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  He held his blow, uncertain. Then, the ground shook. He was nearly knocked from his feet by the force of the tremor. The ground cracked and split, spewing volcanic gases. The shaking increased, as did the screams of the daemons. They began to tear at each other and the ground in a growing frenzy. It was as if they had been driven mad - or madder.

  A daemonette lurched to its hooves and stumbled towards him, squalling. It slashed blindly at him, gibbering something that might have been a name over and over again. Disgusted, Havocwild beheaded the creature with a looping blow. He staggered towards the entrance as the ground buckled.

  As he stepped into the open, he heard the creak of bone and looked up. The skulls of all those he’d killed, gilded and decorated with flowers and fine gems, covered the sides of the immense tent. An eerie green radiance flitted from skull to skull as he watched. Then, as one, they began to twitch and clatter on their barbs. He heard a sound as of a thousand voices, murmuring all at once and close by. Some of them screamed, in memory of pain they could no longer feel, or for a vengeance they would never claim

  He laughed, delighted, and his eyes were drawn to the sky above. It seemed to convulse, in time with the tremors that wracked the ground. Striations of amethyst light passed slowly through the dark, and the tremors grew fiercer. He watched in growing awe as the stars began to wink out, one by one.

  ‘How exquisite,’ he whispered.

  SIGMARON, PALACE-CITY OF SIGMAR

  Balthas Arum sat back with a sigh, his black-and-gold war-plate creaking. The lord-arcanum rubbed his eyes, more out of habit than because they ached. He closed the tome he’d been studying, set it atop the pile to his left and reached for the next. The wide table, made from a single slab of dark stone, was covered in small hills of paper - stacks of volumes and papyrus jostled for space with duardin bead-books and strange, golden plaques. Candles rose like wax towers and cast a pallid glow over the confusion.

  Balthas, like all Stormcast Eternals, was larger than a mortal man. He bore the black-and-gold livery of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer proudly, and was clad in the war-plate and robes of his office. An ornate staff of sigmarite and gold lay against the table, the stylised lightning bolts that adorned its head flickering softly.

  He bore a blade when he rode to war, but rarely used it, for such was not his purpose. He was no lord-celestant, to hurl himself into the thick of war, but instead a lord-arcanum - an aether-mage and master of a Sacrosanct Chamber. The fury of the cosmic tempest was his to command. Of what use was a sword or hammer, however well-crafted, to one who could wield lightning? With a word, he could crack stone or ride the aetheric winds, as swift as a thunderbolt.

  Balthas ran his hands through his dark hair. He stared at the book before him, sizing it up the way a warrior might study a new opponent. The cover was made from the crimson scales of an Aqshian magmadroth, with brass clasps and bindings. Runes - but not duardin ones - were stamped on it. He tapped it with a finger, considering his avenues of attack. He had laid siege to this tome before and always come away defeated. It required careful thought. It was composed of unknown runic characters, etched by an unknown hand, on an unknown subject. An enigma.

  He glanced at his helmet, sitting nearby. It was plated in gold, with runic sigils carved into the brow and cheek-guards. He tapped it fondly. ‘I can draw down the lightning as easily as I draw breath. I am a master of the aetheric storm I can peer into the heart of any living creature, and I have matched my will against those of the dark gods. But I cannot crack this cipher.’ He frowned. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

  Balthas opened the book, careful not to damage it. ‘Perhaps today will be the day.’ He scouted the first pages, studying the familiar, unintelligible lines of script, the strange illustrations - some species of herb, he thought. But what species, found where? He reached for a goblet, sitting near his hand. He lifted the cup without looking at it and found it empty, save for a few sour dregs. He peered into it, momentarily confused.

  ‘I could have sworn I had a full goblet a few moments ago,’ he said, out loud. He sighed and reached for a nearby jug. It too was empty. He set it aside, searching for any sign of the novice priests who attended to such menial tasks. He recalled, belatedly, that he’d asked to be left alone. Evidently, they had taken him at his word. He looked around.

