The Crystal of Fate

Guy Haley

Duke Phostrin, lord of the Sky Shoals, spoke. ‘Are you sure this will work, wizard?’

‘Yes, yes! Of course.’ The sorcerer Chalix clasped his long hands together in front of his chest and hunched in a manner that might have been a bow, had he ever shown any sort of deference to Duke Phostrin before. Phostrin contemplated the scrawny sorcerer for several hostile seconds. Chalix responded with a sharp-toothed, servile grin.

‘Do you have it, or do you not?’ the sorcerer asked.

Phostrin beckoned. His Chosen, five warriors almost as lordly as he, stepped into the chamber.

‘Vulcris, Barthon, Hurios, Dweft and Magazzar,’ said Chalix, naming them. All in the tower chamber were blessed by their god, but the gifts that Tzeentch had bestowed on the warriors were different to those given to the seers. Chalix was small, emaciated, his bones sharp through his blue skin. The Chosen of Phostrin were massive, swollen far beyond their natural size by magic, clad in gleaming armour of metallic purples and greens, featureless helms hiding their faces.

Vulcris and Dweft came forward, bearing a wriggling bag, which they dumped on the floor in front of the sorcerer. A pained whimpering came from inside.

‘Don’t hurt it!’ said the sorcerer. ‘How is it? Is it beautiful? Is it a fine offering for our lord?’

‘We chased the damn thing all over the Russet Isle,’ said Phostrin. ‘We nearly had it when the tribe there dared defy us. Too many of them grow rebellious as the news of Sigmar’s invasion reaches them, and these were no different. Once they were dealt with, Vulcris here nearly fell to his death when the creature tried to escape up the Marrond Cliffs. It cost us a lot of effort, so it had better be right.’

‘Well then, well then, let me see!’ said Chalix impatiently. Vulcris hauled the sack upright and tore the cloth open. He and Dweft tugged the sack down, revealing the head of the misshapen thing inside, and stepped back.

The sex was impossible to tell. Its head was a distorted ellipse, thicker and heavier at one end than the other so that the creature held it to the left. At the thinner right side, the lips of three small mouths smacked and squirmed over misshapen teeth. Seven eyes, two of them milky with blindness, were situated at random around its lopsided face. Only the nose was in the place nature intended, and it was twisted severely.

‘Exquisite!’ said Chalix. ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’ To admire his prize in full, he yanked the sack down and away. The mutant wore a tunic of rough cloth. It had three arms, very thin, tipped with three-fingered hands. Wiry hair covered the scalp, shoulders, and legs. The legs were well formed and muscular, but the feet were over-large for the body. The mutant flinched as Chalix wrapped his long fingers around its warty chin and tilted its malformed head upwards.

Behind the wizard was a tall mirror framed in glittering silver, a thousand representations of Tzeentch’s holy servants moulded into the metal. It caught the light shining through the chamber’s colonnade, so pure and sharp at the summit of the tower, and cast it up into the domed ceiling. Ripples of light moved around the frescoes there, as mobile as the reflections cast off Anvrok’s silver rivers. Phostrin avoided looking at the ceiling, wary of what the patterns might say to him. Instead, he took in his own reflection, large behind the simpering wizard. The patterns with which Tzeentch had marked his skin were bright upon his face.

Chalix stepped aside so that the mutant might see itself.

Fearfully, it blinked and made a sorry moaning. Thick yellow tears trickled from one of the blind eyes. Chalix grinned maliciously at its woe.

‘Oh, oh, do not cry! You are much blessed by our lord Tzeentch,’ said Chalix. ‘You are perfect! Such random change wrought upon you, you will be a very fine offering to the Changer of the Ways.’

The mutant mewled at him and tried to pull away. Chalix would not let go.

‘We have all we need, Lord Phostrin. We may begin!’ Chalix said. The mutant cowered as Chalix released its face. The sorcerer reached into his long sleeves, and drew his hand out as a closed fist. ‘See, see!’ he said to the mutant. ‘See! I will not cause you pain. Look!’ The mutant frowned, twisted nose sniffing.

Chalix opened his hand, revealing a handful of glittering powder. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Chalix nodded encouragingly, and the mutant bent closer.

