Pain flared through him as he hit the floor, and he felt as if something in him had torn loose. But luckily, the barb had missed him and his soul remained his own. He heard the crackle of magics and saw the Collegiate Arcane representative fling ethereal lightning towards Kesh. She snarled and cracked the whip. The spell tore in two, and ragged motes of light danced across the air. Unhindered, the barbed tip caught the wizard in the chest and tore his soul screaming from him. The backlash of sundered magics howled through the chamber, overturning benches and smashing bodies against walls.
Bok lay still, eyes closed against the glare. When he opened them, the crowd was gone. Most had fled, but the rest had not managed to escape. And Kesh was nowhere in sight, though he could hear the clash of weapons somewhere out in the corridor. For a moment, he considered letting that be the end of it. He could slip out, with no one the wiser. But Neferata would know. And that thought was more frightening than any mystical soul-eater.
Wearily, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled out into the hall, after retrieving his pistol. Smoke filled the space. The fire had spread. The corridor was littered with bodies. Some had been trampled, others bore bloody wounds. The unseen alarm bells were still ringing, and he heard the thump of running feet somewhere above him. He staggered down the hall, clutching his side.
Kesh had carved herself a path to the street. The marks of the chain-whip were evident on the walls and floor, as well as on many of the bodies. When he reached the entry hall, he saw that the heavy door had been smashed off its hinges. There was no sign of the aelf. From outside, he could hear the rattle of steel and the stamp of feet.
He reached the door and stopped. Outside, the aelf, Shayl, and Kesh spun and fought with a speed that defied description. The aelf moved with all the quicksilver grace of her kind, but Kesh matched her speed, driven to inhuman extremes by the power of the Soul-Lash. Shayl’s blade deflected the chain-whip as it curled around her, sending the barb spinning away. Kesh parried the aelf’s counter-stroke with her remaining axe. The two women stamped and whirled back and forth along the edge of the canal. The ragged remnants of stolen souls clung to Kesh like a smoky shroud, and her laughter boomed out over the waters as she fought.
Bok leaned against the doorframe, wheezing. His side ached where the chain had crunched against his ribs. Kesh’s three surviving followers hadn’t noticed him yet, enraptured as they were by the duel. He extended his pistol. One shot left. He would need to make it count. Time stretched unbearably. Smoke from the fire billowed past him, filling the street.
Then, it happened – Shayl lunged, but Kesh smashed her blow aside throwing her off balance. The barb of the chain-whip hissed down, smashing her sword from her hand and throwing her to the ground. Kesh gave a shout and swung the Soul-Lash up, ready to add the aelf’s soul to her collection.
Bok fired.
Kesh stiffened. The side of her head was a red ruin. She turned, wobbling on her feet, her remaining eye fixed on Bok as her warriors turned. Kesh took an unsteady step towards him. The Soul-Lash snapped and twisted like an angry viper. Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She made as if to raise the chain-whip, but instead pitched forwards with a disgruntled sigh and lay still.
Bok swung his pistol towards the remaining cultists. ‘Stay back, or I’ll fire.’ The blood-cultists snarled as one and started towards him, axes raised. He tossed the empty pistol into the face of the closest, and drove a kick into the midsection of another. An axe bit the air dangerously close to his head, and he turned, punching its wielder. The haft of a weapon caught him in the side of the face and he staggered, the street spinning.
A second blow knocked him from his feet. He covered his head and rolled away. He heard a scream and glanced up. Shayl stood behind one of the cultists, her sword embedded in his back. She ripped it free and twisted, opening the jugular of a second. The third roared and leapt at her, axe raised. Bok snatched up a fallen axe and surged to his feet, catching the cultist in the abdomen. The man folded over with a gurgle and Bok released the axe, letting the dying man slump. Shayl looked at him, eyebrow raised. ‘I had him,’ she said.
Bok shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to the credit.’
She frowned and studied him. ‘You fight well. For a human. I am sorry we did not get to match blades earlier.’
‘I’m not,’ he said. She laughed.
‘No. It would have been a shame to kill you.’
Iron grated against the street. An ugly moan filled the air. Shayl turned, and past her, Bok saw Kesh struggling to her feet. Blood and brain matter dripped down the side of her face as her good eye fixed on them. Bok stared. ‘A bullet to the head usually does the trick.’
