Sigmar leaned forward. ‘Speak to me of this greater light.’
‘Golden,’ said Thostos with difficulty. ‘Not the energy of Chaos. Violent, but pure.’
Sigmar tensed, a man who had undone the final fetters on his passions. Vandus realised then that the wait for the war through the Long Calm had been harder on the God-King than it had been on any of the Stormcasts.
‘I remember it well,’ Sigmar said. ‘Lord Vandus!’
Vandus stepped up to Thostos’ side.
‘Prepare your warriors,’ commanded Sigmar. ‘That light is mine.’ He sank back into his throne and gripped the metal gryphons on the arms. ‘We have found Ghal Maraz.’
Sigmar swept his piercing gaze across the assembled officers. ‘This knowledge has been bought at great cost. Many of the Celestial Vindicators were slain and returned to the Reforging chambers, victims of evil magic.’ He looked to Thostos again. ‘Centuries ago, I was deceived into casting Ghal Maraz from me at the Battle of Burning Skies by Tzeentch. He has since conspired to hide its whereabouts from me, but long have I suspected that Ghal Maraz rested in the mountains of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.
‘I am sorry, Thostos, that I did not reveal to you my suspicions. I am certain you and your comrades wondered why I would send my most vengeful warriors to seek out old allies when their hammers thirsted for war, not words. I needed your fury there, in case the hammer was uncovered and needed to be snatched quickly. Here in Azyr my actions are secret, but out there in the realms they are not. I could not risk rumour of my intuition coming to the ears of the Changer of the Ways. Now you know.’
Thostos said nothing. Vandus looked sidelong at him.
Sigmar stood. ‘Warriors! Stormcasts! This is your quest! Go to Anvrok in Chamon and assail this fortress of which Thostos speaks. Destroy it and return what is rightfully mine to my hand! I had not dared hope Ghal Maraz could be recovered so early in our struggle. With it, we might begin our war in earnest!’
A rousing acclamation roared from the Stormcasts. ‘Sigmar! Ghal Maraz for Sigmar! Sigmar!’
‘Vandus and Thostos shall lead you,’ continued Sigmar, his godly voice cutting through the shouts of his men. ‘Hammers of Sigmar! Anvils of the Heldenhammer! Celestial Vindicators! Lions of Sigmar! Twelve Stormhosts shall I send. We shall crush the servants of Chaos within Anvrok. The hammer shall be ours. Nothing will prevent our victory!’
Chapter Two
Kairos Fateweaver
In a place outside of time, Kairos Fateweaver peered intently into the Flame that Consumes the Now, its strange lights reflected in his four eyes. Both his faces frowned.
‘This troubles me, this fixation on the present and not the past,’ said one head to the other.
‘Or the future. But needs must. I must bear the agony of the instant. Watch our petty friend, as he postures in front of his minions.’
In the fire, an image rippled of Ephryx, Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower. He stood atop the walls of his broken fortress, addressing a crowd of lords and knights: the nobility of Chamon.
‘So many schemes, so many ambitions,’ said the left head. ‘So many little heads to hold them in.’
‘None of those schemers can match Ephryx’s plans. They would tear him limb from limb if they knew what he intended. Their mistake is to think his ambitions are as limited as theirs. Their horizons are not broad enough.’
‘There! His scheme I say – I talk like him. It is my scheme.’
‘When I look into the past, I see his hand more in evidence than mine,’ rejoined the other head.
‘And when I look into the future, I see my victory and not his.’
‘Much must be done to make fate bend to my will. The sorcerer does not deserve another chance. He had nearly enough magic to complete the translocation, but frittered too much away to save his pointless mortal life.’
One shoulder shrugged. ‘It was Tzeentch’s plan.’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course, of course, but I must take an active hand,’ said the right head.
‘Ephryx is vulnerable,’ said the left.
‘His magic must be replenished.’
‘How to accomplish that?’
‘Time. The dearest coin of all. He must have more of it.’
Kairos leaned forward to the flames, keen to listen to what the doomed sorcerer had to say to his allies.