Chalix blew hard, sending a cloud into the mutant’s face. It spluttered, its eyes rolling back in their many sockets, and it fell to the marble floor.

‘Yes, very good!’ chuckled Chalix. He shuffled to a chest in the corner of the room and took out a small box full of coloured chalks. ‘You have done well, Duke Phostrin. I shall pay you handsomely, yes, just as we agreed. Much armour and weaponry will be yours.’

‘Just see it is so. How long is this going to take, Chalix?’

‘Patience, patience!’ said Chalix. He knelt on the marble by the mutant and opened his chalk box. ‘Before sundown, yes. Then we will be ready.’

Phostrin glanced at Vulcris. The leather of the warrior’s gloves creaked as he shifted his grip on his weapon.

‘Enjoy, sit! Eat, drink,’ said Chalix. An alcove lit up, and inside was a table stacked with fruits and flasks of wine. ‘You eat, while I work.’

Phostrin jerked his head to the side. His warriors left the food alone. They went to the door and took up guard. Two set themselves to watch on the nine thousand stairs of the tower. The others stayed within, fixing their featureless masks on Chalix. The sorcerer hummed to himself, arrogance rendering him immune to their hatred. Phostrin went to the windows, with their many telescopes, to survey the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.

Chalix’s tower reached thousands of feet from a small island at the edge of the Sky Shoals – Phostrin’s duchy. Away from the great lands of Anvrok, Denvrok and Kantruk, the Hanging Valleys broke into smaller pieces shot through with rich veins of metal that formed a vast archipelago in an ocean of limitless sky. The islands were fuzzed with vegetation all over, for the circular track of the sun brought it to shine on both the top and underside of the islands. A mighty continent could be seen thousands of leagues away as a grey, featureless bar, but it was to the three chief lands of the Hanging Valleys that Phostrin’s attention was drawn. He put his eye to one of the wizard’s instruments and squinted through a crystal lens.

Storm clouds boiled with fury over the three larger countries. Anvrok was ramparted by the towering peaks of the Vaulten Mountains where, in ages past, watchtowers had been established. They had been long ruined, but now they were rising anew. Tiny flakes of colour blinked upon them, bright pennants streaming in the wind. The distance was too great to make out their emblems, but their presence spoke their message clearly enough – these lands belong to Sigmar.

Phostrin panned the telescope along the ridge until it lighted upon Argentine, the celestial drake. The fires that warmed the metal sea of the Great Crucible were at war with themselves, the old scintillating colours lately twisted through with pure white flame. The beast was unquiet, its gargantuan body coiling and uncoiling in silent agonies as Chaos and Order fought for his soul. It was but a matter of time, thought Phostrin. The crystal cockatrice, Vytrix, would doubtless be next. All the lands about the great serpent had been taken or were contested. Over Argentine’s gaping jaws, the rim of the Great Crucible also sported the banners of the God-King.

‘Anvrok fallen, the Crucible taken. Denvrok under assault,’ said Phostrin. ‘Maerac and King Thrond dead, Kairos banished, Ephryx destroyed... Our turn will come soon enough.’

‘If we are successful, that will never happen,’ said Chalix, intent on the circle. ‘Have faith, Duke Phostrin. The Great Changer’s plans are many layered. Now hush! I work quicker without interruption.’

Phostrin returned his attention to the conquered lands, scanning them for any glimpse of Chaos’ resurgence. He could find none, though he stared until his eyes were weary.

The sun sailed to light the underside of the Hanging Valleys. Darkness came to the tops of the larger lands, but the isles were too small to block the sun and so true night never ventured to the Sky Shoals. The strange lucidity of the lowered sun shone up around the islands, casting tall cones of darkness skywards. Chalix’s chamber took on the hue of blue shadow. Only the mirror shone bright, as if still caught in full sunlight.

‘There!’ said Chalix. He stood, dusting off his hands, and surveyed his handiwork; a series of ornate circles interlocking across the floor.

‘So your drawing is done. How much longer until we can enter the Oracle’s sanctuary?’ grumbled Phostrin.

‘Not long. The spell itself is relatively simple,’ Chalix said. ‘It is the preparation that takes the time.’

