VAULT OF SOULS
Evan Dicken

 	Knight-Incantor Averon Stormsire scowled at the rows of listing colonnades that marked where the twisted, shadowy streets of Shadespire gave way to the mad architecture of the Nightvault. Like the shell of an idoneth mollusk, the ancient prison necropolis spiralled deeper and deeper, its lower reaches lost to clinging darkness.
 	‘At last.’ Rastus’ words boomed from behind his golden mask. The broad-shouldered Evocator cocked his head, hefting his heavy tempest blade with practised ease. ‘But say the word, Knight-Incantor, and we shall drag Thalasar from his decrepit lair.’
 	‘I doubt winnowing out the katophrane will be so easy.’ Ammis spoke from behind Averon. Disliking how it restricted her vision, she had yet to don her high-crested helm, her attention fixed not on the entrance to the Nightvault, but on her tempest blade and stormstaff. Concentration cut deep grooves in her darkly tanned face, her lips pressed into a tight line as she checked and rechecked the network of arcane formulae that bound the glittering conduit of celestial energy to her weapons. 
 	Averon held up a fist to silence his companions. It would not do to come so close to their prey only to have Thalasar slip away again. Anger and frustration burned in the Knight-Incantor’s breast. There was no way of measuring time in the cursed half-light of Shadespire, but Averon and his Cursebreakers had spent far too long plumbing its maddening depths for the secrets of true immortality. Tasked by Sigmar himself, they sought a way to end the slow rasp of memory and soul that the Reforging process inflicted upon their fellow Stormcasts.
 	Closing his eyes, Averon reached out with his arcane senses, sifting through the fog of death energy for a hint of Thalasar’s sorcery. He could feel the souls still trapped within the Nightvault, their struggles like candles guttering in the murk. In shaking the foundations of Shadespire, the Shyish necroquake had also breached the Nightvault, laying bare arcane knowledge locked away since before the cursed city was cast into shadow. It was the dark promise of these secrets that had drawn Averon and his Cursebreakers to the ancient prison, and to Thalasar. 
 	A thin glimmer of gold threaded the necromantic gyre that shrouded the upper reaches of the Nightvault. Cloaked in shadow, it drew Averon on, just as it had captured his attention the first time he had sensed Thalasar’s enchantments – so unlike that of his katophrane peers. 
 	There was something different about it, something familiar. Averon had put a score of necromancers and unquiet shades to the question, and found that even among the most ancient katophranes, Thalasar’s creations were spoken of with jealous awe. If anyone in Shadespire held the key to slipping the terrible loss of Reforging, it was Thalasar, Averon was sure of it.
 	‘Knight-Incantor.’ Ammis stood. She slipped on her helmet, gaze fixed on the gloom. ‘Something moves in the darkness. I cannot see it, but I can feel its power.’
 	‘I sense it, too.’ Rastus interposed himself between his companions and the growing shadow, storm energy crackling around his weapons.
 	‘Do you want to bring every gheist within a dozen miles down on us?’ Averon shouldered past the tall Evocator, who lowered his blade and staff with a frustrated grunt. ‘Douse those weapons and remain here until I call for you.’
 	‘You are too hard on him.’ Ammis stepped to Averon’s side. 
 	‘I don’t recall asking for your advice.’ Averon picked up his pace. ‘Or your company.’ 
 	She lengthened her stride, long legs easily keeping step. ‘Rastus is young.’
 	‘Rastus is a fool,’ Averon snapped back. ‘A boy who fancies himself a hero. His power is unrefined and uncontrolled, he overestimates his abilities.’
 	‘As did we all, once.’ 
 	Averon grunted, brushing away her reply. Rastus’ anger was understandable; unlike his companions, he had yet to be reforged. Like a fresh banner, his soul shone in the dark – bright, heroic and untattered in a way that Averon could hardly remember being himself. 
 	Rather than respond, he studied the tides of death energy swirling around the Nightvault. Amidst strange, shadowy illusions that swathed the ancient prison, he noticed a thread of sorcery glimmering like a candle within the tides of dark energy. 
