Anathemas Read online

  I wear now the God-King’s own visage – a helmet made in the divine image of the Stormcast Eternals, a thing of heavy iron layered in gold, lacking the perfect craftsmanship of Sigmar’s forges. A crude imitation, just as I am but a crude imitation. A golden face, devoid of emotion, devoid of compassion.

  I raise my sword to the heavens, to the star of Azyr, lost now among dark skies. The witch flinches but I see in her eyes the question. She wants to understand why.

  ‘This is Sigmar’s plan. This is Sigmar’s grand scheme.’ My voice sounds strangely hollow as it echoes in my helm.

  The witch speaks through lips cracked and bloodied. ‘He has no grand scheme.’ I strain to hear her, stepping closer. ‘He has no plan for you, for us. What you do here, you do alone.’

  ‘Sigmar’s plans are not for mortals to understand,’ I say.

  ‘A plan that mortals can never know, never see. That is torture. That is an obscenity.’ Her voice cracks with emotion.

  There must be a plan, there must be a fate in store for me. To believe it is all chance, all meaningless, that would be too much to bear. All I do, I do for the attention of the God-King. I feel his touch in my skull, the touch that blinds me, that causes my head to pound. I know that he watches me, I know that he has tested me. This is his plan, it must be his plan, because other­wise it is…

  ‘We have done nothing wrong. It is not a god that does this, it is only you.’

  The witch falls silent then as the stakes are hammered into place. There are two other elders and so there are three stakes in total, each half as tall again as a man and sturdy when driven upright between the stones of the altar. Sturdy still when each captive is tied in place, their hands raised above their heads, palms turned outwards, overlapping. No’grok drives an iron spike through their hands, raising them in a final prayer, a prayer to call down the lightning. The two other elders are screaming now, the sound distant. Only the old mother – the witch – makes no sound. Not even as the nail is hammered in place. And now Sigmar will make himself known in the Mortal Realms.

  ‘Do you think he will tread lightly when he walks among us? Do you think you will not burn, taken by his light?’

  I envy them, I realise. I envy this finality, this chance to be judged. The thought angers me and my vision falters as the pain in my head increases. I feel faint, but in this mortal weakness I surrender my body to my god. I envy them the touch of lightning as the God-King reveals himself to them, I envy them that vision. And I envy them an end to suffering.

  ‘Suffer the vision.’ In my eyes are tears of pain or tears of elation. ‘Suffer the vision born in holy fire. Suffer the vision of the God-King astride in the Mortal Realms!’ My head is swimming as I pace between the stakes. I taste copper – my nose is bleeding. I am ranting, I know, overcome now with the attention of Sigmar.

  My companions have withdrawn and watch me with hooded eyes as they take shelter from the storm. What do they see when they look at me? An avatar of the God-King. Holy justice given mortal form. They seem uncertain, eager instead to exact some measure of revenge on those that killed Rhukhal – but they will not interrupt me. They cannot deny the presence of Sigmar, his eye upon us from the star of Azyr.

  And what will the condemned see, with heads full of lightning? I am lost with my thoughts as I wait for the trial to begin. In that final moment, is the God-King’s great plan revealed to them? Do they see him resplendent on his throne in the Eternal City? The look in their eyes for that instant… I strive to capture that look. It is the same look in my father’s eyes, the same divine clarity, a clarity beyond mere devotion, a clarity of purpose. Some great passion, some greater purity. I long to catch that look, to catch it in my own eyes and in my soul. I envy them, as their eyes catch fire and their skull splits with Sigmar’s touch.

  And then his eye is upon us and he casts his judgement down from Azyr. The first lightning strike is drawn to one of the stakes upon which an elderly grey-haired man is transfixed. Sigmar’s wrath deafens me. An afterimage of the forked bolt is seared into my vision. The man burns as the Skull-Splitter ignites him, ignites his hair, his beard. His eyeballs melt. He screams and the lightning dances in his mouth. The holy judgement is come.

  Tell me you know of a man that cannot, will not, be broken and I will show you a penitent with lightning in his skull. The touch of Sigmar is no gentle thing, and those he chooses will be split apart and burned.

