Gods & Mortals Page 20

Destruction? Thalasar gave a low chuckle. The Briar Queen may be mad, but she is no fool. She would use me, steal my knowledge. You seek a way to remain whole through the Reforging, Stormsire, but did it occur to you that there are those who might desire to lose parts of themselves?

  Averon’s chant stilled. Freed of her madness, her anger, the Briar Queen would become an immortal death mage of incalculable power, a force capable of rivalling even the Von Carstein brood, or perhaps Neferata herself.

  Take me into your mind, Thalasar whispered. And all I have will be yours.

  Averon let out a shaky breath. He had suffered so much in service to the quest for immortality, seen others suffer. What might the Stormcasts accomplish with true immortality? What good might Sigmar do? Averon grappled with darkness every day, immersed himself in it. Was this not simply the natural and inevitable end to his quest?

  With a sigh, Averon cast aside the chants of unbinding, his voice fracturing into the music of the spheres. Although it sickened him to do so, he would sing Thalasar into his mind. Any travail, any sacrifice would be worth it to free his fellows from the slow death of Reforging.

  Another voice threaded with Averon’s. High and clear, it cut through his harmonies, weakening instead of empowering. Song faltering, he turned to see Ammis at his side, eyes narrowed behind her golden mask. Behind her, Rastus fought alone, the wide sweep of his blade and staff keeping the gheists at bay while she gripped Averon’s arm.

  Confused by Ammis’ attempt to undermine his chant, Averon took a breath to strengthen his call, and Ammis seized on the pause. Hard-edged incantations flew from her lips, dark and terrible chants that tore into Thalasar’s immaterial will, shattering the weakened katophrane into a thousand shrieking shards.

  Thalasar screamed, and Averon screamed with him, the agony like slivers of glass being driven into his eyes. He cast out a hand, bellowing for Ammis to be silent, but she would not relent.

  Cracks spread through the shadeglass ringing the obelisks even as the basalt began to crumble. Sharp flashes of light marked the severing of the chains that bound the tattered Stormcast souls, and they slipped into the churning aether like bright forks of lightning.

  Pained tears pricked the corners of Averon’s eyes as he fell to one knee, head bowed and limbs heavy.

  ‘What have you done?’ he rasped out between clenched teeth.

  Without a word, Ammis reached down to pluck Averon’s spirit flask from his belt. Holding it high, she sang to the unmoored Stormcast souls. Although her voice faltered, unsure of the songs that would calm and reorient the wayward spiritual energies, the spirits came to her readily enough.

  When it was done, she knelt to slip an arm under Averon’s shoulder, lifting him up. He could see Thalasar’s shattering had driven the golems mad, as they fought the gheists and each other. Those few who stumbled into the amphitheatre were quickly despatched by Rastus’ blade and staff.

  The Briar Queen waded through the melee like an avenging god. Her necromancy scrabbled at the fragments of Thalasar’s soul, trying to stitch them back into some semblance of a whole, but, for all her power, Averon knew it was not in her nature to heal.

  ‘Quickly, before she realises he is gone,’ Averon gasped.

  Ammis half carried, half dragged Averon towards the stairs that led from the amphitheatre.

  ‘She will follow.’ He pushed free, gesturing for his spirit flask.

  Ammis hesitated. ‘You cannot break it, not with the other ­Hammers inside.’

  ‘Do you think me so foolish?’ Averon snatched the flask from her hand, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Rastus!’

  ‘Knight-Incantor?’ The Evocator spun, head cocked.

  ‘There are times for precision and care – this is not one of them. Unleash the storm.’ Averon grinned. ‘Bring this terrible place down behind us.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ The crackling inferno of Rastus’ celestial lightning cast Averon and Ammis’ shadows in harsh relief as they retreated from the amphitheatre. Gheist screeches and the clashing of blades were punctuated by great peals of thunder.

  Whooping, Rastus barrelled up the stairs behind them, his armour still smoking from the arcane fury of his tempest. Blue light limned the tunnel, followed by a single, hate-filled shriek cut off by the boom of falling stone.

  They came up from beneath the jagged throne, stumbling along the twisting paths. As they passed through the thorned door, Averon turned. Drawing forth his scroll he called the voidstorm down upon the Briar Queen’s former prison. The snap of lightning and crackle of shattering obsidian chased them up the stairs and into the bowels of the Nightvault.