‘And this will open the way to the realm of Kairos?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Chalix. He returned his chalk box to the chest and took out a long knife. He unsheathed it, holding its length up to his critical eye. It was slightly curved, half an inch wide, thin as a cruel whisper and many times sharper. Satisfied, he went to the mutant and rolled it onto its back with his foot.

‘The Great Oracle was careless. It is natural one so high in Tzeentch’s esteem would not consider defeat, but he should have, oh yes. Now he is gone, his lair is open to all who have the appropriate offering, the right equipment and the correct expertise. You provided the two material ingredients, whereas in my humble personage resides the most important component of all – knowledge!’

Chalix knelt and drove the knife into the chest of the mutant. The creature was so stupefied it managed only a single gasp to protest its death. Blood pooled on the floor as Chalix pulled a dark heart from inside, cutting away connective tissue until it was free. He bent over this misshapen organ to whisper something Phostrin could not make out but that hurt his ears to hear. Chalix finished his crooning, drew back his arm and hurled the heart with all his might at the mirror.

‘A twisted heart for a twisted heart, great Tzeentch!’ he shouted.

The heart vanished with a bang. Glass exploded out into the room. Phostrin raised his hand to protect his face, but the glass never struck. It stopped in midair then flew backwards, the moment of explosion reversed. The glass did not fit itself back into the frame, but formed into a faceted arch, glittering with tainted rainbows.

The mirror became a door. A corridor of glowing crystal lay beyond, going up a series of uneven stairs. Cool, dry air blew outwards. A horn winded somewhere far away.

Chalix nodded happily at his efforts. ‘The gate is open, yes!’

Phostrin put on his helmet and drew his sword. Chalix passed through the portal fearlessly, lifting his robes as he stepped over the pool of blood. The Chosen followed, Phostrin coming last.

A cracking and tinkling filled the tunnel.

‘It is as if we are inside the remains of the mirror,’ muttered Vulcris. ‘And the shards of glass shift under us.’

‘You are closer to the truth than you realise,’ responded Chalix. ‘This is the outer edge of Lord Tzeentch’s Crystal Labyrinth, part of, but separate from it. Nothing is as it seems here, all is illusory, a perverted reflection of a shadow of a thought. We must not tarry in finding Lord Kairos’ lair, we will be noticed before long. The Realm of Chaos is no place for mortals.’

Chalix set off up the stairs, Phostrin and his chosen men following. The way forwards and the way back looked identical, the direction of travel impermanent and tricky to judge. Phostrin could not tell if up was up and down was down, or whether the party had been turned about and were returning again to Chalix’s lair. In the walls, a million images rippled. More than once, Phostrin felt eyes on him, and turned quickly to find his own reflections moving independently of his actions. Dark shapes moved behind the treacherous images, creeping under the glassy surface to suddenly shoot past, leaving draughts of perfumed air in their wake. The Chosen became wary, mighty though they were. Unlike them, the mage sallied forwards indefatigably, unworried.

Time became elastic. Phostrin could not gauge how long they climbed before the way divided into dozens of tunnels that shifted position when not watched.

‘Which path is it, wizard?’ said Phostrin.

‘Wait,’ said Chalix. ‘All is in hand.’ He reached into his robes, and pulled a chain out. On the end was a small blue feather. He cupped his hand protectively around it. ‘A single plume from a Lord of Change. It will show the way.’

‘It will trick us,’ said Magazzar.

Chalix clucked and shook his head. ‘It is enchanted. Much blood was shed to gain it, and very terrible bargains I struck to learn the secret of how to perform this magic. But know the secret I do.’ He watched as the feather swung to stillness. It turned so that the quill indicated an otherwise unremarkable tunnel.

‘This way!’ he said, and forged on without hesitation.

The stair levelled, opening into a cavern whose dazzling walls stretched up and down until they were lost in a haze of glaring light. A slender bridge of glittering crystal leapt up from the tunnel’s end, crossing to the far side where another way opened, a blue blemish on the glow.

‘Ah yes, all is as described!’ said Chalix eagerly. ‘Come!’ he waved them onwards as he mounted the bridge. ‘Be wary here, it is slippery.’