  ‘Suffer the vision, with eyeballs aflame!’ My voice carries above the howling wind. Fire reflects on my golden mask as I watch the man burn. Holy fire dances in my tears, my vision blurred. Sigmar does not claim him for his Stormhost and thus his guilt is proven.

  The storm rages on and I pace, waiting for the next judgement to come. Lightning strikes around us. Another bolt hits a tree near the village and sets it ablaze. The other elder is too weary to scream; he hangs from bleeding hands, exhausted, defeated. I approach now and listen for a confession, for an admission of guilt, of corruption, of apostasy. I watch his lips move, tears in his eyes. In truth, with my helmet echoing with the wind and thunder, I am deaf to his words.

  He does not die as lightning winds down from the heavens, along his arms, across his face and buries itself deep inside his chest. Instead he convulses then goes still, eyes open, barely breathing. He has soiled himself. His teeth have broken where he has clenched his jaw. There are tears in his eyes and he dies slowly as his heart fails. It takes some time and I bear witness. I watch from behind a mask that shows no emotion, my mask that is no mask at all, but a true reflection of my soul.

  ‘I do not know!’ A woman’s voice. ‘I do not know how we lived here when all around us fell to ruin, but live we did!’ The old mother’s words carry to me and I move to stand before her. ‘We went unseen by gods and monsters.’ She speaks in defiance, her eyes full of anger, not fear. ‘We were protected – we have always been protected – from the monsters and evil men. Until you arrived.’

  I am suddenly tired. The trial has lasted for hours. Time flows past me, carrying me along like sediment in a stream. On the horizon I believe I can see the first signs of dawn.

  ‘Witch, I will hear your confession, before the lightning comes. Tell me of your crimes against Sigmar.’

  She laughs, a desperate sound. I see familiar madness in her now, at the edge of death. ‘What use had we for Sigmar? A god from ancient memory, a god that abandoned our ancestors.’ A shuddering sigh. ‘The land protects us, it has always protected us. And yet, it allowed you to pass… All things must change.’

  Flame leaps from the burning tree to the thatched roof of a nearby hovel. It burns unnaturally blue as the building catches fire. The night is suddenly illuminated in brilliant azure light that flickers and dances as if possessed of a maniac will. More houses ignite to burn despite the rain that falls without cessation. I do not trust my own eyes, blurry as they are and overlaid with a confusion of ghostly afterimages. Through tears I see flames in vivid hues of red and blue and other colours, glimpsed for a moment only. It is as if I witness some alchemical conflagration. The village burns in a beautiful delirium as the storm rages and the sight fills me with awe.

  ‘And so it is over!’ the witch cries. ‘Look what your madness has wrought! We have done no wrong. We are innocent!’

  The lightning takes her then, the Skull-Splitter. The blinding flash makes me stagger in surprise and the crash of thunder echo­ing in my helmet makes me deaf. In her eyes I see no trace of love, only horror. Sigmar does not welcome her with his embrace. Here then is your verdict, here then is justification. It does not kill her immediately, though it will not be long.

  ‘No one is innocent.’ I whisper. One of the first lessons my master taught me when he took me away from my father and the dying Denebreke – a hard lesson to learn for a boy. Depravity, murder, disease. These things hide in the hearts of all men and women. ‘Everyone is corrupt.’

  The smell of burning hair nauseates me, carried on the wind. A smell from my childhood. Each morning we burned those who had died in the night. An army is no place for a boy to grow up, and the Denebreke was an army in name only. It was a rabble, a filthy mass of wild-eyed men and women. We had no supplies and food became scarce. As we suffered, my father grew ever more holy until his heart was filled with love for the God-King and there was no room in it for me. When he went to create his holy works with the chosen of the Denebreke – the men and women who cut on flesh to bleed out impurity – I knew that I had lost him forever. In time, when the army no longer marched, but stood and fought among itself for scraps, or begged, or sold themselves, or drifted away into the wilds to be taken by raiders, I knew that I had also lost my mother forever. I wonder if she remembers me. I wonder if she thinks of the youth that I was. I wonder if she heard of my father’s holy works.