Before Shayl could reply, the barbed head of the Soul-Lash rose up over Kesh’s back like a scorpion’s stinger. The links clicked like laughter as the woman took a step towards them, and he realised suddenly that Kesh was no longer in charge.
Whatever fell power lurked within the weapon, it had obviously decided that it wasn’t finished with them yet. With an inhuman screech, Kesh jerked forwards, slashing at them with the chain-whip. Bok lurched aside and felt the air part before his face as the chain slashed down. Shayl attacked, driving her blade into Kesh’s side. The woman ignored the blow and shoved the aelf aside.
‘She’s already dead,’ Bok shouted.
‘Then how do we kill her?’ the aelf demanded, ducking beneath the arc of the chain-whip. She scrambled backwards.
Bok frowned, at a loss. Kesh laughed – there was nothing human in the sound. Broken spirits swirled about her, bound to the monstrous weapon. They moaned in what might have been pain, and the killing sigils hammered into the iron bars of the chain flared with unnatural heat. Kesh’s wrist bulged oddly as she slashed the Soul-Lash out again, carving divots from the street.
‘Her hand,’ Bok snarled. Shayl looked at him, eyes narrowed. Bok flung his arm to the side. A twist of the wrist and the weight of his concealed blade slid into his waiting hand. A moment later, the blade was flying through the air. It sank into Kesh’s remaining eye with a wet, hollow sound. She staggered, blind. ‘Now,’ he cried.
Thankfully, the aelf was quick on the uptake. Her blade chopped through Kesh’s wrist. The Soul-Lash, and Kesh’s hand, clattered to the ground with a petulant rasp of iron links. As soon as the weapon hit the ground, Kesh toppled backwards with a sigh.
Bok released a shaky breath. He approached the body carefully. But she seemed to have surrendered to the inevitable at last. He pried his blade free and wiped it clean on her ragged furs, before tearing them from her body. He nudged the chain-whip into the furs with his foot and wrapped it up. He could hear its links rasping in frustration.
‘What an awful thing you are,’ he said, as he tied the edges of the furs together. ‘The Queen of Mysteries is welcome to you, and good riddance.’
‘Is she dead?’ the aelf asked, as he lifted the bundle and slung it over his shoulder. She held a hand pressed to her gashed arm, but was otherwise unharmed.
‘For the moment.’ He looked up. The Magpie’s Nest was completely aflame now. It had burned before, and he had no doubt it would be rebuilt, in time. He looked at Shayl. ‘You appear to be out of a job.’
She shrugged. ‘It was boring.’
Bok hesitated. Then, he smiled.
‘Have you ever considered a career in the book trade?’
PANTHEON
Guy Haley
There was a lantern in the skies over Azyr – shining Sigendil, the High Star of Azyr, beacon of Sigmaron. Surrounding its body was a mechanism of great art, a thing of sliding spheres pierced with fretwork. With the shifting of the immense clockwork Sigendil twinkled, and shone the brightest of all the stars in the heavens of the Celestial Realm.
The inhabitants of Azyr loved it well. Sailors charted safe courses across stormy seas by its light. Mothers hushed crying children and pointed, say
ing, ‘There is the holy light of our God-King, see how he watches over you as you sleep.’ Merchants swore oaths by it and laws were ratified by its light, so constant it was, for Sigendil never moved from its appointed place in the sky as other stars did. In an age of awful wonder, the matchless light of Sigendil was a source of certainty.
But though it was itself invarying, Sigendil had witnessed change, even in Azyr.
Far to the north towered Mount Celestian, Azyr’s greatest peak. Only once in history had the mountain been assailed, when Sigmar’s great hammer Ghal Maraz smashed its peak away, leaving a lofty plateau dominated by a lake of shining blue. Upon its shores he built a city whose scale and glory outshone even Azyrheim, for it was made to be the abode of gods, not mortals. The divine survivors of the World-That-Was gathered under Sigmar’s banner on Celestian, to rule the Eight Mortal Realms.