 	It was Thalasar’s work, of that he was sure. 
 	Carefully, Averon sent a seeking spell after the glittering strand of arcane energy. A lesser mage would not have been able to tease the thread from the deathly morass swirling around the Nightvault, but Averon was a Knight-Incantor of the Sacrosanct Chamber, possessed of power and skill accrued over several lifetimes of study. 
 	He caught the glittering thread, pulling ever so gently. 
 	The shadows fell away to reveal a creature from Averon’s nightmares.
 	Easily the size of a castle keep, the hulking undead monstrosity was supported by dozens of mismatched legs. Assembled from the mangled corpses of gargants, dracoliths, krakens and creatures Averon did not recognise, the construct lumbered along the upper levels of the Nightvault, its long, multi-jointed arms plucking struggling souls from among the rubble of the ancient prison. He and Ammis had drawn close enough now to see the jagged shards of shadeglass embedded in the monstrosity’s quivering exterior. They glittered with reflected light each time a shrieking spirit was fed to the amethyst flames that burned deep within the thing’s patchwork maw.
 	‘What is that creature?’ Ammis spoke with horrified awe. 
 	‘It seems to be transmuting spirits into raw death energy, like some manner of Necromantic Retort.’ Averon studied the enormous undead monster, watching the flare of arcane light as another soul was fed to the fire. ‘I can feel the power gathering within. Somehow, it distills the spirits, collecting purified essence.’ 
 	‘To what end?’
 	‘I do not know, but I plan to find out,’ Averon replied.
 	‘How?’ she asked.
 	‘Even heroes have their uses.’ Averon looked back over his shoulder. ‘Rastus!’
 	The Evocator hurried up to them, clashing his blade and staff together to release a shower of crackling storm energy. 
 	‘I stand ready!’
 	Ammis spared Rastus’ theatrics an irritated glance before turning back to Averon. ‘Is Thalasar inside?’
 	‘I sense his power, but I am unsure.’ Averon ran a hand through his beard, frowning as one of the Necromantic Retort’s long skeletal arms plucked another struggling bit of soulstuff from one of the cells that hived the massive columns.
 	‘Why would the katophrane create such a thing?’ Ammis asked.
 	Averon had no answer for Ammis’ question – at least, none he cared to give. That kind of knowledge caused more harm than good. The Knight-Incantor had counted many regrets during his long tenure in the Sacrosanct Chamber of the Hammers of Sigmar, and vowed he would see neither of his companions added to the list. 
 	Averon laid a hand on his spirit flask, standing a little straighter as he drew strength from the churning maelstrom of souls within. Ignoring the concern in Ammis’ stance, he fixed his gaze upon the Necromantic Retort. 
 	‘Rastus, bring that abomination down.’
 	‘With pleasure.’ The hulking Evocator charged the construct, a corona of energy gathering like a thunderhead around him. With a shout, Rastus brought his weapons together, an arc of brilliant energy ­hammering into the Retort’s side. Forks of celestial lightning played across the construct’s exterior even as Rastus’ stormstaff set the thing’s legs ablaze. Laughing, the Stormcast brought his heavy sword around, hacking through burning scale and bone.
 	The Retort listed, then crashed into the blackened basalt columns that flanked the street, patchwork limbs thrashing as it lay like an overturned beetle. A flailing arm knocked Rastus tumbling to the ground, but the Evocator was up again in a moment, slashing and hacking as the creature swiped at him.
 	‘Was that wise?’ Ammis asked.
 	‘Have I grown so senile you feel comfortable questioning my decisions?’ Averon snapped back.
 	‘No, Knight-Incantor.’ She bowed her head.
 	Averon bit back a flash of regret. Ammis was a talented mage, one of the best he had seen in decades. She deserved better than an old man’s acrimony. 
 	He forced the gruffness from his voice. ‘We are not the only ones who seek Thalasar. Now that the Retort’s masking enchantments have been broken, the others will be quick to descend.’
