Blacktalon: First Mark Page 8

  Tarion flew through one glorious, fiery dawn and on into another magnificent sunset, Krien soaring always ahead. He shared the air with creatures large and small, sinuous air-serpents and great lurching monsters, swarms of whirling motelings and once even the magnificence of a dragon in flight. Tarion swept well clear of those that might have endangered his mission and ignored those that fled him in turn; as with everything in the Realm of Beasts, if you were not the predator, you were the prey. Survival relied on an implicit understanding of your transition between one role to the other.

  Tarion had always gloried in the perspective that his powers of flight gave him. Through all his battles and Reforgings, he had never lost his wonder at being able to leap from the ground into the air and soar as though he had been born to it. Yet now he was preoccupied, troubled more deeply than he had shown Neave. All the magnificent and dangerous sights of the realms meant little to him, for his mind was on his friend.

  During the second dawn, Krien dipped his wings and shot a pointed look at Tarion, then at the glint of the watering hole over which they flew. The Knight-Venator shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend, we fly on. Neave needs our aid, and if my fears are correct, time is desperately short…’

  At last, after days and nights of ceaseless flight, Tarion saw a glint of light upon the horizon that lifted his spirits. It drew swiftly closer, swelling into a hard gem of gleaming surfaces and crackling sparks, then into a sprawling cityscape enclosed within high walls. He saw the towering spar of night-black stone that loomed over the city, jutting up from the waters of the nearby bay and casting its long shadow over the buildings that crouched at its feet.

  ‘Krien, look, the Spear of Mallus,’ said Tarion with a grin. ‘We’ve made it to Excelsis.’ Krien gave a hearty screech in reply.

  The city grew closer by the minute, details resolving themselves in Tarion’s keen vision. He saw the shimmering celestial mechanisms that whirled atop the walls, crackling with caged lightning that could be unleashed upon attackers with the pull of a lever. He took in the districts both rich and poor that crowded around the tangled streets, huddled knots of civilisation herded together in comparative safety from the predations of Chaos. He glanced towards the Stormkeep of the Knights Excelsior that stood tall near the heart of the city, and suppressed a shudder.

  ‘Be glad we have no business with the White Reaper or his kin,’ Tarion called to Krien, receiving an imperious glance in response.

  As they neared the walls, Tarion flew in a long, slow arc along their length. He flared the crystalline membranes of his wings, ensuring he was both seen and recognised by the sentries. He had no intention of being smashed from the air by some spell or projectile flung by an over-eager sentinel.

  As he expected, Tarion received nothing worse than a few salutes from the bravest of the Freeguild watchmen, and he returned in kind. Satisfied that he had made his presence known, Tarion built up speed again and soared out over the bustling docks with their cornucopia of strange trade schooners and war ships, their coastal fortresses and cannonades.

  Waves crested white below him and the morning grew dark and cold as he swept on, into the shadow of the Spear of Mallus, then up, spiralling on strange magical thermals like an ember spat from a bonfire.

  The spear swept past as he climbed, its black surface busy with eldritch runes and curling shapes, marred here and there by the robust gantry-camps of prophecy-prospectors. Excelsis’ entire economy was powered by the gleanings of distilled foresight that were mined from the spear, and brave souls from as far away as Azyrheim and Hammerhal would make the journey to Excelsis in the hopes of striking a rich prophetic seam and thus ensuring their future fortune.

  Tarion saw more than one camp that was little but dangling wreckage and wind-lashed ropes, each one a testament to the extreme peril faced by the prophecy miners.

  Onwards and upwards he soared, until at last the spear tapered towards its mountainous crest. Ahead of him he saw the mystical structures that orbited endlessly around the so-called Speartip.

  Here was the Ilythraein Observatory of the Eldritch Council, a slender construction of pearlescent minarets and towers born aloft upon softly flowing streamers of golden light. There, just orbiting into view beyond it, an immense brass orb studded with crystalline viewing ports and docking platforms, trailing cable-rigs and countless gun batteries: the Kharadron embassy-port of Khar-Khazdul that swarmed day and night with the rumbling airships of the skyborne duardin traders.