There was a castle of bones so huge one would think them carved fancily, though any who touched them would find them dry and osseous. Another dwelling was a wooden stockade, much splintered and strewn about with more bones, these gnawed upon. To the east were twin, squat fortresses, one of iron and one of frozen fire. To the west was a trio of slender towers whose forms, though similar, reflected the differing temperaments of their builders. In a vale of scented woods where the waters of Lake Celestian tumbled to the lands below, grew an oak of inconceivable size.
At the centre of the city, temples gathered upon a vast silver acropolis. From their midst a tower of blue light pierced Azyr’s busy skies. Atop it was situated the Court of the Gods, a colonnaded space from whose vantage all the Mortal Realms could be seen. Thrones fit for titans ringed it – bone for Nagash, white marble for Tyrion, silver for Teclis, dark stone for Malerion, fire-hued amber for Grimnir and rustless steel for his brother, Grungni. Alarielle’s was of pale heartwood rooted in the stone, while Sigmar’s own gleamed golden. The thrones looked inward to the legendary Mirror of Bayla, a gleaming sheet of silver four yards across.
Together, mountain, city and court were known as the Highheim, the parliament of the gods in more peaceful ages.
No longer. The court had stood deserted for aeons.
The Ages of Myth had passed thousands of years ago. Mortals had forgotten the Highheim. Silence lay upon the city as thickly as the spent stardust that drifted in its thoroughfares.
That day, life returned awhile. A lone figure trod the court. Noble of aspect and mightier than the greatest mortal, he was dwarfed by the buildings, and so his own stature was uncertain. He looked like the man he had been, ages gone in a different world. But god he was – Sigmar, the architect and lord of the city, and uniter of the gods.
Sigmar stood between the columns. Overhead the spectacular heavens of Azyr turned; to the south blazed matchless Sigendil, almost but not quite obscuring the husk of the World-That-Was behind it. Scented wind teased out Sigmar’s long golden hair and stirred his cloak.
He waited impatiently. Though a god, he had a man’s humours still. His patience had been exhausted by the long vigil of the Age of Chaos. Now his war was in motion, Sigmar had ceased to plan. He wanted to act.
Yet he must wait.
Night did its complex dance, the wheeling stars a backcloth to the motions of zodiacal beasts and divine mechanisms that sailed the lower heavens. Dawn arrived to find Sigmar deep in thought, head bent over the Mirror of Bayla. Would she come? He did not truly know. Their friendship had passed with the elder days.
The first rays of the sun struck the white pediment of the colonnade, washing marble orange. Sigmar’s head rose. Sensing magic, he stood.
A glow took hold around the throne of Alarielle. The ancient wood creaked and groaned. It emitted a screeching crack, so that Sigmar thought it might explode, but it shuddered, and from its tall back fresh shoots sprouted, growing unnaturally fast, leaves budding from them as they unfurled and reached skyward. The throne’s roots flexed, cracking the paving, the slow might of trees quickened by divine power.
There was a wink of light, then another, and another still, until a cloud of golden motes danced around like fireflies. The swarm thickened and coalesced, becoming the form of a tall, proud woman. The scent of rising sap and luxuriant flowers wafted over the God-King. The lights solidified, until the features of Alarielle could be clearly discerned. Light faded. The throne put out a crown of fragrant blossom, framing the goddess’ broad wings of leaf and wood in white flowers.
Alarielle wore a crescent helm-crown, and carried a sinuous glaive. Her pale green skin was like that of a beautiful mortal’s, save her right hand, which was of strong, clawed branches.
Sigmar broke into a smile. ‘Alarielle, the Lady of Life. You came.’
Alarielle walked towards him, the motes of magic that made her image breaking apart a little as she moved. Her presence made the mirror shine. ‘I can spare you this projection, Sigmar of the tribes of men, for a short while. Speak and tell me why you called me back to this place.’
‘I thank you for coming. I appreciate the effort you have put forth.’
‘You do right in thanking me.’ Where she trod, delicate flowers sprang from the cracks in the paving. ‘The days when you might summon me are no more, prince.’ Her pupilless green eyes flashed in challenge.
Sigmar bowed. ‘I would not dream of summoning you. I invited, you responded. It is so good to see you again.’