 	‘Then we shall have to be quicker.’ Ammis nodded at Averon, her tone light. ‘Do try to keep up, old man.’ 
 	She sprinted towards the fallen construct, her sword and staff held in perfect parallel. She leapt to drive her tempest blade into the Retort’s side. Ancient flesh blackened and parted, necromantic bindings fraying at the touch of her sanctified weapons. 
 	The Retort swiped at her with its myriad arms, but the blows were clumsy. Ammis dodged them almost without looking, and the construct’s long, clawed fingers closed on empty air. Rastus stepped up to guard her back, cutting at the Retort’s flailing limbs like he was hacking through thick brush. In moments, Ammis had opened a hole in the construct’s side, and Averon hastened to join them, already singing the spells that would ward them against hexes woven into the thing’s interior.
 	Inside the Retort was a confusion of torn flesh and broken shadeglass. The Cursebreakers found themselves in a long hall lined by tall ribs of blackened bone. They made their way across the uneven floor, dodging bits of rubble that shifted as the construct spasmed and shook.
 	A host of hexes descended upon them like biting flies, keyed to twist, and burn, and slay. Averon swept the dark magics aside, the arcane redoubt woven by his wards proof against all but the most fell enchantments. 
 	‘Stay close.’ Averon could feel the power that burned within the Retort – not only the energy of the spiritual essences the creature had consumed, but something far more powerful, and familiar. Bruise-coloured flames limned the necrotic walls as the Cursebreakers made their way towards the centre of the thing.
 	The hall opened into a central chamber, a long, bone-columned gallery of obsidian tile and whip-tight sinew overlooking the raging amethyst flames below. Souls struggled in the fire, their incorporeal forms like tallow fed to a forge. Above the furnace hung an enormous cauldron of gold-flecked obsidian in which some manner of foul, metallic liquid bubbled.
 	 Intent on studying the process, Averon peered towards the cauldron, but Rastus’ heavy, gauntleted hand closed on his shoulder, dragging him back. Averon drew in a breath, about to chastise the young Stormcast when a jagged shadesteel blade stabbed up through the floor of the gallery where Averon had stood a moment before. As the Knight-Incantor regained his balance, more blades cut away the floor before them. Attached to long, segmented arms, they extended up to dig into the walls of the chamber. 
 	The thing that emerged from the hole was an abomination of black iron striated with veins of gold. It had no head Averon could see, only a spinning maelstrom of glittering shadeglass suspended in a circular cage of steel and bone. Eight arms were spaced equidistant around the horizontal axis, their ends terminating in jagged, scythelike blades. 
 	‘A shadesteel golem.’ Ammis dropped into a fighting crouch, weapons pointed at the creature. ‘But like none I have seen before.’
 	‘More fuel for the great working.’ The golem’s voice came as a cacophony of screams, a chorus of raw throats babbling incoherent pleas that somehow formed words. 
 	‘I think you will find us far less appetising than your usual prey.’ Rastus stepped past Averon to level his gleaming blade at the golem. It perched spiderlike in the broken gallery, limbs poised in terrible anticipation. 
 	‘Thunder booms, but where is the storm, little one?’
 	‘Fear not.’ Rastus gave a booming laugh. ‘I shall show you.’
 	 Averon studied the golem with his sorcerous sight. Necromantic energy swathed the creature in amethyst shadows, clouds of power illuminated by the occasional flash of brilliant light. As he studied the golem, a creeping disquiet took root in Averon’s chest. ‘Rastus, stay back!’
 	But the Evocator was already moving. 
 	Rastus burned like a streak of lightning, his armoured form little more than a shadow against the glare. Although he struck the golem with the force of a charging demigryph, the thing barely shifted. Tempest blade and stormstaff left no mark upon the golem’s limbs, the energy of Rastus’ assault bleeding into the maelstrom of churning shadow that surrounded the creature.
 	It batted Rastus aside with contemptuous ease, pinning him to the ground with one scythelike arm even as it raised another for the killing blow. 