  ‘Do you think the Briar Queen will pursue us?’ Ammis asked.

  ‘She will need to dig herself out, first.’ Rastus gave a panting chuckle. ‘I left not two cursed stones standing together.’

  ‘Scout the corridors.’ Averon gestured at Rastus. ‘With my connection to Thalasar broken, we are blind. And I do not wish any gheists to surprise us.’

  ‘Yes, Knight-Incantor.’ Rastus strode off with a bow.

  When the Evocator had moved a suitable distance away, Averon turned to Ammis. ‘I should send you back to Sigmaron for what you did back there – questioning my decisions, undermining my authority.’

  ‘Yes, Knight-Incantor.’ Although Ammis’ words were contrite, her tone was not.

  ‘We could have finally saved our fellows the pain of Reforging and fulfilled our holy mission.’ Averon glared at her. ‘Do you have any idea how long I have been searching? What I have done in service of our quest? The sacrifices I have made?’

  ‘No, Knight-Incantor.’ She removed her helmet, but did not lower her head.

  Averon rapped his Incantor staff against the tile. ‘No, you do not.’

  They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Averon could feel the anger roiling within him. He had been so close. And yet, free of Thalasar’s influence, he could see the pitfalls inherent in the katophrane’s promise – dark means led to dark ends, no matter the purity of vision.

  ‘Back in Thalasar’s lair.’ He frowned at Ammis. ‘Where did you learn those incantations? I certainly did not teach them to you.’

  ‘I am not blind, Knight-Incantor.’ She waved a dismissive hand, then gave a low grunt – a move so eerily familiar Averon felt he might have been gazing into a mirror.

  Strangely, he found himself smiling. Just as Averon had taken a piece of the darkness inside himself, she had done the same with him, for him. It troubled Averon to know that Ammis had gazed upon his mind, seen the shadows and made them hers.

  He shook his head, clearing his throat. ‘Well, if you are going to be casting enchantments, I should at least see to it you know your binding incantations.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Knight-Incantor?’

  ‘If even Rastus can learn discretion, then there may be hope for us all.’ Averon glanced around, grimacing. ‘We shall begin your lessons once we win free of the Nightvault.’

  He clapped Ammis on the arm, then turned to follow Rastus, one hand resting on his spirit flask. He could feel the Stormcast souls within, free and safe, at least as such things were measured in the cursed city of Shadespire.

  He walked a few paces, pausing when he noticed Ammis had not followed. A glance back found her standing in the centre of the corridor, her expression one of disbelief and shock.

  ‘Do try to keep up, Ammis,’ Averon called back to her.

  With a start, she donned her helmet and hurried after him.

  Already, Averon could feel the darkness of the Nightvault edging in around them, a twisting, doleful essence that seeped into the cracks in their resolve, shadowy hands scrabbling for purchase. It did not bother him. He had seen true darkness and come away battered, scarred, but unbroken.

  Thalasar’s invention was a direct path to immortality, but one that would have stain
ed the Stormcasts with its necromantic taint. The psychopompic inhibitor had been destroyed, Thalasar’s conscience scattered to the aethereal winds, but Averon had not come away empty-handed.

  The katophrane’s memories still echoed within his mind – millennia of disjointed secrets for him to sift and digest. Perhaps a clue to true immortality lay within.

  He glanced back at Ammis, then up to where Rastus plumbed the darkness ahead. The sight of his companions conjured a strange lightness in Averon’s chest. Whatever the danger, whatever the challenge, if the Nightvault held the answer, Averon would find it.

  And he would not do so alone.

  THE ROAD OF BLADES

  Josh Reynolds

  Ahazian Kel twisted in his saddle as the barbed arrow sank into the meat of his bicep. He looked down at it, and then up, to see where it had come from. More arrows followed the first. Most of these splintered against the warped plates of his crimson-and-brass armour, but several found gaps and pierced his flesh. More annoyingly, one found the eye of his horse, killing the scaly brute instantly.