‘War has come to Chamon!’ shouted Ephryx. His voice echoed from walls of steel and copper, from bastions of brass and bronze. He had dressed himself in his finest occult robes and his horns gleamed with fresh lacquer. It was an effort to maintain his appearance of power – a necessary fiction.
A week ago, the Eldritch Fortress had been a gleaming example of Ephryx’s ingenuity. But his perfect kingdom, so long laboured over, was much damaged. A gaping hole had opened in the curtain wall, gouged out by the wild magic of Ephryx’s mutalith during its fatal fight with the turquoise storm warrior. Many of the skulls that had adorned every inch of the outside walls, transmuted to copper to store magic, had been burned away by lightning or smashed to pieces by hammer and sword. Too much of Ephryx’s hoarded power had been spent driving off Sigmar’s warriors.
There were several minor breaches elsewhere. None were quite so devastating as that in the wall of the huge, central tower. A long crack ran up from the base, showing the domed keep inside. This too had suffered damage, and the cairn of lead within had been shivered from its foundations. A wild glory shone out through the ragged gaps, brighter than the sickly sun. There was no more hiding for Ephryx’s artefact. Its painful light was plain for all to see.
Ephryx was sure that the hammer’s location was no longer secret. They would be coming for it, and soon. On the other side of the breach, Ephryx’s tall tower cast a thick black shadow, as precise as a sundial’s. It provided a measure of relief from the blazing light, and so there gathered all the might of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok. Lord Maerac of Manticorea had emptied his kingdom of dukes and barons. They sat sullenly upon their manticores, or lounged against their mounts’ flanks. Even Mutac the Silent had come down from the remote island. The sorcerer had once fancied himself a rival to Ephryx, until Ephryx had called upon Tzeentch to curse him for his impertinence. Mutac had gone about cowled ever since. Ephryx alone knew what lurked under Mutac’s hood in place of a face – nine fleshy towers, capped with nine eyes; an unsubtle reminder of who was the supreme mage of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.
That Mutac had come down suggested he thought Ephryx’s time was done. Ephryx looked out from his broken walls seeking allies, but instead saw two dozen scheming rivals that weighed and measured him as if he were a bullock ready for slaughter.
‘Friends,’ he began. ‘Allies!’ There were no such things under the gaze of the Great Changer, unless they were of convenience. Ephryx gave a silent prayer that the lords of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok would find him convenient for a little while longer. ‘We must defend ourselves!’
‘You mean we must defend you!’ shouted Baron Kergoth of Ungivar. Scattered laughter came from the nobles. A manticore growled and rolled upon its side. Scratch my belly or I shall eat you, the expression on its face suggested.
Ephryx licked his lips. There were a lot of Maerac’s men below. They all had manticores. In the Shattered City, ten thousand campfires burned. There, the bondsmen of Maerac’s followers waited. For a fleeting instant the sorcerer worried he may have miscalculated.
‘Defend this tower, and you defend your own kingdoms,’ said Ephryx.
‘Rubbish!’ shouted a minor count, far beneath Ephryx’s disdain and as thin as he was unimportant.
Maerac sneered. ‘Look at him. He has some scheme. I do not think he lies directly to us, although he will be lying about something. Tell us, Ephryx, the Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower, what have you hidden in this fortress? Why is it so imper
ative that we defend you, when we should look to our own in the face of this threat?’
Ephryx’s warped face split in an apologetic smile. He pressed his hands together. ‘The artefact is none other than Ghal Maraz! The hammer of Sigmar Heldenhammer himself.’
The nobles went quiet. They looked askance at one another. Now they appraised each other, and not Ephryx alone, each one evaluating his chances of seizing the weapon for himself.
That was more like it.
‘You had the Great Shatterer in your possession all this time, sorcerer, and you told no one?’
Ephryx shrugged. ‘The people who dwelt in this city before me raised a great monument over it. It was the talk of the realm. You did not know of it. Sigmar did not know of it. I knew of it. Why do you think this is, Maerac?’
Maerac scowled but held his tongue.