 	‘By Ghal Maraz!’ Horror whetted the Evocator’s cry to razor sharpness. He stared, wide-eyed, at the veins of gold running through the golem’s metallic arm. ‘That is sigmarite!’
 	Ammis leapt to intercept the falling blade, weapons angled not to oppose but deflect. Celestial lightning crackled up the golem’s arm as it met her stormstaff. Even so, gold-flecked shadesteel cleaved the tiles mere inches from Rastus’ face.
 	‘Averon, what is this abomination?’ Ammis shouted as she shouldered aside the arm pinning Rastus, allowing her companion to roll to his feet. They circled the golem, dodging and parrying. Whenever they tried to strike at the thing, their blows were deflected in a flash of brilliant light. The golem moved with a mechanical grace, no wasted movement, its arms slashing with clockwork precision – almost as if it could anticipate the Stormcasts’ movements.
 	Averon shouted incantations, but each spell seemed only to feed the arcane gale that surrounded the golem, the veins of sigmarite running through its limbs glowing white-hot. It seemed impossible that Thalasar could have crafted such a creature, but Shadespire had swallowed entire chambers of the Hammers of Sigmar. The katophrane must have somehow acquired their armour and weapons. 
 	The Knight-Incantor studied the obsidian vessel above the flame, realising where he had seen this energy before.
 	Like all initiates of the Sacrosanct Chamber, Averon had spent years tending the Cairns of Tempering in Sigmaron, healing the souls of fallen Stormcasts, making whole what had been torn asunder, salvaging what he could from essences twisted by dark forces beyond imagining. A cold foreboding settled in Averon’s chest as he recognised the power shielding the golem. 
 	It was the torn, tormented soul of a fellow Stormcast.
 	Although the realisation hit Averon with the force of a charging dracolith, he knew what needed to be done. Tears stung the Knight-Incantor’s eyes as he sang the chants of binding, his voice fracturing along celestial harmonies, becoming a refrain, a chorus. The golem stumbled, one of its legs gone limp. Sparks of lightning spun from the thing’s central core. 
 	Rastus and Ammis took up the song. Unable to match Averon’s arcane skill, their voices threaded his harmonies, empowering his choir. 
 	Averon had no Cairn of Tempering, no Anvil of Apotheosis, so he snatched the spirit flask from his belt, coaxing the fragments of tortured Stormcast essence inside.
 	Robbed of its stolen celestial energy, the golem stumbled. Averon’s companions were quick to capitalise on the thing’s sudden weakness, Rastus leaping up to hammer at the frame that bound the golem’s spinning core while Ammis flitted between its slashing arms, cleaving joints and shattering exposed shadeglass.
 	Averon slammed his Incantor staff into the tiles, all his anger focused into a bolt of coruscating power that burned through the golem. It shuddered and fell limp, limbs twitching feebly.
 	‘Thalasar has gone too far.’ Rastus raised his flickering stormstaff to deal the final blow.
 	‘Wait!’ Averon flung out his hand. ‘The golem may know its master’s whereabouts.’
 	If Rastus heard, he gave no sign. The Evocator’s stormstaff arced down, only to be met by Ammis’ tempest blade. The weapons crashed together, spitting sparks as the two Evocators locked gazes. 
 	For a moment, Averon feared Rastus might continue his assault, but the Evocator tossed his head like a cornered bull, then lowered his weapons, panting. 
 	‘My apologies, Knight-Incantor.’
 	‘It is easy to unleash the storm, but far harder to bridle it.’ Averon stepped to Rastus’ side to lay a hand on his heaving shoulders. ‘You must learn to control your power or it will control you.’
 	The Evocator nodded. Sheathing his sword, he reached up to remove his helmet, then wiped his brow. Rastus’ olive skin was sheened in sweat, his black hair slicked to his scalp. Although he stood still, he glared at the golem, dark brown eyes narrowed, his stance vibrating with barely restrained fury.
 	‘Come closer, cousins.’ The golem’s voice was a mocking whisper. 