Magazzar went at the rear. As he stepped upon the bridge, a single, ringing note chimed from the crystal of the cave. The light turned from bright white to a deep red. From the depths built a shrieking scream.

‘Hurry now!’ said Chalix. He picked up his skirts and increased his speed to a trot. Duke Phostrin and his Chosen followed, their heavy tread shaking the fragile bridge. There was barely space for Phostrin to place his feet side by side. The screaming grew louder. Magazzar looked over the edge, then yelled out a warning to his comrades at what he saw. Phostrin turned to see Magazzar’s head torn off by a blur of colour. Blood sprayed from his ragged neck and he toppled from the bridge. More of the shapes followed. They screamed, raking at the travellers with whipping tails. Vulcris lashed out with his axe, chopping into one of the creatures. Damaged, the creature tumbled away, unbalancing the Chosen warrior. He wavered at the brink but Phostrin grabbed his cloak and hauled him back, his own feet slipping on the glassy material.

‘Daemon beasts, Kairos’ guard dogs,’ said Phostrin. The creatures sped past the bridge in a tight shoal, their dire screams echoing endlessly through the cavern.

‘They are coming again!’ said Hurios.

‘Stand ready!’ commanded Phostrin. The chosen planted their feet firmly apart on the length of the bridge, weapons up. This time they were prepared. The screamer shoal dived at them, broad bodies undulating eagerly. The Chosen hacked out, slaying several, dodging the lashing tails of those that sped on overhead. Then the creatures were past, streaking for the far side of the cave.

‘Run!’ shouted Phostrin. They ran as fast as they dared. The wizard was nearing the end of the bridge.

Twice more they stopped to cleave screamers from the sky. As the beasts passed them by again, they ran on. In this manner they reached the far tunnel. Phostrin passed through first, then Vulcris, Dweft, Hurios and finally Barthon. As Barthon came through the entry, the screams grew loud for the final time. Barbed tails punched through his chest, jerking him backwards.

‘Aid me!’ he shouted. Dweft dived to grab his hand but Barthon was yanked from his feet and hauled skywards before their fingers could connect. The creatures’ flight slowed, and they formed a mass around the doomed warrior. They cruised around and around, darting in to snatch morsels of their struggling prey.

‘Barthon cannot be saved,’ said Dweft.

‘Why does the mage not use his magic?’ asked Hurios.

‘It will bring more doom on us,’ said Phostrin. ‘Swords and martial might are all that will serve us here.’

Barthon had ceased moving. Blood drizzled from the writhing mass of screamers as they fed.

Vulcris shrugged. ‘More pillage for the rest of us, then.’

They travelled for days, or so it seemed, and yet they needed no food or water, or other comforts of the body. Chalix led them through a forest of shivering stone, into a place whose sky was the surface of a placid lake where strange, glowing things swam. They climbed staircases that did not end but joined top to bottom. They spent days in a labyrinth where their own voices mocked them from afar. From there, they passed into a freezing wasteland of salt spires, where they were assailed by capering pink daemons, each one slain splitting into two lesser, miserable blue creatures. These things were numerous but cowardly and fled when Phostrin slew their champion.

Time and mind were warped. Phostrin lost track of the order of events. Days lasted seconds, seconds took years. When it was they came to the end, Phostrin could not tell. A day or a century might have passed. All he knew was that he blinked, and they were done, standing at the opening to a mean cave set into a soaring yellow cliff. Outside, a plain of flawless green glass stretched away in every direction, giving out a lurid light.

‘We are here, the lair of Kairos,’ said Chalix. The sorcerer seemed older. He had a haunted look.

‘I see nothing,’ said Vulcris. He stepped forwards. Chalix put out an arm to stop him but the Chosen pushed it aside. ‘I am tired of waiting, destiny is here.’

‘Wait! There are final wards that must be dealt with!’ called Chalix.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ said Vulcris. ‘Destiny is here.’

‘Hold him back!’ ordered Phostrin.

Hurios and Dweft moved to stay their comrade, but their efforts made no effect, and they were pushed before him across the slick glass.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ repeated Vulcris, his voice hollow and leaden. He pushed onwards, as if Hurios and Dweft were not there. ‘Destiny is here.’