‘It is because the Great Changer desired me to have it, and removed it from the eyes and memories of other men,’ Ephryx said, smiling condescendingly. ‘Forgive me that I have not told you, but do you not see? Had this artefact fallen into the wrong hands then these valleys would have a different set of lords. I was entrusted with it. So you see, from me your power flows.’
Maerac stared hard at Ephryx. It was clear he felt Ephryx’s hands to be the wrong ones.
‘Protect me and you are doing not my will, but Great Lord Tzeentch’s will.’ Ephryx pointed a long finger upwards. ‘Tzeentch demands its safety.’
‘Why has he not claimed it for himself? He has had ample opportunity!’ shouted the Baron of the Floating Marches.
‘The Twisted God is untrustworthy. Perhaps he desires it to fall into Sigmar’s hand,’ yelled the Yellow Duke, a pompous little fat man with an over-fed mount. He fancied himself a wizard, and Ephryx loathed him. He did, however, have a point; second-guessing Tzeentch was impossible. Any plan was plausible.
‘Whatever our god’s plans, they are unknowable to us. We need to focus on certainties, my friends. If Sigmar’s hand closes about the haft of Ghal Maraz, then it will be used against all of you! Our land plays host to the Silverway, the duardin roadway between all realms. If he intends to storm each of the eight realms, the Silverway will be of great importance to him. How long do you think your fiefdoms will stand? The servants of the man-god must be halted before these walls, or your days of power are numbered.’
Murmurs of assent rippled over the gathering. Better still.
‘We tried for the Silverway last week and they cast us back. Even now they fortify it against us,’ said Kergoth.
‘There are more of them coming every day via the Bright Tor Gate. It is reopened and in their hands,’ said the Indigo Quester. ‘They rebuild the forts there, and have taken the road from the valley.’
‘Do you see? By your own words have you made prophecy!’ shouted Ephryx.
‘This fortress is breached and it will not stand long. I say we look to our own,’ said another. ‘This fool’s day is done.’
‘We will fight and die for nothing. Every day the numbers of the Stormcasts grow by the thousand. They do not attack, they prepare! How many will there be?’ said the Yellow Duke. He had a buttery, jeering voice.
Ephryx raised his hands to quell the rising debate. ‘Fear not, I have a plan. One that will save this fortress, and bring Tzeentch’s boon to us all!’
Furious shouting erupted, mostly in his favour.
If only they knew what I intend, thought Ephryx, and it was all he could do to stop himself from laughing.
Kairos waved the image away irritably. Ephryx’s plan had some merit, but that was chiefly because it was Kairos’ plan. The eyes of one head slid shut as he peered into the future. What he saw there made him shake his head.
‘What do I see?’ asked his past-seeing head, which had no faculty of foresight.
The other head whispered, its eyes still closed. ‘Ephryx will succeed in removing himself, but his persecutors will not rest. More time is needed. More time! The pursuit cannot be halted, but it can be delayed.’
‘I must be rid of Ephryx.’
‘I shall.’
‘Favours must be called in.’
‘I shall remind those that owe them of their debt,’ soothed the other head.
Kairos opened his eyes. The warpflame flickered. The image of Ephryx whirled away and became a view of a desolate fane.
‘My guest will be here soon,’ said the past-seeing head.
In the old temple, a glowing green blade slid through the air, as if cutting through the painted backdrop of a stage set. A pink hand curled around one lip of the cut and pulled it wider. A twitching, rodentine nose poked its way through. It snuffled at the air, then withdrew. ‘I saw him set out two days past. He will be here…’
‘…now,’ said the future-seeing head.
A ratlike figure, nearly man-high, wriggled through the slit in space. It scurried from wall to wall, pausing at the corner to sniff at the air. The creature was half flesh, half machine. One leg was steel prosthetic and one arm had been replaced by a flare-mouthed weapon of brass, but these crude embellishments did not appear to slow it. Satisfied it was alone, it reached within its jerkin and produced a set of chalks. With a quick, trembling hand it began to draw an arcane circle of surprising artfulness around the altar in the middle of the shrine. Kairos watched as the ratman calmed and became absorbed in its work.
‘This is no true champion of Chaos.’
‘No. An opportunist. A sneak thief. Like all skaven.’
