Within sight of the gates of the palace, Anaise stopped, and turned her face
to the sky. She looked about, listening intently to the sounds echoing around
her. Keeping Bea secure within one arm, she lifted the other above her head.
“Listen,” she said, to Bea, to Zucharov, to any who would hear her.
“What is it?” Zucharov demanded. “Why have you stopped?”
“Listen.” Anaise said again.
“I hear nothing,”
“That is it,” Anaise said, a new excitement rising in her voice. “That is
exactly it.”
Konstantin had heard it too. Hidden away within his chamber in the highest
reaches of the palace he had heard, or, rather, sensed the sudden cessation of
the roaring of the waters that battered against the fabric of his dreams.
His lieutenants had entered his room without even the formality of knocking.
The elder Guide could see at once from their faces that they believed themselves
to be the bearers of good news.
“Majesty,” one began. “The assault upon the citadel is ended!”
“The waters are no longer rising,” his comrade went on, eagerly. “All is
growing calm.”
Konstantin smiled at them, indulging their humour. “I hear,” he said, quietly.
“Do you think that Kumansky was successful?” the first man asked of him.
“Perhaps the outer walls have indeed been breached?”
“No,” Konstantin replied. “I do not think Kumansky was successful.” He
watched his lieutenant’s face fall.
“Then what?” the man asked, uncertainly. “What can it mean?”
Konstantin did not answer the question, but instead turned his attention
inwards, drawing deep upon the insight and wisdom that, in his madness and his
folly, he had all but lost. After a long pause, he opened his eyes and looked up
at the expectant faces of his men.
“It means,” he said at last, “that it is time for you to stand down from your
posts. Time for you to leave me. Time to leave the palace, if that is your
will.”
The two men were amongst the oldest and most trusted of his officers. They
had followed him without question or complaint, all through the long rise and
swift descent of Sigmarsgeist. Now he dismissed them for the last time, with no
more than a word and a gesture of his hand. The officers stared back at the
Guide in disbelief.
“Sire,” one said. “We will not go. We will stay at your side, and serve you
through whatever is to come.”
“I release you from my service,” Konstantin said again, with steel in his
voice. “Only solitude may serve me now. Go.” He turned away, and when he spoke
again, his words were no longer for them.
“What there is left to face, I must face alone,” he said.
He did not turn back, nor speak another word, until at last the two men had
retreated reluctantly from his sight. Then he sat, and waited, alone with the
stillness that had now settled like a cloud over Sigmarsgeist. He did not have
to wait for long.
The rumbling started deep within the palace itself. Konstantin could not
place it exactly, but he did not have to. He knew where it came from, and he
knew—now—what it meant. It came from the very heart of the palace, and rose
from the depths to touch the very top of its highest towers. It was a rumbling
like the anger of the gods, deep and unforgiving. Konstantin watched as first the table, then the walls
around him started to shake. He bowed his head.
“Anaise, my sister,” the Guide murmured. “Do you hear it? It is the voice of
judgement, calling us to account.”
Konstantin von Augen closed his eyes, and prayed. For the last time, he
prayed to the holy memory of Sigmar, a prayer of atonement, heavy with regret.
And he prayed that, if the gods should ever choose to grant him another life, he
should never again grow to be so blind.
Yard by yard, and sometimes inch by bloody inch, Stefan had fought his way
back to within sight of the gates of the palace. By now, all order had broken
down, the hierarchy of control was defined by the outcome of single acts of
combat, Red Guard pitted against Norscan, and Norscans turning their cruel rage
upon anyone who came within sight. Not all the combatants were human. As Stefan
edged closer he began to encounter those whose mutations had placed them far
beyond the bounds of the mortal realm. These were the creatures of the dark,
nameless abominations, once chained within their cells in the dungeons of the
palace, now freed to exact their revenge upon humankind as they chose.
The attack came without warning, a flash of movement and colour, something
tumbling from out of the sky, plunging from the ledge of a building high above.
