Soul Wars

Chapter five Necroquake

In the Shadeglens of Hammerhal-Ghyra, dead shapes lurched through the gloom. They were packed so close together that they seemed almost a solid wave of shadow, rolling through the trees that marked the ancient burial gardens. A slash of silver parted the wave and cast back broken bodies. ‘Push them back,’ Aetius Shieldborn roared. ‘Lock shields and advance.’ The Liberator-Prime of the Steel Souls Chamber smashed a root-infested corpse from its feet and stamped on its skull, ending its struggles.

As one, the silver-clad Hallowed Knights to either side of him brought the rims of their shields together, forming an impenetrable bulwark against the frenzied corpses stumbling towards them. The dead were stymied, for the moment.

He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, the remaining caretakers of the Shadeglens huddled, shocked and fearful. The mortals were clad in robes of green, and where their flesh was visible, it bore the knotwork tattoos of those who had pledged their spirit to the Everqueen, Alarielle. He frowned and signalled a nearby Liberator with a twitch of his hammer. ‘Serena, take Mehkius and three others – get the mortals out from underfoot. Reform a second wall, ten paces to our rear.’

‘Aye, my lord.’ Serena stepped back smoothly. The warriors to either side of her slammed their shields together, closing the gap instantly. She called out to Mehkius and the others, who repeated the manoeuvre with drilled precision.

As they escorted the mortals through the ivy-shrouded marble columns that denoted the northern entrance to the Shadeglens, Aetius turned back to the enemy. ‘Who will hold until the last dawn breaks?’ he cried.

‘Only the faithful!’ his warriors roared out in unison.

Aetius nodded in satisfaction. He could taste something sour on the wind – something that originated from further away than the deadwalkers scrabbling at the embossed face of his shield. Strange undulations of amethyst light made the night sky ripple in abominable ways. Hammerhal-Ghyra shook to its foundations, gripped by some unknown cataclysm. The echoes of collapsing stones and the screams of uprooted trees choked the air.

And the dead – the dead were everywhere. They clawed out of the blessed soil of the Shadeglens, or pounded on the walls of the crypts and mausoleums of the Azyrite necropoli of the southern districts. Shrieking ghosts crawled across the sky, and worse things stalked the deep shadows. It was as if the rule of life had been overturned and all the underworlds emptied. Aetius cursed as a deadwalker sought to tangle itself about his legs. He brought the edge of his shield down, separating its head from its neck.

‘Advance,’ he bellowed, as he kicked the head aside. The Liberators took a single step forwards, shields still locked. The line of deadwalkers staggered. Before they could recover, or those behind could press closer, Aetius struck the inside of his shield with his war­hammer. The bell-like peal sang out over the line. ‘Again,’ he roared. His warriors took another step, and another, as steady as a millstone.

Deadwalkers fell, crushed beneath the Hallowed Knights’ tread. But for every one that was pulped, three more surged forwards, silent and hungry. Aetius slammed his hammer against his shield again, and to his ears the ringing was unpleasantly akin to a funerary bell. He glanced upwards and felt a chill race through him as he saw the stars writhe and blink out, one by one.

As if Azyr itself were swallowed by the dark. He shook the thought aside. ‘Hold the line, brothers and sisters – hold, until this cursed night ends and day comes again!’

In the Chamber of the Broken World, Balthas climbed to the semi­circular observation platform, where his fellow lords-arcanum waited. Some, like Tyros, he had known for centuries. Others, like Knossus Heavensen, were newforged, with less than a century to their name. Heavensen, clad in the golden war-plate of the ­Hammers of Sigmar, greeted Balthas with a terse nod. Balthas returned the gesture and turned away to watch the proceedings below.

Tyros laughed, witnessing the exchange. ‘Still sore, then, I see.’

‘I have no idea as to what you’re talking about.’

‘I wondered why you’ve been burying yourself in the library more frequently. They say Heavensen is close to finding that which we all seek.’

‘Good. The sooner it is found, the sooner a cure might be devised.’

‘And all glory once more to our brothers in gold, the stars of our lord’s eye. Vandus, Ionus, Blacktalon and soon Knossus – names of legend.’ Tyros’ tone was teasing.

‘Much like Gardus or Tornus,’ Balthas replied, more sharply than he’d intended. ‘All of whom we have seen broken down and reassembled on that Anvil.’ He pointed down, to where the Anvil steamed after the most recent lightning strike. ‘I welcome my brothers’ victories, for they are the stepping stones of my own glory.’ He paused. ‘Though, in your case, I might make an exception.’