  The Grand Library of Sigmaron was silent. Shafts of light fell through the high, oblong windows to streak the dusty air. High, heavy shelves of smooth stone and fossilised wood lined the walls or else stood freely, stretching past even the limits of his preternatural sight. The concentric arrangement of these semi-circular shelves mirrored the circular shape of the library itself - a world within a world.

  Azure-robed priests and priestesses strode silently through the shadowed pathways between shelves, retrieving books for patrons, or replacing those borrowed earlier. The priests wore heavy record books marked with the Sigendil, the High Star of Azyr, chained to their bodies. With these, they kept track of what books were read, when and by whom Most were armed, too, however lightly. Libraries were dangerous places, even in Azyr.

  The Grand Library was one of the oldest structures in the great palace-city, and one of the few that continued to grow and expand with every passing century. The agents of the God-King scoured the Mortal Realms for esoteric knowledge, bringing all that they found back to Sigmaron. Somewhere below him, in the Halls of Illumination, twelve-thousand monks - not all of them human or even alive - worked tirelessly to record and transcribe this knowledge.

  The wisdom of nations long vanished, of generations past, of sages and seers without number, all gathered here, beneath a dome of glass and stone. All of it at the fingertips of any who wished to avail themselves of it. The thought made Balthas’ heart skip a beat. Once, in a life he could but dimly recall, he might have wasted his days stumbling from one shelf to the next, seeking what revelations might come. Seeking knowledge for its own sake was a vice he had often indulged in.

  But now, he had a greater purpose than his own aggrandisement. He had been remade, given form and function beyond that of mortal man. Made an engine of necessity, guided by the wisdom of a god. Balthas stared down at the book, willing it to surrender those secrets it so stubbornly held. He had defeated a thousand others just like it, and would defeat this one as well. There could be no other outcome.

  ‘Lord-arcanum.’ The voice was soft and thin with age. Balthas turned, irritated by the interruption. His annoyance evaporated when he saw who had addressed him. The priest was old, especially by the standards of mortals, and all but swallowed up in his blue robes and chains of office. His dark skin bore faded, celestial tattoos in the fashion of the Sword-Clans of the Caelum Desert, and his hands and cheeks still bore the scars of an earlier time.

  ‘Chief Librarian Aderphi,’ Balthas said, in polite greeting. He had known the old man since he had been anything but. Aderphi had come to the Grand Library as a novice, hands still stained with blood and his heart full of fire. Now, that fire had dimmed, and the blood had long since dried, but Balthas could still see the ghost of that young warrior in the bent figure before him.

  ‘I trust I am not disturbing you,’ the old man said. He took a seat opposite Balthas without waiting for a reply. He looked at the book. ‘Ah. The Guelphic Cipher. A stubborn opponent, I’m told.’

  ‘Fifty years,’ Balthas said, with some bitterness. ‘That’s how long I’ve been trying.’

  ‘I know. You were studying it the day I took up my post here, as a mere novice.’ Aderphi smiled. ‘Still not cracked it, then, my lord?’

  Balthas raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a jest?’

  ‘A small one, I assure you.’ Aderphi picked up the empty jug and shook it. ‘You are out of wine.’

  ‘I may have been sitting here for some time.’

  ‘Two days since you last asked for food and drink, according to the brothers. A long time to stare at dusty tom
es and texts.’

  Balthas frowned. That explained the slight ache in his back and shoulders. ‘I have done so for longer, in the past,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon, if my presence has disturbed you.’

  Aderphi smiled. ‘Only you could make an apology sound like an insult.’

  Balthas’ frown deepened. The old man made a habit of familiarity. As if his age exempted him from showing proper deference to his betters. ‘If I am not proving disruptive, why have you chosen to interrupt me, Chief Librarian?’

  Aderphi pointed. ‘You have a visitor.’

  Balthas blinked and turned. Another lord-arcanum, clad in the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, strode towards his table. Tyros Firemane raised his staff in greeting. ‘Fear not, Balthas, I come to rescue you from your self-imposed exile.’ His voice boomed out, startling the tiny starwyrms that nested in the high places of the library. The little, winged reptiles hissed and swooped over the shelves, scattering clouds of dust. Tyros paid them no heed, even when one flitted past his ear. The ferrule of his staff clanged against the stone floor, and Aderphi winced slightly with each reverberation.

