched in the Annals Tempestus. I have seen our brethren fall, seen Stormcasts tainted beyond redemption, their spiritual energies sacrificed to keep the Star Bridge burning bright. Look at what the katophranes have wrought. What good is immortality if we lose our souls in the process?’

  ‘I have heard enough.’ Averon slashed his hand through the air as if to cut the throat of her reply. ‘I expect this sort of stubbornness from Rastus, but you understand what is at stake.’

  ‘Perhaps better than you realise.’ She gestured at the darkness behind them. ‘You saw what Thalasar did to our brethren – some secrets are not worth the cost.’

  ‘That is for me to decide, not you.’ Averon glared at her. ‘I am Knight-Incantor of the Cursebreakers – you are here to assist me, to follow my orders.’

  ‘And to protect you.’ Ammis met his gaze, unflinching. ‘Even from yourself.’

  Averon’s grip tightened on his Incantor staff. The temerity, the insolence. He had spent lifetimes in service to the Sacrosanct Chamber, seen things that would blister the minds of his companions, and Ammis sought to question him?

  Furious, he opened his mouth, only to be stunned to silence by a resounding crash from below. He and Ammis hurried down the stairs, weapons at the ready. They found Rastus at the bottom of the staircase, the remains of a black iron door smashed to hissing shards at his feet.

  ‘It was locked.’ The Evocator shrugged off his companions’ stares. ‘And we are in a hurry.’

  The sight of the doorframe withered Averon’s admonitions – vines of jagged iron made intricate scrollwork around the portal. Twined into symbols of binding and punishment, their inner edges were studded with cruelly hooked thorns of shadeglass. The whole sight put Averon in mind of the maw of a deep-sea predator, some monstrosity pulled from the crushing murk to drag the unwary into oblivion.

  Averon knew that to step through this portal was to risk never returning, and yet the sight filled him with a strange anticipation, a spiteful joy that brought a smile to his lips – so much beautiful suffering had taken place beyond this door.

  ‘Is this Thalasar’s lair?’ Ammis asked.

  Averon shook his head to clear it of dark thoughts. ‘No, but we are close.’

  So close.

  At Averon’s nod, Rastus stepped through the door, Ammis following close behind, positioned to ward each other’s backs and cut off potential avenues of assault. Flickering storm energy from their weapons lit the shadows beyond.

  Hedges of obsidian shadeglass filled the darkness, tangled creepers obscuring the dimensions of the massive chambers. They seemed to swallow the light, pressing in around the Cursebreakers like ravens on a fresh kill. The whole place smelled of ash and old blood, and echoed with a low, whispering moan just at the edge of hearing.

  ‘Shall I clear us a path?’ Rastus waved his tempest blade at the thorns.

  ‘No need.’ Averon stepped between them, nodding at an almost invisible path that wound through the maze of hedges. ‘I remember the way.’

  Ammis cocked her head, eyes worried behind the mask of her helmet. Averon tried to ignore the glance she and Rastus shared, the wordless interplay of concern stitching the air between them.

  ‘Knight-Incantor,’ Rastus began, but Averon silenced him with a glare before striding off into the hedge. Let the fools worry; as long as they followed his commands he cared nothing for their childish misgivings. He led the Cursebreakers down the twisting trails. Thorns scraped across the Stormcasts’ armour, leaving thin trails of dark blood that was not theirs.

  ‘What is this place?’ Ammis asked.

  ‘Special.’ Averon chuckled. He could feel it now – the joy of watching a soul peeled back layer by layer, the understanding that came by reducing a mind to its component parts, seeing each bit of who they were, who they would never be again. There was much to be studied here, much to be learned.

  At last, they came to a clearing in the hedge. Roughly circular, it was perhaps twenty paces across, ringed by more wards woven from obsidian vines. In the centre was a throne crafted of flawless shadeglass. Fitted with bindings of black iron it was a monstrous thing, a sharp-edged construction of razored points and cunningly crafted barbs, thorned hooks extending from the sides like the limbs of a dreadful insect, poised to flense and cut whatever poor soul was confined to the throne.