The daemon spun onto its feet in front of Stefan and stood before him, a
shimmering grotesque of muscle and bone, razor-sharp talons adorning the claws
on each of its sinuous arms. It shifted and settled back on its haunches, lithe
as a dancer, savouring the encounter to come. Stefan sensed it had been waiting
for him, its sole purpose to stop or delay him reaching the palace.
Stefan drew breath then rushed forward, hoping for a quick and decisive
resolution. The Chaos creature moved with astonishing speed and agility,
springing from its haunches to leap into the air above its opponent’s head.
Stefan spun around, disorientated, holding his sword high to fend off the
anticipated attack. He felt a blow upon his back, then wiry, powerful limbs wrapped themselves about his neck, and razor talons
were clawing at the exposed flesh of his throat. Stefan twisted from left to
right, and managed to dislodge the creature from his back. The thing fell
heavily, but regained its feet in an instant and stood eyeing Stefan, a knowing
smile upon its thin, androgynous face. It winked, mockingly, then spat at
Stefan, a bolt of sulphurous bile that bubbled and smoked as it struck the
ground by his feet.
Stefan struck out with his sword, but the creature simply stepped away from
the blow, moving faster than any mortal man. By now Stefan knew what to expect,
even if there was little he could do about it. The counter-attack came with
lethal speed, a sudden blur of colour as the claws raked the air before Stefan’s
face. Stefan felt a sudden stinging as though a thousand needles had pierced his
skin. His face was damp as though sweating from every pore, but this was blood,
not sweat. And if the servant of Tzeentch got any closer, he would be cut to
ribbons.
Stefan thrust out his sword again, aiming for the murderous, raking claws.
Bone bit upon steel, the creature had one arm wrapped like a serpent around the
outstretched blade. Stefan swung the sword, two-handed, smashing the creature
against the wall. Before it could recover he lashed out again, finally managing
to land a blow upon the multi-hued body. He moved in for the kill, but the
creature wasn’t finished yet. Claws tore at his face and body. A cut appeared
along Stefan’s left arm, then another upon his thigh. The creature opened its
mouth and let loose a low, keening wail.
Then the thunder came, a noise fit to wake the sleeping gods. It started as a
low rumble, somewhere deep below the ground, but rose quickly to a crescendo. It
was like the roaring of the waters as they first burst up into the citadel, but
much, much louder. The creature of Chaos turned its hairless face to the sky and
uttered a blood-curdling response. It seemed to have anticipated the sound, and
turned towards Stefan as if to say,
you are too late.
But, for a brief moment, its guard was down. Stefan had one chance, and he
made sure he took it. The ground trembled as the pounding rhythm took hold, the gates and walls of the palace,
the buildings lining the surrounding streets, everything was moving. But Stefan
had only one focus. He blocked out the thunderous roar, and all thought of what
it might portend. The monster flung its head full back and wailed, and Stefan
lashed out with his sword, the blade slicing clean through its neck. The
creature’s head flew from its body, the leering grin still fixed upon its face.
Stefan steadied himself upon his sword, fighting to stay upon his feet. All
around him, buildings were cracking and crumbling, great towers of stone falling
to the ground. The gates of the palace stood open, unguarded. Stefan ran towards
them, not knowing if he was running towards his salvation or his doom, only
knowing that this was the locus of the storm. Whatever outcome awaited, it would
be decided here.
A mighty crack split the air. Stefan looked up and saw one of the great domes
above the palace crack open. Plates of iron peeled apart, spraying wreckage and
dust into the shivering air. A second dome fractured, and then a third under the
relentless pounding. The palace, the very heart of Sigmarsgeist, was dying
before Stefan’s eyes. And all within it were surely going to die, too.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the infernal hammer beat was stilled. An
eerie, tranquil silence settled upon the citadel. Stefan ran on through the
gates, suddenly able to hear his own footfalls amongst the steady rain of debris
falling upon the ground.