  The animal fell with a sibilant whinny, and Ahazian tumbled from his saddle with a curse. The Deathbringer rolled to his feet in a slew of choking dust and shredded grasses, weapons in hand. He ignored the broken arrows jutting from his scarred body. A little pain was good, like salt for meat. The goreaxe squirmed in his grip, eager to bite flesh, and the skullhammer throbbed, ready to crush bone. The thorns of metal set into their hafts bit comfortingly into his palms, sinking into old grooves of scar tissue. The weapons were a part of him, an extension of his arms and will. He stepped away from the dying horse, deeper into the waving, waist-high grasses of the plain, and set his feet, awaiting his attackers. If they wanted him, he saw no reason to disappoint them.

  He didn’t have long to wait. A dozen horsemen galloped towards him through the sea of black grasses, their reptilian steeds shrieking with hunger. The cannibal-horses of the Caldera would, and often did, devour anything that fell beneath their scything hooves, even their own riders. The Horse-Lords of the Caldera were little better than their fierce steeds, and the other tribes of the steppes justly feared falling into their hands.

  Clad in armour made from bronze plates and the reddish scales of their stallions, and draped in dark robes of firewurm silk, they made for a most impressive sight. Each rider carried a stubby, curved bow and an array of hand weapons that even the most ardent bloodreaver would eye with envy. Masks of bone hid their faces.

  Intimidating. But then, so was he. He stood hands taller than the tallest of them, and his broad frame was clad in heavy armour. His helmet curved upwards, coalescing into the rune of Khorne, marking his allegiances for all who wished to see. He spread his arms, extending his weapons outwards, in a gesture of welcome.

  One of the riders bent, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his saddle. He loosed so swiftly that Ahazian almost missed it. His goreaxe snapped up, and the arrow split itself on the blade. More arrows followed. His skullhammer swept out, smashing them from the air. The clans of the Caldera had fought his kind before, and knew that to get too close, too soon, was to die. They galloped in a wide circle, surrounding him, screaming their war cries. When Anhur of the Axe had led the Eight Tribes across these lands, he’d sent Kung of the Long Arm to cast down the fang-standards of the clans, and humble them. Since Anhur’s death, at the fall of Klaxus, the clans had recovered their courage. Mostly, they contented themselves with raiding the slave-caravans of the Furnace-Kings, or warring upon weaker steppe tribes. That they were here, now, seemed almost an omen.

  ‘Khorne smiles upon me,’ Ahazian murmured. Perhaps the Blood God had sent him one last gift, before he left this place. Or perhaps they’d seen a lone rider and not realised his true nature until it was too late. Either way, he had little patience for such obstructions. He was close to the end of his quest. The Road of Blades called out to him, and he would not falter now.

  Bored, he slammed his weapons together and glared at the circling horsemen. ‘Come on then. I am Ahazian Kel, scion of the Ekran, and I walk the Eightfold Path. I have no time for cowards.’

  As if his words were a signal, a horseman screamed and galloped towards him, drawing a sword as he did so. Ahazian turned to meet him. He slammed his shoulder into the horse’s chest, and swept its front hooves out from under it with his skullhammer. Thick bones snapped, and the scaly creature fell with a scream that was almost human. His goreaxe slammed down, shearing through the fallen rider’s blade and the head behind. An arrow smacked into the small of Ahazian’s back, and he whipped around. He smashed aside a lance that sought his midsection, and removed its wielder’s arm for good measure.

  He killed two more before the rest broke. The Caldera retreated, leaving him standing over the corpses of their fellows. ‘Perhaps your folk are not so foolish as all that, eh?’ he asked, looking down at one of the dead men. ‘They know when they are beaten, at least. Unlike my own.’ His amusement faded as he silenced a wounded horse. He crushed the beast’s head, and let his skullhammer drink in its blood.

  He looked around. The Black Grasses were exactly what their name implied – a steppe, covered in tall, blackened grasses, rustling in a hot wind. And beyond them, limned in the red light of the setting sun, the ruins of Caldus. Caldus, where the ancestors of the Calderan clans had made their final stand against the armies of the Bloodbound, before being scattered to the winds. ‘And here you are, standing against one of us again,’ he said to one of the corpses, laughing. ‘Perhaps you are a foolish people, after all.’

  It was Caldus he had come to find. Caldus and what lay beyond it – the Road of Blades. The road to his destiny. Khorne had called him, and Ahazian Kel had come.