  ‘She wished to rule them,’ Averon said. ‘So they crafted her a throne fit for a queen.’

  ‘Why would Thalasar conceal himself here?’ Rastus asked.

  ‘What better place to hide than the prison of the one who seeks you?’ Ammis replied.

  ‘Thalasar was…’ Averon nodded to himself, walking around the throne, ‘responsible for the Briar Queen’s care.’

  Rastus grunted. ‘She seeks revenge on her gaoler.’

  ‘Who would not, after millennia of this?’ Averon knelt, feeling along the underside of the throne. Waves of terror, madness and impotent rage wafted from the thing. Even these pale echoes of the torments the Briar Queen had endured at Thalasar’s behest were enough to make the breath catch in Averon’s throat.

  There was a sharp pain as a tiny shadeglass barb pricked through the joint of Averon’s gauntlet, a single drop of blood welling from the puncture. He let it fall, then stood back to watch as the throne slowly ground aside to reveal steps leading down.

  Unlike the other stairs in the Nightvault, these were cut from black marble, straight and narrow, the walls to either side free of joint or mortar. Averon knew without looking that they had been perfectly measured, every angle meticulously planned. The walls were etched with masking wards, layer upon layer of obfuscating sorceries meant to turn even an eye as powerful as the Briar Queen’s. Had Averon not known the way, he would have never found this place.

  Warily, they descended, stepping out into the bowl of a small amphitheatre perhaps fifty yards across, a fan of seats ascending to either side. Man-sized obelisks ringed the upper level. Carved of black obsidian fitted with rings of shadeglass, they glowed with a pale violet light that filled the chamber. Motes of energy crackled between them, lighting up the shadows at the rear of the amphitheatre. In the darkness above, Averon could see dozens of spiderlike golems similar to the one they had battled in the Necromantic Retort. The constructs stood unmoving save for the swirling, churning tempests of shadesteel and sigmarite that spun at their cores.

  At Averon’s nod, the Cursebreakers spread out across the bowl of the amphitheatre, gazes sweeping the rows of seats, ready for any threat. Averon began a chant of warding, only to have his incantations trail off as he saw other Stormcasts step through the lambent gloom.

  Tall and noble, their shields emblazoned with Ghal Maraz, the H­ammers of Sigmar moved through the gloom with practised ease, their weapons at the ready. Averon recognised them as part of a Redeemer Conclave, and was grateful for their presence until he noticed the way the darkness clung to them, their forms shifting as if seen through thick fog. A pair of Liberators stepped towards him, heads craned to watch the golems in the shadows. He half turned in surprise, expecting them to react to the presence of the Cursebreakers, but the Liberators simply passed through him, forming a line at the edge of the bowl of the amphitheatre.

  With a start, Averon realised he was seeing echoes of the past. Tattered remnants
of the souls of his missing comrades lost amidst the swirling aether that filled Thalasar’s lair. He tried to call out to Ammis and Rastus, but they seemed distant, less substantial than even the shades that haunted the ancient prison. Averon watched the Stormcasts advance, then pause as the obelisks lit with dark flame.

  The golems descended on the Liberators. Bright flares of storm energy and crackling weapons were lost amidst the fire, the growing shadows seeming to swallow up even the most powerful assaults from his departed brethren. Each attack seemed only to stoke the flames, the struggles of Averon’s lost comrades growing weaker as the obelisks feasted on their assaults. In moments, it was over, a mound of armoured bodies slumped across the amphitheatre, their very souls sucked into the swirling vortex of spiritual energy, the obelisks serving as some manner of soul magnet.

  Seeing the way the obelisks fed on the storm energy, Averon realised his mistake. With Thalasar, nothing happened by accident. The katophrane had sent the Necromantic Retort to the upper reaches of the Nightvault, had seeded Shadespire with rumour and promise, had lured the Cursebreakers here for a reason. The question was: why?

  Welcome to my psychopompic inhibitor. The voice echoed in the Knight-Incantor’s thoughts, clipped and measured. I have been waiting for you, Averon Stormsire. More precisely, I have been waiting for your body.