‘Still, time is of the essence when one is buying time.’
‘It will have to suffice.’ The head looked to its counterpart. ‘Must I wait until his circle is complete?’
‘Why wait on convention?’ said the other head.
Kairos waved his hand. A column of vibrantly coloured fire erupted from the cracked altar at the centre of the ruined temple. A burst of multi-spectral light shone up from the circle in reply. The skaven was taken by surprise, and emitted an acrid stink. He jumped back, holding his claw up to his sensitive eyes.
‘You are looking for me, child of Chaos,’ said Kairos’ heads in unison. Through the vortex of warpflame, the Oracle of All loomed high over the creature.
‘Yes-yes!’ the skaven squeaked and shrank back before the apparition. ‘How you know?’
Kairos clattered his beaks. ‘I know everything. That is why you are here, is it not? To seek my knowledge. I am an oracle.’
‘I am the oracle,’ said the second head.
‘Always,’ complained the first head, ‘they are fools!’
The skaven cringed in on itself, but nodded. ‘Yes,’ it gasped. ‘Shreeglum, warlord of five clans, seeks the Great Oracle! And Shreeglum has found him, summoned him!’ The skaven grew bold, impressed by its own success. It held up its chalk and stared at it in wonder, then gobbled it down. It came a little closer, stood a little straighter. ‘I come with great treaty-gift! I see things no other sees! I go through the ways between the worlds, to the hall of the god-thing Sigmar.’ Shreeglum stroked at its whiskers, its long face calculating. ‘What you give me for the clever things I learn there?’
‘You come to tell us that Sigmar has found his hammer.’
‘How very dull,’ said the other head.
A look of consternation gripped Shreeglum. He stooped low, cautious and suspicious. Already he was backing away, preparing to flee.
‘How you know-guess?’ he said again.
‘The same question!’ said one head.
‘I refer you to the same answer,’ said the other.
‘Do not flee. I have use for you yet. All is not lost. You must do me a service, and you shall have what you want,’ said Kairos.
‘A very great service,’ said the other head.
The skaven stopped, his nose twitching. He crept forward tentatively, and looked up at the apparition wi
thin its column of fire.
‘Listen, then,’ said Kairos. ‘I bid you breach Chamon at Silverfall in Anvrok, and take battle to the Stormcast Eternals. Do you know where that is?’
‘Dead-ruined man town. Much silver. Hot-hot! Yes,’ the skaven nodded. ‘I know the secret ways.’
‘Good. The Stormcast Eternals must fall there. Is that clear?’ said the second head.
‘Yes-yes,’ said the skaven warlord. ‘I will do this task for you. And in return…’
‘Do not tell me,’ said Kairos wearily, ‘you wish to usurp your leader’s position.’ Always it was the same with the Horned Rat’s brood, scheming and plotting against each other. Tiresome.
The skaven warlord squealed gleefully. A dribble of warpfire squirted from his arm-cannon, hissing onto the ritual circle. ‘Yes-yes!’
‘Very well,’ said Kairos, gesturing theatrically. He was getting into the spirit of the occasion. ‘Kill the one called Hammerhand and the fates shall align as you wish.’
The skaven paused, nose bobbing up and down as if it would smell the veracity of what Kairos had said.
The daemon leaned forward.
‘You may go.’
‘Yes-yes!’ chittered the skaven, scampering into the darkness. ‘Biters! Drillfiends! Hurry! Follow the tell-smoke!’
The skaven ran out of the fane. Kairos extinguished the flame and nodded both his heads.
‘It will not be enough.’
‘I know.’
‘I shall call the rest of the Nine,’ said both heads together. ‘They will be needed.’
Kairos, the place he inhabited and everything within it winked out of existence, leaving an oily trail of magic that faded away into the formless void.
Chapter Three
Return to Chamon
Upon the narrow plain by the great Silver River of Anvrok stood the Bright Tor Gate, an ancient edifice open once more by Sigmar’s decree. A camp had sprung up. The ruins about the gate were thick with artisans from the Eternal City, working under the watchful protection of the Lord-Castellants and their warriors, whose keen eyes were ever searching for signs of attack.
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