  There were no more kels. Just him. There were no more Ekran, save in the armies of the Bloodbound. And all their works had been cast into the fire with them. That was the price one paid, for defying Khorne. And yet… and yet. Khorne prized defiance, even as he punished it. To fight was to earn Khorne’s blessings. And for a kel, there was only battle. To wage war, one must become war. That was the truest adage of the Ekran. Masters did not matter. Armies and nations were but distractions to the purity of war.

  Ahazian Kel, last hero of the Ekran, sought to become war itself. But for that, he required greater weapons than those he currently wielded, weapons which could only be found in the Soulmaw. The goreaxe stirred in his grip, as if the thought had angered it. ‘I killed your first wielder to claim you,’ he said, chidingly. ‘There is little difference that I can see. You discard masters, and your masters discard you. That is the fate of all weapons.’

  The wind brought a scent to him. He tilted his head, taking it in. Old blood. Rust. Hot metal. The Road of Blades was close. He set off through the grasses, already forgetting the men and beasts he’d killed. The walk was long, but his endurance was inhuman. Gone were the days of honest sweat and aching muscles. He was like a blade, honed to perfection. A killing edge that would never dull, no matter how many lives he took.

  He would never bend, until he broke. Such were the blessings of Khorne.

  The distant ruins of Caldus grew larger – broken towers of basalt and feldspar rose above crumbling walls of blazestone. He saw the remains of a massive gateway, its ancient gilt work long since stripped from it by scavenging clans and treasure seekers. Where once the clans of the Caldera had lived and toiled, now only beasts dwelled. The Children of Chaos eagerly occupied whatever mankind abandoned, and warred amongst themselves for control of the ashes. That too was the way of Khorne. Only the strong survived.

  The grasses grew thin, and soon disappeared entirely. A scar stretched across the plain, from the baroque portcullis of the city gate to a point just out of sight. It was as if some great blast of heat had scoured a path, burning away the grasses and leaving behind… what?

  Weapons. Sourly amused, he realised that it was not called the Road of Blades without cause. Swo
rds, mostly. But some axes. Spear blades. Arrowheads. The weapons had twisted in the heat, melting together into a flat ribbon as wide as several men. Ahazian studied them, trying to calculate the number of blades needed to craft such a pathway. They rattled softly, in their captivity, as if unseen hands were trying to pry them up. He had not noticed the sound before, but now, it was all he could hear. Metal squealed against metal. Pommels thumped.

  A road of fire-warped weapons. ‘How fitting,’ he said. The weapons stilled at the sound of his voice, and he tensed, his instincts screaming a warning. But he saw no enemies. Only the ashes of the defeated, still drifting above their blades. That was the story told around the campfires of the Bloodbound. Of proud Caldus, and its fall, and how one of the Forgemasters of Khorne had taken the weapons of those who died in the city’s defence and made from them a road of blades. A road that was but one of eight. Eight roads for eight realms, all leading to the same place… The Soulmaw. The great smithy-citadel of Khorne, where the weapons of mortals and daemons alike were crafted by the Forgemasters and their servants. It extended outwards from the Brass Citadel through all realms, for wherever there was war, there was a need for weapons. Its forges were fired by the flames of a dying sun, and its ever-shifting ramparts swelled and contracted to the drumbeat of eternal battle.

  Ahazian stepped onto the road. The weapons shifted beneath his feet, and he paused, waiting. It was said, in some war camps, that only the worthy could walk the road and survive. But then, that was said of most things of this sort. But Ahazian knew that all of existence was but a test of worth. Every breath, each step – all a test.

  He turned and squinted into the distance. The red sun was setting, casting crimson shadows across the steppes. There was a haze, far ahead of him. A shimmering heat-sign. That was where he must go. The Soulmaw awaited him, like a promise yet to be kept. He strode towards it, following the curve of the road.

  Ahazian could not say when he had first heard of the legendary smithy-citadel of Khorne. It was there, the savages of the Ashdwell whispered, that the weapons of the gods themselves were forged – even Warmaker, the Blood God’s great two-handed sword. Weapons such as those he desired. Those he deserved. Others contended that even the deep forges of the Furnace-Kings were but puny shadows of the Soulmaw, though he knew of none who had ever seen it and lived to tell the tale.