  Dimly, he heard Ammis shouting, felt her hand close on his arm. Averon blinked in confusion. When had he fallen to the ground?

  Brilliant flashes pierced the shadows as Rastus blazed with the tempest. Through blurry eyes, Averon watched the Evocator charge up the amphitheatre steps, constellations of celestial lightning crackling around him.

  Averon tried to move, to warn Rastus that the obelisks fed on storm energy, but his limbs seemed made of marble, his lips frozen in a rictus of agony.

  You are my servant! Thalasar’s voice scattered Averon’s thoughts like fallen leaves. My vessel.

  Dark memories took root in Averon’s mind, their tendrils spreading through the cracks in his recollection, breaking open his mind. His perception was overlaid with Thalasar’s. He could see Rastus battling the golems, knew that each assault was calculated to bait the Evocator into greater feats, the obelisks bleeding off more and more power. He could see himself, crumpled on the ground, Ammis knelt beside him, her lips moving in a terrible, yet familiar chant.

  Dully, he struggled against the sucking morass of the katophrane’s will. With a cutting thought, he summoned the voidstorm, but the raging energy could find no purchase. Thalasar did not exist outside the obelisks, outside Averon’s mind – there was nothing for the storm to cast asunder.

  A hundred incantations rose amidst the churning babble of Averon’s thoughts – spells that would banish the katophrane or shred his soul into a thousand ragged threads – but he could not seem to lay hands on any of them, the invocations slipping like sand through his fingers even as Thalasar’s will devoured more of his own.

  ‘Stormsire!’ A single voice cut through the confused babble. High and clear despite the terrifying promise of its chant, Ammis shone like a beacon in the maelstrom. Averon could see her leaning over him, her helmet off, her head bowed in concentration as the forbidden chant slipped from her lips.

  For a moment, their minds touched, Averon’s memories becoming hers. The darkness of Thalasar’s will, divided, could not maintain its assault.

  Like clouds parting, Averon could feel awareness return. ‘Rastus,’ he gasped, and knew Ammis understood.

  Still, she hesitated, glancing down at Averon.

  He pushed to his feet, shrugging off her hand. ‘Go!’

  Ammis stood, already calling for Rastus. The Evocator turned, his head wreathed in a corona of roiling tempest energy, his eyes blazing with celestial fury.

  ‘The obelisks,’ Ammis shouted. ‘They are some manner of soul magnet, they feed on storm energy!’

  ‘The golems will destroy us if I stop!’ Rastus clashed his weapons together, the boom of thunder swallowed by the encroaching shadow, his roar lost amidst the clatter of shadesteel blades. The maelstrom surrounding him was too powerful and unstable for even Ammis to approach. ‘I will not fail you both again!’

  ‘Please, you must trust me!’ she shouted at him.

  ‘I cannot stop!’ Rastus turned away, unleashing another arc of storm energy into the growing dark. ‘It is too powerful!’

  Teeth gritted against the pain in his head, Averon watched the exchange. He raised a hand, ready to call down spells that would douse the young Stormcast’s arcane energies. But something stayed Averon’s hand – a memory, rising as if through murky water. He remembered what it had been like before Reforging had worn holes in his soul, what it was like to be filled with hope, to be surrounded by Stormcasts whom he had looked up to – mentors, teachers, heroes. He remembered what it was to be the youngest, the least skilled; what it was like to try to prove himself to his betters, desperate for their approval.

  ‘Bridle the storm!’ Averon limped forwards, imbuing his voice with just enough power to be heard over Rastus’ arcane maelstrom. ‘I know you have the skill, Rastus, the knowledge. Show me the storm does not rule you.’

  Meeting Averon’s gaze, the Evocator squared his shoulders, seeming almost to wrestle with his weapons. Celestial lightning crackled across his armour, his limbs wreathed in golden light. Screaming, he leashed the tempest, the light fading, until at last he stood in darkness.

  ‘I am proud of you,’ Averon said just before the golems came charging in.