Tyros laughed. Envy was an unknown to him, but he recognised Balthas’ ambition well enough to gently mock it. They all had it, to some degree – the need to prove themselves, to grasp the subtlest arts, to show the God-King that they were worth the sacrifice he had made on their behalf. A shard of Sigmar’s own divine essence was in each of them – in every Stormcast Eternal. Their lord diminished himself, so that his people might have a chance to win the final victory.

Knowledge of that sacrifice was one of the few things that made the reforging process bearable. It made Balthas wonder why any would resist it, even unconsciously. He watched a bolt of azure lighting scream down, to strike the Anvil. It spilled over the sides, dripping down into the lowest tier and the Forge Eternal. Light blazed up from below, where the Six Smiths laboured. The duardin demigods were only rarely seen away from their forges, and few Stormcasts were allowed there. Balthas had never even heard them referred to as individuals, only as a group.

The chamber shuddered slightly, as the hammers of the Six Smiths struck as one. The raw soul-stuff was hammered into shape, stripped free of the trappings of its demise and made ready for rebirth. The newly wrought souls were sifted upwards, into the Cairns of Tempering, where they endured seven times seven trials.

The nature of these trials was a mystery, even to the lords-arcanum of the Sacrosanct Chambers. Grungni had devised the trials, with the aid of Sigmar, to test the strength of a chosen soul. A part of Balthas yearned to know what his own trials had been like, but a greater, wiser part thought it better that he did not.

Once a soul had passed through the Cairns of Tempering, they were ready to be reforged and made flesh and blood once more. They rose upwards, through the shifting tiers of the tower, until they returned to the Anvil of Apotheosis, where the mage-sacristans waited.

Down below, a soul erupted from the Anvil, rising above it in a crackling halo of lightning and starlight. Silence fell as the lords-arcanum watched. Balthas stepped to the edge of the platform, intrigued despite himself. Though he had witnessed the rites of reforging many times, they remained fascinating.

To his storm-sight, all souls were marked by a residue of the last realm they’d been in. This one was stained with a dark purple miasma, which clung to it despite the trials it had endured. The Realm of Death. He felt a flicker of unease. Something was wrong with the soul’s aura – as if more than just its flesh had been injured.

The fires of creation roared upwards from the Anvil, engulfing the soul. It began to scream, and in the twisting flames, Balthas saw the memories of the warrior it had once been. Most were scenes from the warrior’s final moments, but others were of a more personal nature – tattered recollections from a mortal life. The faces of kith and kin, the smell of walled gardens and the rustle of branches in a sea-wind, rising from the fire, like smoke. The pieces of who they had been, before they had been burdened with glorious purpose.

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 Pharus 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 Sigmarabulum, 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.

‘No.’

Sigmar’s voice rumbled out like thunder, momentarily overcoming the tumult. ‘No. This shall not be.’ The God-King was suddenly there, swelling like a storm cloud, growing larger, his glowing form piercing the smoke. He caught a cracking pillar in either hand and forced them back into place with a roar of tortured stone. He thrust his shoulder against the slumping roof and held it steady. ‘This will not be.’

As his words struck the air, lightning snarled and stretched in crackling lines across the crumbling walls. Damaged stone grew hot and reformed, and the ruptures in the floor sealed themselves. With the pillars in place, Sigmar raised his hands and slammed them against the roof. More lightning flashed, shrieking from the point of impact. Falling stones reversed course, tumbling upwards to reform most of the roof.

Balthas stared in wonder until a cough from Tyros shook him. He looked down at the other lord-arcanum. ‘Brother – are you…?’ Tyros’ armour had been burnt and crumpled in places, and his azure robes were tattered and blackened.

‘Still breathing,’ Tyros panted. ‘Just cracked my ribs. And broke several other bones. I’ll be fine.’ He caught hold of Balthas’ robes. ‘Go after it, brother. Don’t let it escape. Do your duty.’

Balthas nodded and stood. He extended his hand and exerted his will. His staff hissed through the air like a crossbow bolt. He caught it and spun it in a slow, precise circle, calling the celestial winds to him. It was more difficult than it ought to have been, but slowly, the smoke was dispersed, revealing the far side of the chamber.

He saw the Anvil, still spewing purple light. The floor was still shaking as he strode past, hunting his prey. He could see the scorch marks where his blast had cast the lightning-gheist. And more, he could see the marks on the wall, where it had climbed, seeking escape. His eyes followed the black trail up and up, to the shattered dome overhead. He saw a flash of light, past the broken glass.