He counted five seconds of silence… six… seven. Somewhere between the
eighth and ninth, the explosion struck. The thunderous pounding that had reduced
much of the palace to rubble had been only the beginning, a prelude to what was
to come. As Stefan looked on, a massive column of water burst forth from the
ground and punched, like a great fist, towards the sky. The water crashed
against the walls of the palace with the force of a mighty explosion, like a
thousand storms brought together into one single, catastrophic event.
Sigmarsgeist had been meant to stand until eternity. But the buildings
beneath the four domes had already been undermined by the sprawling mass of
bone-like growths that had eaten their way through the fabric of the palace.
Once-solid structures began to crumble. Great slabs of masonry were thrown into
the air and smashed to fragments upon the ground below. Through the blurring
haze, Stefan caught sight of the domes as they fell, dragging the walls of the
palace down behind them. Ten years of mighty labour was torn apart in minutes.
Blinded by the icy spray, and showered with shards of broken stone, all
Stefan could do was protect himself as best he could. For what felt like an age
he crouched down with his arms about his head, the only shelter he could find
from the relentless storm.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the noise and water were gone. Dazed,
Stefan clambered to his feet, gazing spellbound at the ruination all around him.
The proud heart of the citadel had been swept away. The high walls, the domes
and gilded towers were all gone, replaced by a drowned wasteland of rubble.
Minutes before, the streets in and around the palace had been teeming with
people. Only the gods knew how many souls had been swept to the Gates of Morr in
the maelstrom that had followed. Stefan looked about and said a silent prayer
for them all, and for all the hopes and futile dreams of Sigmarsgeist, gone in
the passing of a moment.
If Anaise still held any lingering doubts that this was to be her destiny,
then those doubts were utterly dispelled now. She had watched in wonder as the
palace of Sigmarsgeist was destroyed. On all sides, walls, towers and statues
fell, great edifices of stone thrown high in the air and smashed upon the earth
below. The carnage was absolute, the destruction all but total. But it did not
destroy her. With Bea and Zucharov she had walked into the maelstrom, to the
very edge of the storm that was tearing the palace apart, and she was not
harmed. Now, Anaise knew, this was the will of the gods—not the safe gods of
the Empire, but deeper, darker forces. It had been ordained. At last, her time
had come.
She watched in wonder as the work of years was undone in a few violent
minutes, the unnatural fury of the water leaving nothing intact. Soon there was
no palace, nothing left of the monument to her brother’s dreams. The entire
edifice, the tallest structure, the highest point in all Sigmarsgeist, had
collapsed in upon itself. The palace and all its surrounding buildings had
disappeared, pounded to rubble then collapsed within the great pit of its own dismembered foundations. Everything, above and below, had been washed away.
Anaise began to laugh, softly at first, then with a growing intensity until
her voice became a hysterical counterpoint to the dark laughter of the gods. Her
brother’s dreams had been buried, and with them Konstantin himself. But she had
endured. The new citadel that would follow would be in her image, an everlasting
testament to her great and enduring will.
As suddenly as the deluge had begun, it was over. For a moment the great
tower of water hung suspended, spinning in mid air. Then, abruptly, the pounding
ceased, and the tower fell in upon itself, wave upon wave crashing down upon the
wreckage of the palace.
The waters flooded across the open space and then withdrew, draining back
into the crater left behind. Almost as quickly as the subterranean ruins beneath
the palace had been exposed, they were drowned, subsumed as the waters poured
into the gaping chasm. Where the palace had once stood there was now only a
pool, the size of a small lake. The fury at its destruction was spent, not even
the smallest ripple disturbed the surface of the water. Anaise was left with her
captive and her consort, standing by a shore of tumbled stone beside the edge of
the lake.
Nothing was left standing above the water, except for a solitary tangled mass
of bleached-white bone which had tumbled from on high to lie spanning the width
of the water like a ghostly bridge.
Anaise looked around. Gradually her delight gave way to a puzzled disbelief.
She seized hold of Bea, and pulled the girl around to face her.
“Is that it?” she demanded, tersely. “What happens now? Where is the Well of
Sadness?”
“Gone,” Bea said quietly. “It has served its purpose.”