  ‘Tyros,’ Balthas said simply, as he turned back to his studies.

  The Chief Librarian rose. ‘I will leave you to it, my lords.’ Balthas watched, somewhat bemused, as the old man hobbled off.

  A moment later, Tyros leaned over the table, balancing on his knuckles, the silver sigmarite digging into the wood. The heavy-set, red-bearded lord-arcanum grinned. He had a wide face and hawk-like nose, lending him a fierce air. ‘Still hunting, eh, Balthas? Caught anything yet?’

  ‘Nothing of import, I fear.’

  ‘Bit of a waste, then, wasn’t it?’

  Balthas sighed. ‘How I spend my free time is my business, brother.’

  ‘I merely question whether you’ve seen the sun, lately.’

  ‘I have light enough.’

  Tyros frowned and straightened. ‘Yes, well, I come to tear you away from your dusty friends. Your duties await. We are required at the Anvil of Apotheosis.’

  ‘Already?’ Balthas sighed. Among the many duties of a Sacrosanct Chamber was to oversee the reforging process, as those Stormcast Eternals slain in battle were wrought anew and made whole. The process was not without its dangers, and required warriors of a certain mettle to meet to them. Ones more attuned to the aetheric, with the ability to wield the raw power of the Heavens in Sigmar’s name.

  ‘It’s been a week, Balthas. Twelve chambers have stood their watch. Now twelve more must take their place - and that includes their lords-arcanum.’

  ‘A week?’ Balthas leaned back and stretched. ‘That would explain the gnawing sensation in my belly, I suppose.’ He had not bothered to eat before coming to the library. Knowledge sustained him - or if it didn’t, it should.

  Tyros snorted. ‘That’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just as well. I’m in no mood to eat.’ Balthas carefully stacked the tomes and stood. He pinched the flames of the candles out and retrieved his helmet and his staff. Tyros waited impatiently, thick arms folded over his chest.

  ‘How many times have I had to come and dig you out of this mausoleum?’ he growled. ‘A dozen? Two dozen? Why do you spend so much time here?’

  ‘As you said, I’m hunting. That is our duty, remember?’ Balthas gestured to the tomes. ‘I seek our prey in the forests of antiquity, following the ancient trails wherever they might lead.’ He spoke with more passion than he’d intended, but he could not help it. The answer he sought was somewhere in these records. He was certain of it.

  Somewhere within the Grand Library, within these tomes and scrolls, was the key to allaying the flaw that cursed all Stormcast Eternals. Death was not the end of a Stormcast’s service, and those who fell in battle could be reforged and returned to the fray. But not without cost. The reforged, with few exceptions, became both more and less than they had been. Sometimes what stepped off the Anvil of Apotheosis was more akin to a tempest cloaked in human flesh than a mortal warrior.

  These side effects of the reforging process were becoming steadily more pronounced as the war against the Ruinous Powers raged on. If victory - true victory - were to be achieved, a solution had to be found. Among the many duties of the Sacrosanct Chamber, the hunt for that solution was the most important.

  Tyros shook his head. ‘I doubt what we seek can be found in such records as these. The world-that-was is gone, brother, and all its secrets with it. We must look to the realms as they are, not as they once were.’ Tyros was an explorer by temperament. He preferred to spend his days hunting through broken ruins and shadowed barrows, rather than studying ancient texts and scrolls.

  Balthas frowned. ‘That’s ignorant, even for you, Tyros.’

  Tyros glanced at him, his gaze equanimous. ‘I know you forget how to talk to people when you spend all your time buried in books, so I’ll forgive your lack of tact this once, Balthas.’ He held up a fist. ‘But call me ignorant again, and I’ll bust that pretty nose of yours.’

  Balthas blinked. Then, he nodded with a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me, brother.’

  Tyros grunted. ‘I am technically your superior, you know.’

  ‘Technically. What is a few months’ difference in reforging?’

  ‘I’ll tell Knossus you said that. He’ll be relieved.’

  Balthas grunted sourly but didn’t reply. Tyros chuckled.

