‘Why did you come, kel?’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Answer me quickly.’
‘I came seeking weapons,’ Ahazian said, avoiding another blow. He cast around, seeking a way out. His spirit rebelled at the thought of retreat, but he had not come all this way merely to die. There were weapons here — one of them might give him an edge.
‘Which weapons? This one, perhaps?’ The axe slashed down, nearly taking Ahazian’s leg off. He threw himself backwards, towards a rack of blades. ‘Or perhaps you came seeking one of the Eight Lamentations, eh? Did you come seeking Marrowcutter, or perhaps the spear called Gung?’
‘And if I did?’
‘Is that the only reason you dared walk the Road of Blades?’
‘What other reason is there?’ Ahazian snarled. He snatched up a hackblade and turned. The axe sheared through it, even as he brought it up. He cast the jagged stump into Volundr’s face.
‘To test yourself. To see if you were worthy of wielding these weapons you seek.’
‘I would not be here if I was not,’ Ahazian said. He twisted aside and then lunged back, grabbing the axe by the haft. Volundr laughed and jerked him off his feet. He slammed Ahazian back against the wall with humiliating ease, holding him pinned.
‘No. I suppose not.’ Volundr studied him for a moment. ‘They are not here, you know. They were lost. Scattered across the mortal realms by unknown hands.’
‘Then why call me here?’ Ahazian demanded, struggling to get free.
‘To see if you are worthy of the quest. Do you think yourself one of the Godchosen, then, Ahazian Kel? Are you one of the eight champions destined to wield the Lamentations in Khorne’s name, in the final bloodletting, when the stars themselves are snuffed out?’
Ahazian clawed at the haft of the axe, trying to free himself. He lashed out at Volundr with his feet. It felt like kicking stone. Volundr chuckled. ‘Or perhaps such dreams are beyond you. Maybe you are simply a butcher, seeking a better quality of blade. Which is it?’
‘It is whichever Khorne wills,’ Ahazian hissed. ‘I am his weapon, to wield as he sees fit.’ He thrust his fingers into the eye slits of Volundr’s helm. The skullgrinder roared in fury and stumbled back, releasing him. Ahazian crumpled to the ground, gasping. Volundr had dropped the axe, and was clutching at his helm. Ahazian snatched the weapon up and lunged to his feet. He swung it towards Volundr’s neck. But, at the last moment, he pulled the blow.
Volundr lowered his hands. His eyes gleamed, in the depths of his helm. ‘Very good. You have a brain, Ekran.’ He straightened. ‘More than I can say for some of the others. But then, my brothers have never been as particular as myself, regarding their tools.’
‘Tool,’ Ahazian repeated. ‘Those others, they were summoned as I was.’ He thought of the brute, and wondered whether such a creature would have the wit to pass such a test. He doubted it. But perhaps the other Forgemasters valued different properties in their tools.
Volundr nodded. ‘By my brothers. The other remaining Forgemasters.’
‘Why? To what purpose?’
Volundr turned back to his anvil. ‘The time for war — the last war — will soon be upon us. The weak gods of the lesser realms have returned to contest our dominion anew, even as Khorne’s brothers scheme in the shadows between worlds.’ He slammed his hammer down on the anvil. ‘The Eight Lamentations must be found. And we will find them. You will be my hand in this task, as the others who were called will serve my brothers.’
Ahazian nodded. He’d been right. It had been a test, all of it.
‘And it still is,’ Volundr said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘If you are brave enough to continue. Your destiny awaits, Ahazian Kel. Will you falter?’
‘I told you before — I am Khorne’s, to wield as he sees fit.’
Volundr nodded and struck the anvil again. ‘Good. Then I will not have to shatter your skull on my anvil.’
Ahazian extended the haft of the axe to Volundr. ‘A good weapon. But not what I came for.’
Volundr shook his head. ‘No.’ He chuckled and struck the anvil one last time.
‘But it will serve until you have a better one.’
Guy Haley
Pantheon
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, saying, ‘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 a while. 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.