  More structures followed in stately procession, some higher, some lower, each held aloft by differing arcane means. Tarion knew most were dedicated to the study or exploitation of the spear and its incredible prophetic properties.

  Yet as he wheeled about and soared beneath the blocky aether­foundations of the Seer’s Vantage, Tarion saw a more martial structure hove into view. Wrought in gold, marble and iron, it resembled a cross between the ribbed hull of some vast ship and a towering Stormkeep bastion. Pennants streamed from its flanks bearing the sigils of the Hammers of Sigmar, the Celestial Vindicators, the Knights Excelsior, the Hallowed Knights and dozens more Stormhosts. Winged figures in armour similar to Tarion’s soared around the structure, coming and going from its countless perch-gantries, while more Stormcasts could be seen patrolling the battlements that wreathed it like iron garlands.

  ‘The Excelsian Eeyrie,’ he said. ‘Perhaps here we’ll find answers. And some food for you, eh?’ Krien let out a strident screech and dived ahead of Tarion like a comet. The Knight-Venator followed his star eagle down towards the eeyrie’s flanks, his own eagerness tempered by trepidation.

  Tarion alighted upon one of the lowest perch-gantries and strode towards the arched portal that led into the Excelsian Eeyrie’s interior. The majority of the crystal-winged Prosecutors and Knights that came and went from the structure favoured the higher platforms, and Tarion went largely unobserved, though he knew that the sentries had marked his approach and scrying engines would have determined his true nature the moment he came into view.

  As he neared the door, it whispered silently upwards on arcane mechanisms, leaving the archway open. Through it came a figure robed in silver and grey. She bore a staff carved from polished bone and wore a half-mask of the same substance. The robed woman was tall and straight-backed, and her black hair was pinned in an elaborate train down her neck and over one shoulder.

  ‘My lord, welcome to the Excelsian Eeyrie,’ she said, stopping in front of him so as to gently but firmly bar the doorway. The tip of her staff made an echoing clang as she rapped it against the metal deck of the perch-gantry. Tarion stopped, looming massively over her. She stood calm and unafraid in his path. The wind whipped around them, snatching at the crest of his helm, the hem of her robes. A short distance away on either side, the platform ended abruptly in a sickening drop, yet Tarion sensed no nervousness from the figure before him, only a calm self-assurance.

  ‘I thank you for your greeting,’ he said with a frown. ‘To what do I owe it? I have been to this eeyrie before and have never been stopped at the door.’

  ‘My master, Lord-Castellant Martoris Skywarden, bids you welcome, Tarion Arlor. He asks that you attend him as soon as you have slaked your thirst and satisfied your hunger, for he knows your business to be pressing,’ she said.

  Tarion opened his mouth to ask how her lord knew of his business, then shot a glance at the Spear of Mallus, and closed it again. He looked down at the servant pointedly. She returned his glare with calm composure.

  ‘Our proximity to the spear gives us certain advantages that we would be foolish not to exploit,’ she said. ‘I am sure that you understand – all weapons must be wielded in Sigmar’s great war.’

  Tarion nodded.

  ‘I’ve heard that sentiment before. But you have me at a disadvantage, in more ways than one,’ he said. She smiled, neutral and graceful.

  ‘My
name is Jeshoria, my lord,’ she said. ‘I have the honour of being the Lord-Castellant’s seneschal. He entrusts to me those tasks too important to be given to anyone else. Consider me a subtle extension of his will.’

  ‘Well, then it is good to meet you, Lady Jeshoria,’ said Tarion. ‘Please, show me where I might replenish my strength and then I will attend the Lord-Castellant directly.’