  Side by side, the two Stormcasts left the library. Sigmaron rose about them, a palace-city of ivory towers and golden aetherdomes, clustered on the cloud-wreathed upper slopes of Mount Celestian. It had grown over the course of millennia. Its ramparts and walkways now spilled across the thunder-shaken crags, connecting distant peaks - now given over almost entirely to forges and workshops - in an unbroken ring of sigmarite and celestine.

  Far above, the High Star, Sigendil, shone down, casting its eternal radiance across the city and mountain both. Sigendil never moved from its appointed place, a source of unwavering certainty for even the sternest soul. Bathed in its light, Sigmaron was like an island in the starlit emptiness of the celestial sea, a starburst of gold amid the black. And at its peak, Balthas knew, lay the silent ruins of Highheim, the parliament of the gods. That vast acropolis had been deserted for aeons, since the dissolution of Sigmar’s pantheon. It was forbidden to all but the most trusted of Sigmar’s councillors, and even then, visits were only permitted in the company of the God-King himself.

  Great storms vented their fury upon the highest of the aetherdomes; their strength was funnelled into the citadel’s forges, and the rains were siphoned into the many gardens and groves scattered throughout the palace-city. The celestine vaults of the citadel rang with the clamour of unceasing industry, and great masses of humanity strode to and fro along the colossal walkways and ramparts. The whole of Sigmaron seemed to resonate with activity.

  Balthas and Tyros made their way easily through the crowds. They were composed of servants, mostly, and so made way hurriedly for the Stormcast Eternals. Sigmaron was home to thousands of mortal attendants. Many worked in the vaults and gardens, while others were scribes or messengers, carrying armfuls of parchment. An honoured few were allowed to serve in the inner chambers of the palace, where Sigmar himself held court.

  Besides the servants, there were representatives from Azyrheim and the other great cities of Azyr, including Starhold and Skydock, and their retinues. Among them were captain-generals of the Freeguild, dressed in their ostentatious uniforms, and the merchant-princes of the far-flung realmports, come to seek Sigmar’s blessings for their financial ventures in the wider realms.

  These last travelled with much pomp and circumstance, accompanied by retainers and exotic bodyguards, including gold-bedecked fyreslayers, brutal ogors and, in one case, a hulking gargant, who plodded along sedately in his mistress’ wake.

  ‘The palace-city h
as become crowded, of late,’ Tyros remarked, as the great brute stomped past them He turned, watching the gargant. ‘Once, these walkways would have been empty of all save the chosen of Sigmar.’

  ‘Once, we feared the realms lost to us, and Azyr adrift and alone.’ Balthas strode along, heedless of the mortals scattering like quail before him ‘That Sigmaron boasts such life is a sign that we follow the correct course.’

  ‘Spoken with the confidence of an academic.’

  Balthas glanced at the other lord-arcanum. ‘I have fought my share of battles, brother. But I can see the wider tapestry before me. If you would but open your eyes, you might as well.’

  Tyros laughed. ‘Sometimes, brother, I fear you are so concerned with your tapestry that you miss the finer details.’ He lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender before Balthas could reply. ‘But who am I to gainsay you? We are both masters of the storm, by Sigmar’s grace.’

  ‘Yes, a fact I will never cease to question.’

  Tyros laughed uproariously, startling several nearby mortals. A moment later, Balthas joined him, if less boisterously. While the Hallowed Knights were, by and large, joyful souls, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were more restrained. But for all their differences of opinion, there were few souls Balthas trusted more than Tyros. He was a rock of faith and dogged in pursuit of his duties. Qualities Balthas could respect. Tyros caught him by the shoulder. ‘Come on, brother. Our chariot awaits. And the Sigmarabulum as well.’

  Balthas glanced up. Far above Sigmaron, to the south of Sigendil, the Sigmarabulum encircled the broken remains of Mallus, the world-that-was. A fabricated ring of soul-mills, forges and laboratories, it was also home to the Chamber of the Broken World, and the Anvil of Apotheosis. There were only a few routes between the world-ring and the palace-city. Most were glacially slow - even the swiftest aether-craft would take days to reach the Sigmarabulum. But the Thunder-Gates could take one from Sigmaron to the Sigmarabulum almost instantaneously.