  Ammis rushed to Rastus’ side, her stormstaff deflecting one of the shadesteel blades. Rastus turned so they were back to back, and together they ducked and dodged, battling the golems with skill alone.

  Averon stood by, feeling helpless. Even with Ammis’ and Rastus’ ability, they would soon be overwhelmed. Any storm energy Averon summoned would be drained into the obelisks. He could still feel Thalasar at the back of his mind, a cold presence gathering strength for another assault.

  The katophrane stalked Averon like a demigryph hunting prey, ­studying him, learning his powers, his weaknesses. Seeing into Thalasar’s mind was like looking into a dark prism, each of Averon’s thoughts reflected back a thousandfold – there was nothing he could do that Thalasar had not already planned for. The Cursebreakers’ souls would be dissected, their armour and weapons turned into more of the katophrane’s shadesteel abominations. As it had for so many before, the Nightvault would become their eternal prison.

  Cold realisation ran icy fingers up the Knight-Incantor’s spine. The Nightvault might be a prison, but it was a broken one, its captives freed, its gaolers hunted. Averon might not be able to tear free of Thalasar’s web, but he knew of one who could.

  Averon’s incantation slipped unnoticed through the tumult of combat. A small thing, barely a wisp of sorcery, it bored into the cracks in Thalasar’s wards, seeking the weaknesses the Knight-Incantor had seen when his mind had briefly merged with the katophrane’s.

  Ancient spells unravelled, bindings picked apart. Sensing Averon’s spell, Thalasar buttressed his wards, but it was too late; Averon had torn a tiny hole in the masking enchantments. Through it he sent a tiny flicker of storm energy, a spark that flashed briefly in the darkness before sputtering out.

  Thalasar slammed the breach in the wards shut. The katophrane’s laughter filled Averon’s thoughts. For a moment, the Knight-Incantor feared it had not been enough. Then he felt a shift in the arcane currents, Thalasar’s wards reacting to a great and terrible force, a mad aethereal presence that drew death magic to it like a lodestone, shifting, tearing, annihilating.

  What have you done? The katophrane’s voice cracked.

  It was Averon’s turn to laugh as the ceiling at the far side of the amphitheatre collapsed, a torrent of howling gheists pouring into the chamber.

  Shadesteel golems turned to meet the new threat, wading into
the shrieking aethereal tide like gargants swarmed by skaven.

  Ammis and Rastus retreated down the amphitheatre steps, rejoining Averon. Ammis took a step towards him, but he waved her off, nodding at the gheists and golems.

  ‘Keep them back. I must deal with Thalasar.’

  With a nod, the two Evocators took up position on either side of him. A shock wave of aethereal force shrieked across the amphitheatre, almost knocking the Cursebreakers from their feet. Averon did not need to look back to know the Briar Queen had entered the fray.

  There was no time for subtlety or care. Averon grasped his spirit flask as his incantation drove deep into the delicate web of enchantments that imbued the psychopompic inhibitor. He could feel the souls of his Stormcast brethren within Thalasar’s soul magnet, still struggling against the arcane chains that bound them.

  His plans in shambles, Thalasar clung to Averon’s mind like a drowning man.

  You are a fool.

  ‘And you are an abomination,’ Averon said. Gripping his staff, he summoned the unbinding spells that would loose the aethereal chains binding the souls of his fellow Stormcasts to the soul magnet.

  But I have what you seek. Panic edged the katophrane’s voice. Millennia of research, planning, calculation – I am so close.

  ‘You slew my fellows, stole their armour, their very souls.’

  It was in service to a greater goal. You will be reborn whole, we will all be reborn whole, Thalasar said. You, of all people, should understand the need for sacrifice.

  Behind Averon, the Briar Queen screamed, her unnatural voice imbued with such pain and rage that it was like a dagger driven into Averon’s back.

  Please, she must not take me. Thalasar’s voice echoed high and anxious in Averon’s mind. Bring me with you. Together we can achieve true immortality.

  ‘After what you did to the Briar Queen?’ Averon scowled. ‘You deserve destruction at her hands.’