Phostrin ran from the cave entrance to join his men, leaning between them to push against the chest of Vulcris.

‘He is bewitched!’ shouted Hurios.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ repeated Vulcris.

‘Too late! Back, back off the glass!’ called Chalix. ‘Something comes!’

‘Destiny is here,’ said Vulcris.

Phostrin looked over his shoulder. A dark shadow was emerging from the numbing light of the glass plain. A warrior, coming towards the cliff and the cave mouth.

‘Heed the wizard. Leave him,’ Phostrin said. ‘Get off the plain.’

Hurios fell as he let go of Vulcris. Dweft stumbled away. Phostrin threw himself out of Vulcris’ path. Vulcris marched forward steadily, no faster and no slower than when the others had made their futile attempt to arrest him.

Phostrin made it back to the edge of the glass plain and took refuge in the cave. They watched the warrior approach Vulcris. Phostrin squinted against the light. The warrior was familiar.

‘It is Vulcris also!’ he exclaimed. ‘He has been doubled!’

The warrior was garbed exactly as Vulcris, identical in every respect saving only that what was left on Vulcris was right on his doppelganger, and vice versa.

‘A mirror image,’ said Hurios.

The warriors stopped a sword’s length apart. They raised their axes, and attacked.

Eight times they swung identical blows at each other, eight times the hafts of their twinned axes knocked together. On the ninth, the axe heads sailed past each other, burying themselves in the chests of Vulcris and his double. They threw back their heads and screamed, exploding into roaring pillars of light that shot away on far horizons before becoming one with the unvarying glow.

‘Look! Blood is spilled, the final key,’ said Chalix.

Reality blinked. The plain was gone. A chamber, as many-planed and angular as the interior of a diamond, was there in its stead. Every facet held a staring, avian eye. A golden statue of Lord Kairos occupied the middle of the chamber. Floating above the spread wings was a thumb-sized crystal, black as midnight. Chalix hurried towards it greedily. The eyes in the walls narrowed in scrutiny.

‘The heart of Kairos Fateweaver, the Crystal of Fate! See, it has nearly reformed. We are here in the nick of time,’ he whispered.

‘Where is the treasure, wizard?’ demanded Hurios. ‘We were promised enchanted weapons, devices of great power.’

Chalix snatched the crystal from the air. ‘Wait! With this, anything is possible.’

Hurios and Dweft angrily paced the shining space. Their search was short. Apart from the crystal and the statue, the chamber was empty.

‘How will you pay?’ demanded Dweft. ‘There is nothing else here!’

‘Speak, wizard,’ said Phostrin. He raised his sword. The three warriors surrounded the sorcerer. ‘What of our bargain?’

Dweft and Hurios tensed, ready to fight. Chalix smiled wickedly.

‘Here is the payment you so desire!’ he shouted. He held up the crystal. Lines of jagged darkness stabbed out, transfixing Dweft and Hurios. They were transformed instantly into crystal statues rooted to the chamber floor.

‘Such fools,’ Chalix scoffed. ‘Do you think I would share any prize with the likes of–’

Chalix’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. With a tearing noise, Phostrin’s sword emerged through his stomach, the point dripping coppery blood. Phostrin reached round and took the crystal from Chalix’s weakening fingers.

‘Chalix, I thank you for bringing me this.’

Phostrin wrenched the sword free. Chalix fell to the ground with a cry. As the sorcerer’s life fled, Phostrin held up the crystal, captivated by the lights glinting from its surface.

‘You... You were not transmutated?’ gasped Chalix.

Phostrin threw his helm to the floor with a clatter and looked down at the dying mage. ‘Thanks to my great-grandfather.’ He tapped a ring upon his gauntlet, a simple silver band. ‘He passed this down, and a certain scroll bearing grave secrets. You thought to trick me, Chalix, trusting to my ignorance to ensnare me. You sorcerers are all the same, dismissive of your betters. I know what this can do.’ He held up the crystal and smiled. ‘The soul of a daemon, and now it is mine.’ He closed his hand around it.

‘Give it to me... Phostrin... Before it is too late!’ gasped out Chalix. Blood slipped from his mouth. He reached out his shaking hand.