 	‘We are no kin to you,’ Ammis said.
 	‘And yet…’ The golem chuckled weakly.
 	‘By what means were you forged?’ Ammis knelt to examine one of the golem’s severed limbs, prodding the veins of sigmarite with her stormstaff. ‘How did Thalasar manage to craft this alloy, let alone create weapons from it?’
 	‘My master is a giant among katophranes. We are as dust swept along in the gale of his mighty intellect.’ The golem tried to raise itself, but fell back.
 	Ammis looked ready to ask more questions, but Averon shook his head. 
 	‘Where is Thalasar’s sanctum?’
 	‘The last place she would look,’ the golem replied. ‘My master shall not be found, not by her, not by anyone – not unless he wishes.’
 	Averon scowled down at it. Storm sorcery would be of little use extracting answers from the golem. It felt no pain, no fear; ­moreover, it knew they could not truly destroy it, not while Nagash’s curse still ruled Shadespire. Still, Averon knew spells that would lay the thing bare – cruel enchantments acquired over lifetimes spent struggling with the dark powers. Forbidden incantations, the knowledge of which would have seen any but a Stormcast of the Sacrosanct Chamber purged by their peers.
 	 ‘Knight-Incantor.’ Ammis’ call snapped Averon from his dark ruminations. ‘Something approaches.’
 	Averon felt it too: a chill at the edge of his senses, arcane sight distorted by a great nexus of necromantic force.
 	‘You are not the only ones who seek to leash my master’s genius.’ The golem made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. ‘The Briar Queen comes.’
 	Averon knew little of the Briar Queen, but what he did gave him pause. The opening of the Nightvault had unleashed many things, most of which were best kept locked away. Ruined souls shrieked the Briar Queen’s name, their laments tracing her mad cruelty in intricate detail. A death mage of consummate power, she stalked the streets of Shadespire at the head of a host of ravening gheists, ravaging all they touched.
 	‘We need more time,’ Averon muttered. 
 	‘Then I shall give it to you,’ Rastus replied, already striding away.
 	‘Do not be a fool,’ Averon called after him. Glancing at Ammis, Averon sighed, adding more kindly, ‘The Briar Queen is a force even I would hesitate to challenge.’
 	Rastus’ shoulders rose as he stopped short. Averon could see the Evocator was still smarting from his earlier failure with the golem, but there was no time to coddle the young Stormcast’s ego further. 
 	‘You shall be her playthings,’ the golem mocked. 
 	With a snarl, Averon gathered energy to his Incantor staff. There was but one way to get the information they sought.
 	‘Allow me to assist you.’ Ammis stepped to his side.
 	‘Wait outside, both of you,’ Averon snapped back. ‘And be quick about it.’
 	There was a moment of stunned silence, then, seeing Averon would brook no argument, Rastus strode away. After lingering for a moment, Ammis followed.
 	Averon turned back to the golem, the forbidden chant sitting like oil on his tongue. He had long accepted the pitfalls of the path he trod, but was loath to expose his companions to the evils he had been forced to embrace. 
 	Darkness would find them soon enough.
 	The chant blistered the air, words twisting over and around each other like dying serpents. Dark forces churned around Averon, sinking into his flesh, seeming to coat his very bones. The golem shuddered as the Knight-Incantor unleashed the full force of the tainted sorcery. His will bored into the golem’s fractured thoughts, sweeping the fragmented shards of its recollection into a patchwork whole. 
 	Darkness surrounded Averon. Obsidian thorns rent his skin, and his back arced at the unbelievable torment. He saw the souls of his Stormcast brethren trapped within a black obelisk, their noble spirits subject to Thalasar’s mad experiments. Through the haze of pain and madness Averon forced himself to focus, raising bloody hands to grasp at the knife-edged secrets the golem sought to hide. 
 	Like a dagger, knowledge pierced him, cold fire racing through his thoughts. Realisation came as a bitter, cutting wind. It bore fractured recollection steeped in millennia of pain and suffering, disjointed memories etched into Averon’s own soul by the screams of a thousand tormented spirits. 