  The old mother is dying a torturous death. I sit with her, I wait with her. The storm rages around us and the night is dark and we are alone together. I witness her, and we watch the village burn together. She is coughing, choking. Her heart fails. She dies as any mother might. The only way to avoid the wrath of Sigmar is to do good deeds, to be a righteous man. I drive the point of my sword through her forehead. I strive every day to serve my God-King. I strive every day to be more holy in his eyes.

  And then, from the blood, flowers blossom. I watch, unable to look away from the spectacle. Flowers pour from the ruin of her head, petals cascading away in the wind. Green shoots entwine her face, her neck, twisting amid white hair. I am entranced, appalled. Born of death, beauty grows. Flowers within ­flowers. As one blooms another emerges inside it in a pattern that repeats and repeats.

  My head snaps back as a projecti
le hits me. The trance is broken. My metal helmet rings out like a bell, struck by a stone or pellet flung from a slingshot. I stagger, hands on my head, then drop to my knees as the ringing in my ears seems to pierce deep into the centre of my brain. Images are distorted, fractured, as if I look through fragments of shattered glass. In these myriad fragments I see No’grok is struck: a projectile hits him in his prodigious gut with little effect, but another strikes his temple and the giant collapses, toppling soundlessly to lie unmoving on the wet stone. Grar is running. He reaches the giant and with terrible effort drags him into the cover of a low wall. I see all this a dozen times at once, I see a splintered version of the world. I close my eyes, trying to blink away the distortion. Then, with effort, I crawl to join the others.

  ‘In the trees. They have encircled us.’ Grar’s voice is low and urgent. He cradles the larger man’s head. No’grok is not moving. We are sheltered by fallen stones that form this rough wall, concealed by the darkness of night, but the village burns and daylight creeps over the horizon and it will not be long before we are outflanked and visible.

  ‘Where is my pack?’ I try to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘We must fight our way clear.’

  Grar gestures, and I see it lying on the steps of the altar, not ten paces away. I crawl to retrieve it, expecting at any moment to hear the crack of a slingshot or whistle of an arrow aimed at my back. My helmet makes my movements clumsy but I cannot take it off, not now. I retrieve the pack and return to the others, digging inside it to find a bundle wrapped with care at the bottom.

  Lightning strikes nearby as I carefully unwrap the volley pistol with trembling hands. It is an ornate device that exceeds the lethality of a black powder flintlock, charged instead by a certain aetheric event, the details of which I am not fully cognisant of. It is a thing of great beauty and power, a wonder of Duardin engineering. The weapon catches Grar’s eye as I ready it.

  I will myself to be calm, to not show weakness. I steady the weapon against our stone barricade. I try to control my breathing. ‘I have three shots, then we must run.’ Grar nods, though neither of us know where we will run to. It seems that the villagers have control of the woods, leaving us with…

  ‘The tower. Head to the tower. If we can get inside we can hold it.’

  An arrow clatters on the stone behind me. I did not see its flight in the darkness, but Grar has keener eyes and he wordlessly guides my aim. I pull the first of the three triggers and the weapon flashes with alchemical energy, a cloud of phosphor­escent vapour and a bark like a wounded animal. For a moment, nothing happens, and then there is a crash that carries over all other sounds as a tree topples. It is as if a great bite has been taken from its trunk. I am shouting, willing the others into action. From the woods there is the sound of confusion and a wail of pain. The collapsed tree will buy us some time.

  No’grok stands, his movements clumsy. He usually moves with a grace that belies his bulk, but now he staggers as if drunk. He has an arm around Grar’s shoulder. We are running towards the tower, into the burning village. Around us the wooden huts are ablaze, black smoke concealing our movements. From the woods there is a cry and another arrow streaks over my head, vanishing into the conflagration. These are no soldiers – they are scared and angry, but they will find their aim before long. We are moving too slowly.

  The tower is unthreatened by the fire. It is not so far. No’grok stumbles and cries out in a voice I do not recognise as his own.