‘I think not. You and your ilk have had your own way in the Anvrok Valleys for too long. It is time for a new order, comprised of men of substance.’

‘You do not know what you are doing!’

‘Oh, but I do,’ said Phostrin. ‘I have a plan. The daemons of our lord are the only ones who hold any fear for you, are they not Chalix? I have seen you creep and fawn over them. I have seen you plead for their favour. I intend to become one myself. I will consume this heart and be made anew. Then I shall return to Anvrok and deal with your filthy kind. I will speak directly with Tzeentch himself, without intermediary. I will reign supreme over the lands in the name of the Great Changer, and the lords of the isles and the valleys will return to their rightful position as rulers, not slaves to a wizard’s whims.’

He held the crystal high. The eyes in the cave’s facets peered at him intently. ‘When that is done, I shall gather all their armies and drive Sigmar’s hosts back from our lands, for the greater glory of Tzeentch.’

Chalix coughed up a welter of dark blood. Phostrin saw that he was laughing.

‘You are a fool. You know nothing of the true nature of Chaos. A daemon cannot be a lord of men. You know nothing of what–’

Phostrin’s sword swept down, splitting the sorcerer’s forehead. Chalix fell back and said no more.

‘I am a fool but you are dead. Who is the winner?’ Phostrin held up the crystal between finger and thumb. Power radiated from it, distorting the air as rising heat shimmers. ‘If only I had mead to wash it down with, it would go more easily,’ he said.

He placed it into his mouth. His tongue sizzled, but he felt no pain. With great difficulty, he swallowed it down, feeling its sharp edges scrape his gullet all the way to his stomach.

For a few seconds, he stood unaffected. Then, sudden agony gripped him. He bent double and howled. A fierce tingling took hold of his body, sharp and painful as a million needles driving in and out of his skin. He screwed his eyes shut, and the world became a timeless sheet of white pain.

An aeon passed, or so it seemed, and then was gone.

Phostrin found himself balled into a low crouch. Carefully, he unfolded his new self and raised huge arms before wondering eyes. His flesh had become a dark, mottled purple. Long talons tipped his fingers. A strange sensation troubled his shoulders, and he shook. A pair of great bat’s wings snapped open. In the crystal of the cave, his new face was reflected, long and spurred, crowned by a trio of scimitar horns. A smile exposed broad teeth. He explored his new face with his hands. Power cracked at the contact of flesh, and he laughed. On muscular legs he stood tall and breathed deep. Using the crystal wall as a mirror, he surveyed the new cage of his spirit from top to bottom.

He was well pleased by what he saw.

‘Power, power!’ he roared. ‘Let us see the petty sorcerers of Anvrok defy their new emperor! I will slay any who refuse my rule.’

He turned about, seeking the way out so that he could return and begin his reign. Thinking he had mistaken the placement of the door, he turned again. With a dawning horror, he realised it had gone. Every facet of cave was the same as before, each framed its peering eye, but where the entrance had been was a smooth panel of crystal. He went to it and beat on it. It did not yield. Screaming, he pounded harder with his fists, raging until something caught his eye.

He pressed his face close to the surface. Beyond the reflections and the staring eyes, he could see through the glass-like material.

On the floor of the space outside was Chalix’s body, as huge as a gargant. Phostrin’s head darted to the side. There were the contorted glass statues of Hurios and Dweft, also seemingly enlarged. Beyond them was the darkness of the door, made cavernous and distant. His prison was an exact replica of Kairos’ lair in miniature.

With ultimate realisation, he looked down. Through the distorting effects of the crystal floor, he could make out the golden statue.

He was trapped in Kairos’ heart.

A rustle of robes and a dry, doubled chuckle came from outside. The eyes in the crystal’s walls blinked, and then there were only four. These too vanished, replaced by an enormous claw that gripped the crystal and lifted it high. Phostrin staggered as the crystal tipped and he was brought to the scrutiny of two wrinkled faces.

Kairos Fateweaver looked within.

‘He does not see what I see,’ said one head. ‘What his fate shall be.’ It clacked a massive beak in mirth.