 	He fell back, exhausted, barely able to keep his feet as he staggered from the crucible chamber. Strong hands caught him in the corridor outside. He glanced up to see Ammis in the doorway, her eyes shadowed.
 	‘What did you see?’ Averon asked.
 	‘Nothing, Knight-Incantor.’ She slipped an arm around his shoulders, bearing him along the scabrous hall.
 	‘I told you to wait outside the Retort,’ he snapped.
 	‘My apologies,’ she replied, her voice distant. 
 	Any further questions Averon might have had were choked off as they stumbled out of the Retort and into the shifting half-light that passed for day in Shadespire.
 	‘Hurry,’ Rastus called, stepping up to help Ammis support Averon. 
 	Already, he could hear the mad shrieks echoing down the colonnaded plazas that ringed the Nightvault. Although the Briar Queen’s creatures were yet some distance away, the twisted acoustics of the ancient prison made it sound as if they were all around the Cursebreakers.
 	‘Deeper.’ Averon gestured at the spiralling galleries below. ‘We must go deeper.’ 
 	An exhausted glance over his shoulder showed the mob of gheists enter the far side of the plaza. The Briar Queen stood among them like a terrible idol – an apparition of ghastly aspect, her ghostly, thorn-pierced flesh clad in tattered finery, a bent and jagged crown upon her brow. As if aware of Averon’s scrutiny she lifted her skeletal head, the twin abysses of her eyes threatening to drag him into madness. Too far away to reach the Cursebreakers, she extended a bony hand, one long finger pointed at Averon as if to mark him for slaughter.
 	With a cry, he tore his gaze away.
 	For once, the Nightvault’s maddening geometries worked to the Cursebreakers’ advantage. As they fled deeper into shadow the snarled galleries quickly obscured them from the Briar Queen’s view.
 	Averon directed their course. Through the pain, the shadows that edged his vision, the darkness that had taken root in his thoughts, Averon muttered one word, a dark mantra repeated over and over in a voice that was not his own:
 	‘Nightvault, Nightvault, Nightvault…’
 	A desiccated beetle scrabbled across the back of Averon’s gauntlet. He flicked it off with an irritated shake, scowling. It was a testament to Nagash’s spite that even the insects of Shadespire could find no rest.
 	The Cursebreakers had spent what seemed like days delving deeper into the shifting bowels of the Nightvault, drawn on by the tainted memories Averon had ripped from Thalasar’s golem. Curving corridors of black basalt had slowly given way to dark marble and cracked shadeglass. Most of the ethereal prisons had been shattered either by accident or artifice, the souls within slipping out to wreak whatever torments they could upon the cursed city. Those few that remained in their prisons flickered with pale blue light, the agonised struggles of their captives filling the air with a sharp, actinic odour that reminded Averon of burning phosphorus. 
 	‘Curse this vile place. Which way?’ Rastus asked from up ahead, his glowing stormstaff held like a torch as he inspected the branching intersection. The Nightvault’s tunnels curled back on themselves, a tangled web of dusty, shadow-haunted passageways as twisted as the veins of an ancient corpse. 
 	Clenching his jaw against the sick, heavy feeling in his gut, Averon regarded the intersection. The answer came like the pain of an old wound, a dull ache building behind his eyes, whetted by the cruel memories he had stripped from the golem. Averon had known of the Nightvault only in the abstract, never realising – never understanding – the desperate torments that infused every stone. Now, the horror of it hung like a chain around his neck.
 	He thrust his chin at a set of uneven stairs that led deeper into the prison. Straightening his shoulders with an effort of will, Averon nodded to Ammis and stepped towards the passage. She followed him, concern glimmering through the stern visage of her mask. 
 	‘I do not like this.’
 	‘Duly noted.’ Averon gestured for Rastus to continue. 
 	‘He may not see what is happening to you, but I do,’ she hissed from behind. ‘There must be a better way.’