‘There you are.’ He had to get up there, and swiftly, before the lightning-gheist escaped. He raised his hands. The aetheric winds were still in upheaval, but he managed to find the edges of the power and draw it to him. Lightning leapt through the dome and arrowed down to strike his staff. He spun, dragging the lightning around him, as if it were a cloak. It resonated with the storm-magics that permeated his body, and he felt himself thin and stretch as he was reduced to a ghost of hissing aether.

Spells of translocation were dangerous. It was all too easy for even the most skilled mage to lose themselves in the celestial currents and become part of the aether. But Balthas saw no other option. He shot upwards, his form twisting and curling like smoke.

As Balthas rose, his perceptions expanded. He could feel Sigmar’s presence, as heavy as Mallus itself and as blinding as the sun. He saw the soulfire parts of his fellow Stormcasts and felt the twisting currents of the aether. It was akin to trying to swim through storm-tossed waters, and it took all of his concentration to avoid being swept away by the cosmic riptide. Time and space stretched around him. He could hear the dolorous, bone-deep groaning of Mallus, and the wild screaming of the stars. More, he could hear something that might have been darksome laughter, booming up from some distant realm. The sound clawed at his soul, threatening to drag him back down, but he tore free. As he cleared the dome, he wrenched himself loose from the aether.

He fell to the roof and rolled to his feet, wreathed in steam and spots of light. His senses swam, readjusting to the physical world. He braced himself with his staff, as the tower shook. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced up.

Balthas froze. Stared. The heavens were burning. Shimmering ribbons of amethyst fire rippled upwards and outwards, rising from the lightless gulfs below. Where the ribbons touched, reality shuddered, as if in revulsion – or fear. The Sigmarabulum shook as from a shock wave, and towers collapsed in clouds of dust. He could hear the screams of those caught in the wave of devastation as it passed over the ring. Far below, fires burned as the weapon-forges and ore-processors ruptured and spat molten sigmarite into the streets.

He spun, as a soul-mill cracked open with a roar of splintering stone, disgorging a storm of lightning into the tortured air. The freed souls swirled in a riotous tempest, their cries joining the general clamour. Some dissipated, their essences lost to the cosmic winds. Others fell towards the streets, their shapes twisted out of joint, becoming crackling nightmares.

A hiss of burning air reminded him that they were not the only lightning-gheists at large. He turned, slashing out with his staff. The creature jerked back, distended maw snapping. It had lost all semblance of human shape and rationality. Faces made from pure energy formed on its body, all screaming in the same voice. It slithered towards him, growing new limbs in its haste. Balthas faced it, staff held across his body.

It surged towards him, setting the air aflame as it moved. Balthas thrust his staff out, catching it between the jaws and focusing his will. A lightning-gheist was nothing more or less than a living storm – and how to control the storm was the first lesson an aether-mage learned. He spat incantations, matching his voice against the creature’s screaming. It writhed, caught suddenly by bands of air and light. Tendrils of lightning flailed down, battering him. His war-plate grew warm, then hot, as the strikes washed over him. His robes and cloak smouldered, then burst into flame. Even enchanted cloth had its limits.

Balthas twisted his staff, drawing some of the lightning-gheist’s substance into it. The creature shrieked and redoubled its struggles. ‘Hear me, Pharus Thaum – hear me, Anvil of the Heldenhammer. Yield – do not let pain and fury lead you to destruction. There are wars yet to be fought, brother – do not force me to destroy you!’

The creature howled like a hurricane. Its struggles turned the stones beneath their feet black. It squirmed away from him, dragging against his magics, trying to pull free. But it was caught fast, and he braced himself, resisting its attempt to break away. He began to weave an incantation to cage it.

Another shock wave struck the Sigmarabulum. Purple light blazed up, blinding Balthas momentarily. He staggered, losing his hold on the lightning-gheist. As his vision cleared, he saw it tear away from him, and he leapt after it, staff raised.

He drove his staff down, like a spear, trying to ground the creature. But as his staff struck, the edge of the tower sheared away beneath them. Instinctively, Balthas flung out his hand and caught the broken periphery. He slammed back against the tower, hard enough to rattle his teeth. He saw the lightning-gheist spinning away, not towards the Sigmarabulum, but the starlit void. Balthas watched it fall, ­unable to prevent it. It shrieked as it receded, ­tumbling faster and faster, until it was merely one more shimmering speck in the firmament.

Breathing heavily, Balthas hauled himself to safety. He bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer for the soul of Pharus Thaum. ‘I am sorry, brother,’ he said softly. He used his staff to push himself to his feet. He looked out over the ring, trying to gauge the limits of the devastation. But all he could see was fire.

The Sigmarabulum was aflame.

And somewhere, a god was laughing.