‘Shall I tell it? He did not know his fate when he set out, he does not know it now,’ said the other. Both heads regarded the trapped Phostrin with amusement. ‘Or shall we leave it for a surprise?’

‘Kairos!’ said Phostrin. His new hands spread on the crystal, not mighty, but tiny, the hands of a homunculus. ‘Release me!’

Kairos tutted and shook the crystal. ‘Lord Kairos I am! I am your master. You will address me correctly.’

Phostrin was flung about the chamber and crashed into the wall painfully. Kairos finished his shaking.

‘You are dead, my lord,’ Phostrin said.

‘It did not listen to its sorcerer. I cannot die, little one.’

‘I never do,’ said the other head. ‘I have seen.’

‘I am eternal, I have ever been, and ever will be.’

‘But you have to reform,’ said Phostrin. ‘Chalix said, he–’

Both heads croaked with laughter. ‘How can a constant be unmade? I have no beginning.’

‘And I have no end,’ concluded the second head. ‘How can a circle be made a line?’

‘I am a daemon, I am your equal! I consumed your heart. You have no right to imprison me,’ said Phostrin.

The heads laughed uproariously.

‘You misunderstand,’ said the first head. The larger cave began to dissolve into streamers of prismatic light, taking the dead Chalix, Hurios and Dweft with it.

‘As there are orders of precedence and of degree for men, so there are orders of precedence and degree for daemons.’

‘You saw our kind in your world, and misunderstood. They were lone ambassadors. This is our domain,’ explained the other head.

The last vestiges of the cave vanished. Kairos beat his mighty wings and soared over a landscape of hard angles and dazzling light.

‘Behold!’ he cawed. ‘The Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch!’

A pane cleared in Phostrin’s prison. An endless landscape of twisting crystal caves greeted his eyes, teeming with the daemonic servants of Tzeentch. They spread away, filling the labyrinth, spilling out of the Realm of Chaos, out of the Mortal Realms and beyond into eternities uncountable. They plotted, setting themselves against mortal worlds, the servants of other gods, and each other. He recoiled from what he saw, but he could not unknow it. He was of their number and their concerns were now his. Their knotted plans whispered in his mind. Here was hell for him, an eternity of scheming, worse by far than the hegemony of mortal sorcerers.

‘No! No! Release me!’ begged Phostrin. ‘I have no wish to be part of this, I will rule over the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok, and take them back for Lord Tzeentch! This is my service! I swear it will be done!’

‘Tsk tsk,’ said Kairos. ‘I do not foresee that for you. Such a petty patch of reality you offer the Great Changer. You insult him.’

‘Our dreams oft lead us to ruin,’ said the other head to Phostrin. ‘It is not entirely your doing. You may thank your great-grandfather. He was most diligent in holding the gifts we gave him, passing them from son to son. Now this scheme is done, a fresh one begins. I have need of a new servant. You will suffice. Your place is here, forevermore. You are reborn a daemon, but you achieved your position by trickery,’ said one head.

‘Lord Tzeentch approves, but there are rules,’ said the other.

‘Rules all in the Labyrinth must obey!’

‘For nine eternities and one day must you serve me,’ said Kairos. ‘Only then will you have earned the power you stole. Now, first to the Whispering Pandemonium. There shall we begin your education. Only when you have experienced pain and madness beyond the ken of mortals shall you be ready to proceed to the next torment.’

‘Little by little, we will tear your soul away until you are wholly Tzeentch’s,’ said the second head.

Laughing, Kairos brandished his staff and swooped away over the infinite intrigues of Tzeentch’s realm, carrying the screaming Phostrin away.

About the Author

Guy Haley is the author of the Space Marine Battles novel Death of Integrity, the Warhammer 40,000 novels Valedor and Baneblade, and the novellas The Eternal Crusader, The Last Days of Ector and Broken Sword, for Damocles. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in Warstorm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

The Lords of Chaos gather their forces...
The Call of Chaos echoes across the Mortal Realms and into the grim darkness of the far future.

Two new serialised supplements, and new fiction for Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Age of Sigmar.
Collect them all and answer the Call of Chaos.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Crystal of Fate © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2015. The Crystal of Fate, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-026-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.