Soul Wars Read online

  Miska and the other mage-sacristans began to sing. Their voices split, overlapped and wound back, each singer a choir unto themselves. The chamber resonated with the song of the spheres, and the desperate thrashing of the soul calmed. There was a crash of twelve thunders, and something dark formed upon the altar. The soul contracted as motes grew within it, spreading outwards, like oil on water.

  Balthas watched as a new body was formed from a seed of starlight and lightning. A web of newborn veins and nerve endings sprouted within the coruscating shell of energy, spreading outwards through the man-shape. Pieces of bone blossomed, spread and lengthened, as vestigial organs swelled to maturity.

  Through it all, the mage-sacristans sang the song of creation, their voices serving to shape the being before them. The soul began to writhe as it was clothed once more in flesh, and the pain of rebirth became more visceral - blood suddenly pumped through darkening arteries, as coils of intestine grew and slabs of muscle and fat sheathed bone.

  As newly grown lungs inflated for the first time, a scream of rebirth burst from the mouth of the reforged warrior. For a moment, he stood upon the altar, wreathed in smoke. Then, as the echoes of his scream faded, he toppled. Celestors raced forwards, to drag the insensate warrior away. Even as they hauled him clear, the air above the altar was crackling anew. Another soul, another splash of half-formed images forming and burning away, as Balthas watched. Some of those memories would be lost forever.

  To be reforged upon the Anvil was as traumatic an experience as it was transcendent. As the soul was broken down and rebuilt, it could lose part of itself in the process. Sometimes this loss was but a small thing - a memory, a name - other times, it was more drastic a sacrifice. Warriors came back… changed. Still loyal, still powerful, but lacking something.

  But even that was not the worst that could happen. Balthas’ grip on his staff tightened, and he closed his eyes, hearing again the screams of those souls that had succumbed to the elemental fury of the Anvil. Some souls inevitably resisted the process to the point that they, perhaps mercifully, simply ceased to exist. They rejoined the Great Tempest, where hopefully they might find some measure of peace. But others were too strong to die quietly. They were the reason the lords-arcanum stood on watch, high above the Anvil.

  ‘I am the blade at my brother’s neck,’ Balthas said softly, as he watched memories turn to ash. Why would anyone resist rebirth, on behalf of such brief flickers of recollection? It seemed as strange to him now as it had the first time he had witnessed a reforging. He saw the brief flicker of the warrior’s final moments. Something pale, without form or feature, reached out of the dark. Something dead. Another soul, bound in a shroud of purple, cast upwards from-

  ‘Shyish.’

  Balthas stiffened as, behind him, a familiar voice spoke. Slowly, he turned. As he did so, he saw that Tyros and the others were kneeling. He felt a pang of annoyance, as he realised he had been so engrossed that he had failed to notice the newcomer’s arrival. An inexcusable lapse, in one trained to notice the smallest flaw in the aether.

  ‘My lord Sigmar,’ Balthas said, as he sank to one knee, head bowed. ‘My apologies. I was lost in contemplation.’

  ‘Do not apologise, Balthas. There are worse mazes to be lost in.’ Sigmar’s voice was like the crash of the morning tide against the shore. It echoed through the hollow spaces and made Balthas’ very marrow grow warm

  The God-King stood before him, arrayed in golden war-plate. The air twisted about him, as if the realm were not quite able to bear his weight. He stood half a head higher than the tallest of his warriors, and there was an elemental strength to him - as if he were the raw fury of the storm, given solid form. But his presence was not merely physical. Sigmar’s immensity stretched beyond the boundaries of the corporeal, into spheres beyond the sight of mortal men. He was the cold gaze of the moon and the warm laugh of the sun. He was the sound of clashing steel, of avalanches and howling winds.

  To one possessing storm-sight, Sigmar appeared as a shard of the firmament itself. A being of pure starlight, impossible to look at for long. The God-King was Azyr, given mind and voice. In his merest gesture was the movement of worlds, and in his gaze, the flare of falling stars. Balthas blinked, trying to ignore what lay behind the mask of broad, too-human features. The face of a man aeons dead, out of whom a god had emerged.

  ‘Rise, lords-arcanum. If you are not worthy of standing in my presence, then none who serve me are.’