  ‘You will,’ she said, and he felt unease at the certainty in her voice. ‘But, a caution, my lord. Martoris also bade me tell you this. A dark fate has bound itself to your comrade and it has touched you, also. In coming to us for aid, you taint us in turn. Think carefully before you step across this threshold, Tarion Arlor. That is his only request of you.’

  Tarion recoiled at her words.

  ‘What do you know of this? What dark fate?’ he asked angrily. ‘What does he want me to think carefully about? We are Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals – we should not have to hesitate to ask for one another’s aid.’

  ‘I know only what my master tells me,’ she said, still sanguine. ‘If you wish to ask such questions, my lord, you will have to ask them of him.’

  ‘Lead on then, quickly,’ said Tarion. ‘And you can forgo the victuals – I’ll take them after I’ve had some answers.’

  Jeshoria bowed slightly at the waist, then turned and led Tarion into the Excelsian Eeyrie.

  It took a good twenty minutes to navigate the twisting passageways and chambers that honeycombed the structure’s interior. Tarion and Jeshoria passed feasting halls and strategic cartogravia, sparring chambers, armouries and barracks. A deep thrumming could be heard, the aeronavulum engines that held the structure aloft sending their vibrations through the walls and floor. Tarion and Jeshoria climbed steadily, up tight spiral stairs and broad, metal-runged ladders. They passed warriors from a dozen different Stormhosts, their varied panoply contrasting wildly through reds and greens, blacks and silvers. Only the winged nature of their armour unified them, for the Sigmarite eeyries were places reserved solely for the use of those warriors of Order who could fly to them.

  Some of these places, Tarion knew, could stable the mighty Stardrakes in their highest levels, occasionally playing host to the brave Templars who rode them. This was not such a structure, but still it thronged with an army’s worth of warriors. The eeyries were fortresses within which information could be swiftly exchanged between Stormhosts, maps updated with the latest scout findings and messages passed at the speed of the wind. Several had already been established above the greatest cities of Order, and Tarion knew that more were under construction even now.

  Several warriors hailed him as he passed, those he had fought alongside saluting or waving. They looked surprised as he offered each of them a brusque wave or a grunted ‘well met.’

  ‘You do not wish to converse with old comrades?’ asked Jeshoria at one point. ‘I can halt and wait for you if you wish, my lord.’

  ‘I’m in no mood, and the less old comrades who know of my business, the better,’ said Tarion. ‘Besides, did you not say something about taint by association? If that’s so, should I not keep to myself?’

  He received a non-committal nod in response.

  ‘As you say, my lord,’ she said, and again Tarion had to quell his irritation at the sense Jeshoria knew more than she was telling him.

  Finally, they climbed up to the highest levels of the eeyrie, and as they did so the warrior throng thinned out to almost nothing.

  ‘We are coming to the seers’ quarters,’ said Jeshoria, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet. ‘Few come here unless duty compels them. The seers can be unsettling.’

  ‘I have been this high once before, during the preparations for the attack upon the Aqshian Allgate. The seers’ predictions failed us that day. They are far from perfect.’

  ‘They know enough,’ she said, leading him on past gloomy chambers shrouded by silk curtains. The cloth drifted in breezes he could not feel. Muttering and wailing came from within. Strange lights shimmered through the curtains, and subsonic vibrations caused Tarion’s organs to shudder in his chest. For all his air of contempt, Tarion would not have entered one of those unnatural chambers and attended their hunched and crawling occupants unless a powerful duty had compelled him.

  At last, Jeshoria led Tarion up a final, spiralling stairway of black marble. Its walls and ceiling shimmered with tiny inset diamonds. It was as though they climbed through a tunnel wrought from the celestial void, finally emerging before a high, silver arch that was busy with engraved runes. Another curtain hung here, woven from pure silver and blazoned in gold with the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar.

  There were no guards, but Tarion sensed the celestial energies that simmered within the runes and knew that to pass through this archway with hostile intent would be to die.