A small smile curved Alarielle’s lips. ‘So the mighty Sigmar has learned humility. I had thought to find you more arrogant than ever. Your armies march across all the Mortal Realms. To unleash war on the four lords of Chaos alone is not the act of a humble man. Your rashness almost ended me, you realise.’
‘For that, my lady, you have my eternal apologies.’
She walked past him, trailing the smell of growth and new life, and looked out over the Highheim’s deserted ways. ‘No matter. Your actions, though impetuous, led to my rebirth and reinvigoration. You reawakened me. I spent too long brooding on defeat. If you had not caused my death, I would have been destroyed.’ She swept her gaze across the empty city. ‘So much beauty here, but it is sterile, bereft of life and purpose. It saddens me,’ she said. She looked at him. ‘I believed in your vision once, but it failed. If you have come to ask me to rejoin you here, to reform the pantheon of old, I will not.’
‘I did not ask you here to reform our old Order,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day, but not now.’
‘Perhaps then I will be interested, when a new season comes upon me,’ she shrugged. ‘Perhaps not.’ She sighed, the air she exhaled dancing with colourful insects. ‘If you ask for alliance, you already have it. My warriors fight alongside yours. Any reluctance the wargroves felt towards your warriors of lightning is fading. War is joined on all fronts.’
‘I thank you for that also,’ he said, ‘and my Stormcast Eternals will aid the people of the forests wherever they may be found. But asking for alliance is also not my intent.’
‘Then what do you want from me?’ she asked, curious.
‘Something more subtle than blades,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’ He reached to take her hand. His fingers passed through the glowing lights making up her form, but she followed when he walked to the flat silver of the Mirror of Bayla.
‘The gift of the Mage Bayla to the pantheon of old,’ he said.
‘I remember,’ she said. ‘Its use allows the viewer to see whither he will, be it in any realm.’
‘That is so,’ he said. He passed a hand over the metal. ‘It is into the past that we shall look, into another time and place. We will witness the quest of Sanasay Bayla himself.’
‘Are we to see the forging of this artefact?’ she asked.
Sigmar smiled. ‘We shall look back further than that, to the time he was a sage and a seeker in Andamar, at the far edges of Ghyran.’
‘A seeker after what?’ asked Alarielle. Her concern was rarely with thinking creatures o
f flesh. Her domain was of plants and growing things, and the wild spaces of the worlds. She knew little more of Bayla than she did of other short-lived fleshlings.
The mirror filled with swirling cloud. Lights flashed in the vapour, steadying until an image could be seen: a handsome man with walnut-brown skin and a ready smile. Intelligence flashed in his eyes, and a hunger.
‘He sought what all mortals seek,’ Sigmar said. ‘Knowledge.’
The image clarified, and the two gods looked back far into the past, to a time before the coming of Chaos.
There came a day when the Mage Sanasay Bayla had learned all he could from the great minds of his era. After long study he was acclaimed as the finest thinker of his generation, and the most powerful wizard in all of Ghyran. His family rejoiced in his achievements, but for him it was not enough. Sanasay Bayla lacked purpose, and it troubled him.
He lay in bed, staring through the glassless windows at dancing green auroras over the south. In Andamar, Ghyran’s life ran even into the sky.
Bayla exhaled loudly, waking his wife.
‘What are you sighing about there, Sanasay?’ she said sleepily.
‘I do not mean to wake you,’ he said.
‘You did.’ She smiled and rested her hand on his chest. ‘What troubles you, my love?’
He was silent, and so his wife poked him.
‘You lay hands on the greatest mage in Andamar, if not all of Ghyran?’ he asked in mock outrage.
She laughed, a sound that meant the most to him in all the world. ‘Tell me. If the greatest mage in Andamar, if not all of Ghyran, cannot confide in his wife, then he is a poor man, though a great wizard.’
Bayla frowned and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘I have unlocked many of the mysteries of the world,’ he said. ‘I have mastered five of the eight schools of pure magic. I understand the rest well enough, and know sufficient of the darker arts to leave them alone. Every question I ask, I find the answer to. I am bored, my wife. I must set myself a challenge that will test me. I need a purpose. I need to know why I do what I do, and to what end I should put my great knowledge.’
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