  Sigmar gestured, and Balthas and the others stood, some more slowly than others. It seemed wrong somehow, not to kneel before the one who had made them. But the God-King had little patience for such niceties.

  ‘We did not expect to see you here, my lord,’ Knossus said. ‘You honour us.’

  ‘Do I? Some might disagree. What about you?’ Sigmar looked down at Balthas, and he found himself at a loss for words. ‘Do I honour you?’

  Unable to speak, Balthas bowed his head. Sigmar laughed softly. ‘If I do, I suspect it is not enough. You hunger for things other than my appreciation. As it should be.’ He waved a hand. ‘Return to your contemplations, please. I would speak with Balthas.’

  ‘Me, my lord?’

  ‘Your name is Balthas, correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then yes.’ Sigmar smiled. He pointed. ‘Tell me what you see, Balthas. Not just with your eyes, but everything.’

  ‘I…’ Balthas hesitated. ‘I see death. The stain of Shyish is upon their souls.’

  ‘Yes. The servants of Nagash wage war upon our territories - Glymmsforge, Gravewild, even the Oasis of Gazul. The dead hurl themselves at our ramparts, seeking to drive us from their ancient demesnes.’

  ‘Madness,’ Balthas said.

  ‘Is it?’ Sigmar looked down at him ‘One could argue that we are interlopers, with no more claim to those territories than any other invader.’

  ‘Nagash ceded those lands to us himself.’

  ‘Under duress. And now he wants them back. Such is the prerogative of a god.’ Sigmar held out a hand, and the light contracted about it, turning cobalt. ‘It is in our nature to be changeable. We are not omniscient. We are but manifestations of the realms, a part of them, given voice and thought. Some of us are stronger than others. Some more in tune with the raw stuff of creation that flows through the realms we claim for our own. Nagash has ever desired to be more than what he is. To be more than a manifestation of Death, to be Death itself. A universal force, mightier even than the entropy of the Ruinous Powers.’

  ‘He is a monster.’

  ‘Now? Yes. Once. perhaps. Perhaps even then, he was mad. But I do not think so. I cannot think so. For if there was never anything else in him, then my sin in freeing him was worse than any other I have committed.’

  Balthas stared at him It was unnerving to hear a god speak of such things. To admit failure, as if he were no more certain of events than those who served him. He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but the way you speak of him.’

  Sigmar nodded. ‘Once, we were friends. If we can be said to have friends. We fought side by side against ancient horrors undreamt of even in the nightmare realms of the Ruinous Powers. The King of Broken Constellations and the Devouring Light. The Abyssal Dukes and Symr, the First Fire. They and a thousand others came against us, in those first dim days before the Mortal Realms settled into firm shape. And we fought them all, Nagash and I.’

  Sigmar smiled sadly, and for a moment, Balthas almost forgot that the being before him was a god. Instead, he seemed merely a man, tired and alone. Then the moment passed, and the God-King was himself again.

  ‘Others came later. Alarielle and Tyrion. Gorkamorka and Malerion. The brothers, Grimnir and Grungni. Aye, and many smaller gods as well. Little gods and powers, like the Six Smiths, whose names have been forgotten by all save myself, seeking to join our pantheon. But always, there was Nagash. My brother.
’

  ‘He betrayed you,’ Balthas said softly.

  ‘You do not have to remind me, Balthas. I was there. As was he. And whatever the truth of that moment, only we can say, and yet neither of us knows.’ Sigmar looked down at him, and Balthas felt the heat of his power. Not just the storm, but the stars and the sun. Sigmar’s gaze encompassed things vast and inconceivable.

  Balthas looked away, unable to bear it. Sigmar set a hand on his shoulder. ‘They say you spend too much time studying what was.’

  ‘Who says? Miska? Tyros? Knossus?’ Even as the words left his mouth, he felt ashamed. ‘Perhaps they are right. But I cannot shake this shadow that clings to me, my lord. I feel as if there is some piece of knowledge, just out of reach. If I could but grasp it, I might…’ He trailed off. Sigmar’s grip on his shoulder tightened.

  ‘You might be made whole.’

  Balthas looked up. ‘Yes.’