  ‘Lord-Castellant Martoris awaits you within,’ said Jeshoria. ‘May you find the answers you seek, my lord.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tarion stiffly. Unsure of protocol, feeling suddenly overlarge and unsubtle before the servant’s demure composure, he offered her a terse nod before turning and pushing his way through the silver curtain.

  ‘Tarion Arlor, the last-born son of the Peroknes Tribe. Welcome.’

  The voice was deep and rich, and it floated to Tarion through air thick with incense. The Knight-Venator stopped just beyond the archway, blinking in surprise.

  The chamber he had entered was huge and dome-shaped. Its floor was black marble of the same sort that had made up the stairway. The sweeping curve of its walls and ceiling were clad entirely in polished silver that reflected the vast wash of light spilling from the chamber’s heart. There, dominating much of the domed space, hung what Tarion could only think of as a chained star. It was a huge sphere of celestial energy, blazing fire wreathed in dancing coronae of lightning and whirling cometary orbs. An elaborate cradle of brass armatures, churning cogs and ever-swivelling lenses caged the roiling sphere, suspending between them an orb of dark blue crystal within which the star was trapped. It was this filter, Tarion realised, that must be absorbing the star’s ferocious heat as well as ensuring he was not instantly blinded.

  Several brass walkways looped around the crystal globe, ladders stretching between them and machineries thronging their surfaces. Stood upon the highest of these platforms was a towering Stormcast Eternal, clad in the bulky armour of a Lord-Castellant. He was unhelmed, displaying his ochre skin, his tight-cropped silver beard and one blinded eye that had been replaced with a silver orb.

  ‘Lord-Castellant Martoris Skywarden,’ said Tarion, gathering his wits. ‘Thank you for your welcome. I come to ask your aid.’

  ‘I know,’ said Skywarden. ‘I also know, unlike you, whether I will give it, and what it will mean if I do, or if I do not.’

  Tarion felt annoyance rise in his chest. ‘Lord-Castellant, with respect–’ he began.

  Martoris held up a hand.

  ‘I do not intend to be obtuse, Arlor,’ he said. ‘Come, join me before the Cognis Celestis, and I will do my best to aid you. I wish only for you to understand that what you will ask of me is no small thing. Our road forks here, and you should know your destination before you choose a path.’

  Scowling, Tarion sprang into the air and swept across the chamber, alighting with a clang before the Lord-Castellant.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any sense attempting to hide the nature of my quest from you,’ said Tarion. Skywarden answered with a strange smile. Close to, Tarion saw that the Lord-Castellant’s silver eye was graven with fine, glowing runes. It swivelled and rolled constantly in its socket. His armour was the white of the Knights Excelsior, its pale sheen washed out by starlight.

  ‘I know of Neave Blacktalon and her difficulties,’ said Skywarden. ‘But rest assured that I have shared this information with none but Jeshoria. The seer that discovered it has been dealt with. Neave’s secret will remain just
that, for it is too dangerous for the case to be otherwise. You were wise to tell no other of this, Tarion Arlor.’

  ‘You trust your servant?’ asked Tarion.

  ‘With my life,’ replied Skywarden, his voice hardening.

  Tarion nodded. ‘I have come to seek information regarding the content of Neave’s… of what she saw,’ said Tarion. ‘I thought to enquire carefully amongst my brothers and sisters, to try to locate by geographical detail the location that she witnessed, perhaps some information about the figures there. I knew that the matter could be dangerous for her, if suspicions were raised before we understood what was happening. We Hammers of Sigmar, more than most, cannot afford any seeming of weakness. But now your ominous hints have filled me with dread that the danger stretches beyond just my friend and me.’

  ‘It may yet reach further than you could believe,’ said Skywarden. ‘But that will depend upon your choices, and hers. Nothing I say or do can aid you in walking your path. That you must do alone. But you are looking for somewhere to begin.’ Skywarden turned towards the bottled star that blazed at his back. ‘The Cognis Celestis can provide you with this, far quicker than any amount of circumspect questioning and hope.’