  ‘We are nearly there!’ I choke out the words through a lungful of smoke. The wind has whipped the fire into a frenzy and the rain seems to have no effect on its ferocity. I turn, nearly slipping in the mud, and ready the pistol for another shot.

  A figure emerges from the smoke before me. My eyes are not to be trusted, for this figure appears to made of glass or crystal of some sort. Its arms are raised as if in prayer, hands wreathed in coruscating blue fire. Where it treads, flowers blossom. A trail of them winds back behind it, charting its path, back to the altar. In its crystalline form the flames are reflected and reflected again. My head aches and pressure builds behind my eyes. For a moment I believe I will lose consciousness.

  The spell is shattered by the bark of the pistol in my hands. The white cloud of smoke disguises my target for an instant, but when it clears there is nothing there, no trail of flowers. I am whispering a prayer to Sigmar. It is one I have not spoken since I was a child. I must be more holy. I must be more holy for there is madness in this place.

  The tower door swings open as Grar forces it. He barely fits through the narrow stone doorway. Inside, the tower is suffocating; a fire pit burns with no chimney and the small room is smoky and stale. There are nine stone statues, softened by the passage of centuries and neglect until they no longer resemble anything I can understand. Some bear shields and crumbled hammers, others hold staffs ornamented with faded sigils. The weight of the building around me is comforting. This structure will not burn if the fire spreads.

  ‘The door…’ My instruction is a wasted breath, for Grar has already moved a heavy bench and the room is secured. Daylight leaks in through narrow windows, little more than slits to be used by archers. The tracker and I look out, searching for signs of pursuit.

  ‘They regroup,’ Grar says. ‘We have time. But they will come, sooner or later. This thing we do – they will want revenge. And besides,’ he flashes his teeth in a mirthless smile, ‘now they have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘This village is corrupt, alive with spectres and madness…’ I am ranting and my head swims with images I do not understand. Grar looks at me with hooded eyes. I am growing weary of that look. He kneels beside No’grok. The side of the giant’s skull is soft to the touch, the wound is red and deep. His eyes are unfocused.

  ‘He bleeds into his brain. There is damage we do not see. He may not come all the way back from this.’

  For a time we sit in silence. I think to reload my pistol but I have lost the sack in which I carry the ammunition.

  ‘That weapon… there cannot be many like it.’

  The question takes me by surprise. ‘It was a gift from my master.’

  ‘I have seen it before. Years ago. The man that once held it – I worked for him on occasion.’

  ‘It is not important…’ I begin, but Grar cuts me off.

  ‘This man, he had with him children. To train, he said. Always children.’

  I say nothing. I am not breathing.

  ‘But never the same children, for long.’

  I turn away. Sigmar stirs behind my eyes and I fear again that I will be overcome. I see at the back of the room a staircase. At first I thought it was impassable, once leading up to the collapsed floor above, but now as I move to inspect it, I see that there is also a way down; spiral steps lead into a chamber below.

  ‘A dead end.’ Grar warns, but I ignore him, taking the steps down into the gloom. It is dark; there are torches but we have no way to light them. There is something…

  I stand in blackness, surrounded by the weight of this place, by the cold, ancient stone. I hold my breath, I close my eyes. I hear the pounding of my heart, I see strobing afterimages, flickering like candlelight. And I hear something else, something faint.

  I hesitate, then I remove my helm. I hold it in one shaking hand. Without it I can hear more clearly, the wind outside the tower, a distant rumble of the retreating storm. And then I hear a voice. A child’s voice. It comes from the darkness ahead of me. Distant, indistinct. My heart races. I reach out in the gloom, stepping cautiously forward until my fingers touch the wall at the far end of the cellar. And in that wall, an opening. At my call, Grar joins me. We have no torch, but my eyes are growing accustomed to the dark. A small passage leads out of the room, hewn from the rock. My fingers trace a symbol graven above the passage, the ancient rune for gate. This is a way out. Grar hesitates; this darkness does not sit well with him. We do not know where it leads and I think for a moment that he will insist that we fight our way out, preferring to take his chances against the villagers.