  Sigmar nodded, not looking at him. Instead, he watched the reforging, his expression unreadable. ‘A good thought, Balthas,’ the God-King said, after a moment. ‘Hold fast to it, whatever others say.’ He looked down at Balthas. ‘I need you to hunt this prey for me, my lord-arcanum. Such is why I drew your soul - and the souls of your brothers and sisters - up from lightless depths and clad you in raiment of star-iron.’

  Before Balthas could reply, shouts from below drew his attention. ‘Something has gone wrong,’ he said, gripped by a sudden unease.

  Sigmar frowned. ‘A soul is not listening to the song. He is-’

  Down below, a soul erupted from the Anvil, lashing out with tendrils of crackling lightning and bellowing in agony. Its human form, unfinished, slipped away as something new took its place: a thing of all shapes and no shapes - a living bolt of lightning, driven mad by the agony of its own existence.

  A mage-sacristan was swept from his feet by a wild blow. The armoured warrior crashed down several yards away in a broken, smouldering heap. The lightning-gheist hauled itself off the dais, growing and shedding flaring limbs as it rampaged towards the other aether-mages. Helios and the other Celestors darted towards it, seeking to corral the rogue soul. It shrieked and lunged to meet them

  Balthas caught the edge of the platform’s balcony and made to swing himself over, but Sigmar’s voice stopped him. He glanced back at the God-King and saw Sigmar clutching at his head, as if it pained him. ‘Lord Sigmar-?’ Balthas began.

  Sigmar screamed.

  Thunder rumbled, shaking Balthas to his bones. He heard glass break and stone grind against itself. The chamber - no, the entire tower - was shaking. Cracks speared upwards along the walls. The Anvil blazed up, brighter than before, not with a holy light but something darker. An amethyst radiance that shone forth, drawing long shadows and causing those Stormcasts it touched to spasm and fall. The lightning-gheist swept aside those that dared to confront it, seeming to grow larger as the tower’s shaking grew worse.

  The observation platform shuddered, and lords-arcanum were knocked sprawling. He heard Tyros shouting curses as a pillar twisted on its base and toppled to the floor, shattering into hundreds of jagged chunks. The platform bent and swayed. Balthas, already off balance, had no choice but to move with it. He dropped from the shuddering platform and landed heavily, cracking the marble floor beneath his feet. He rose, staff in hand.

  He glanced back and saw Sigmar standing atop the buckling platform, lightning cascading from him. The God-King was still gripping his head, and his voice echoed out, wordless and furious - a solid pall of frustration, perhaps even pain, that washed through the chamber and across every soul in it. Nearby Stormcasts staggered, holding their own heads or crying out in shock. Balthas could feel the God-King’s pain as keenly as if it were his own, but he forced himself to turn away.

  All was confusion. The ground bucked and ruptured as the marble floor split. Pillars collapsed, and jagged cracks ran along every wall. Through the dust and smoke, he could see several mage-sacristans, including Miska, struggling against the amethyst energies blazing from the Anvil. They had it contained for the moment. He heard the crackle of lightning and the crash of steel, but could see nothing for the smoke. Voices shouted battle-prayers or called out for aid close to hand.

  He stepped back, just as the body of a Celestor tumbled past him Balthas knelt by the unconscious warrior. The swordsman’s armour had been scorched free of all heraldry, and he was barely breathing. He murmured a healing incantation, soothing the warrior’s hurts as best he could while he scanned the smoke. He could hear the crackle-scrape of something moving, just beyond the limits of his vision.

  Abruptly, the lightning-gheist reared up over him, tearing through a shroud of smoke and dust. It shrilled, its cry that of a man stretched to the limits of audibility. Something that might have been a face wavered within it, distorted features twisted in an expression of unending pain. It had grown, and its agony swelled unchecked.

  Balthas gritted his teeth and flung up a hand as a crackling tendril swept down towards him. The aether solidified at his gesture, forming a shield of celestial energy between himself, the unconscious Celestor and the lightning-gheist. It battered at the shield, every blow echoing like thunder. It snarled and gibbered, spitting out pieces of half-forgotten conversations as it attacked.

  He pushed aside all thought of what was going on around him He had his duty, and he was the only one standing between the rampaging entity and freedom. He took a step forwards, using the shield to push the creature back, away from the fallen Celestor. If he could contain it atop the anvil once more, they might stand a chance of salvaging the soul it had been - and if not, it would be easier to destroy it there. The creature resisted, fighting him every step of the way. It was growing stronger with every passing moment.

  He forced it back, matching it lightning for lightning. But as he stepped into reach of the amethyst radiance, he felt his connection to the aether dim Just for an instant, but it was enough. The lightning-gheist lunged, squalling. Crackling fists, larger than a mortal man, slammed down on him, and through him

  He bellowed in agony, every muscle contracting as the lightning inundated his armour. His staff fell from his hand, and he staggered. The creature’s connection to the aether had enabled it to breach the mystic wards that adorned his war-plate. Almost blind, Balthas clawed at it, seeking the nexus of its consciousness.

  When he found it, it was like plunging his hands into a freezing river. Images, memories, hopes, dreams buffeted his consciousness. All the pieces of the person the creature had been. He saw a sea of tombs, sealed with silver chains, and heard the purring of cats. He tasted the sweetness of an apple and saw the face of a child - a girl. The face rose to the surface of the maelstrom, and the lightning-gheist wailed desolately. A moment later, the image sprang apart, like a leaf caught in a fire. A torrent of raw emotion threatened to engulf him: shame, anger, fear, sadness.

  Balthas weathered the storm, enduring the confusing sensations. They weren’t what he sought - he wanted the thing’s name. Names were the key to identity. With a name, he could draw the warrior from the monster, if there was anything left of them. Despite the pain, the crash of disordered memories, he groped for the silvery thread of the warrior’s self. When he caught it at last, the lightning-gheist twisted, screaming.

  ‘Thaum,’ Balthas roared. ‘I name thee Phams Thaum, lord-castellant of the Gravewalkers. I name thee Anvil of the Heldenhammer and loyal son of Azyr. I name thee and I bid thee cease, in the name of he who forged us!’

  At the sound of its name, the creature smashed him from his feet and sent him tumbling backwards. He rolled across the floor, trailing smoke. The lightning-gheist surged after him, wailing. Its moans were like a storm-wind, racing across an unsettled sea. It struck him again and again, preventing him from mustering any sort of defence.

  He could hear the shouts of the others and feel the floor shuddering. Whatever cataclysm gripped the Si
gmarabulum, it hadn’t ended. A pillar cracked, and he only just managed to hurl himself aside. It fell, striking the lightning-gheist, momentarily splitting the creature in two. It reformed itself and shattered the fallen pillar, casting fragments in all directions. Several slammed into Balthas, knocking him sprawling even as he got to his feet. He rolled over, unable to catch his breath, head spinning. He looked up as the creature loomed over him, multifarious limbs crackling and snapping.

  Suddenly, Tyros stepped between Balthas and the snarls of lightning, raising his staff to block it. The lightning crashed against Tyros, and clawed at his war-plate, leaving black scars on the silver. ‘Up, Balthas! There’s work to be done.’

  ‘Where did you come from?’ Balthas said, clambering to his feet. ‘Where is Sigmar? Is the God-King injured?’

  Before the other lord-arcanum could reply, the lighting-gheist attacked again. Tyros grunted as the force of its blow knocked him to one knee. As he sank down, Balthas stepped forwards. ‘Leave him, Thaum - look here!’ He spread his hands, drawing the aether into a coruscating orb between his palms. The lightning-gheist swatted Tyros aside, sending him skidding across the floor, as it reached for Balthas. Its human features surfaced again, mouth open in a scream, eyes wide, glaring at something only it could see.

  Balthas thrust his palms forwards, unleashing the power he’d drawn from the aether. The explosion knocked him backwards, but it hurled the creature back as well. It crashed away into the smoke, still screaming. Balthas scrambled to Tyros’ side. As he did so, he heard a resounding groan echo down from above.

  He looked up and saw that the cracks had reached the roof. Great chunks of masonry were tearing loose, as the roof shifted and the walls bent. It felt as if the whole tower were coming loose from its foundations. The glass dome shattered and thousands of glittering shards rained down, joining the falling stones.

  There was no time to run. Balthas raised his hands, trying to draw the aether to him, to shield them both. Strong as their war-plate was, the bodies within could still be pulped. But the celestial winds resisted his call, barely twisting into momentary knots above him before dispersing. It was as if the heavens were in an uproar. The spell fragmented, uncast, even as the first chunks of stone plummeted towards them