 	‘Better perhaps, but none so direct.’ Averon’s words came as a dry croak. ‘You know what pursues us.’
 	Ammis glanced over her shoulder. Even swamped in the choking miasma of necromantic energy that pervaded the Nightvault, Averon knew she could sense the Briar Queen’s approach. Like a terrible eye, her sorceries scoured the Nightvault, questing feelers of death magic slipping through the darkness like the barbed tendrils of her namesake. Averon had been able to shield the Cursebreakers from her gaze thus far, but the Nightvault sapped at his strength and blunted his wards. The ancient prison was the Briar Queen’s domain – it would only be a matter of time until she winnowed them out. 
 	‘Then allow Rastus and I to assist you,’ Ammis said. ‘If we were to bear some of the burden–’
 	‘Enough.’ Averon turned away, following the glow of Rastus’ stormstaff. Shadows pooled along the stairs, strange humanoid shapes gnarled as old tree roots. They pawed at the light, jagged mouths open in silent screams, their hands held as if to beseech the Cursebreakers for aid. With a chill, Averon recognised some of them – the souls of men and women committed to ageless torment in the Nightvault. Memories of exquisite torture flowered in the dark corners of Averon’s thoughts, cruel blossoms sharp enough to etch strange desires into his breast. The golems had gathered these wretches for Thalasar’s experiments, bits of soulstuff woven into artefacts of such beauty and power as to make the gods weep.
 	With a pained grimace, Averon pushed the alien memories aside.
 	 ‘Do you think Thalasar will part with his knowledge willingly?’ Ammis persisted. ‘What then? Will you choose the direct way, no matter the cost?’ 
 	Averon pulled off his helmet and scowled up at her. ‘I will do what is necessary to save our brethren from what we have endured. You know what awaits in the Cairns of Tempering – you have walked the Avenue of Saints, heard the cries of those too damaged or broken to reforge.’
 	‘Yes, I have.’ She studied his face as if searching for something. ‘As I have read the names etched in the Annals Tempestus. I have seen our brethren fall, seen Stormcasts tainted beyond redemption, their spiritual energies sacrificed to keep the Star Bridge burning bright. Look at what the katophranes have wrought. What good is immortality if we lose our souls in the process?’ 
 	‘I have heard enough.’ Averon slashed his hand through the air as if to cut the throat of her reply. ‘I expect this sort of stubbornness from Rastus, but you understand what is at stake.’
 	‘Perhaps better than you realise.’ She gestured at the darkness behind them. ‘You saw what Thalasar did to our brethren – some secrets are not worth the cost.’
 	‘That is for me to decide, not you.’ Averon glared at her. ‘I am Knight-Incantor of the Cursebreakers – you are here to assist me, to follow my orders.’
 	‘And to protect you.’ Ammis met his gaze, unflinching. ‘Even from yourself.’
 	Averon’s grip tightened on his Incantor staff. The temerity, the insolence. He had spent lifetimes in service to the Sacrosanct Chamber, seen things that would blister the minds of his companions, and Ammis sought to question him? 
 	Furious, he opened his mouth, only to be stunned to silence by a resounding crash from below. He and Ammis hurried down the stairs, weapons at the ready. They found Rastus at the bottom of the staircase, the remains of a black iron door smashed to hissing shards at his feet.
 	‘It was locked.’ The Evocator shrugged off his companions’ stares. ‘And we are in a hurry.’
 	The sight of the doorframe withered Averon’s admonitions – vines of jagged iron made intricate scrollwork around the portal. Twined into symbols of binding and punishment, their inner edges were studded with cruelly hooked thorns of shadeglass. The whole sight put Averon in mind of the maw of a deep-sea predator, some monstrosity pulled from the crushing murk to drag the unwary into oblivion. 
 	Averon knew that to step through this portal was to risk never returning, and yet the sight filled him with a strange anticipation, a spiteful joy that brought a smile to his lips – so much beautiful suffering had taken place beyond this door.
 	‘Is this Thalasar’s lair?’ Ammis asked. 
 	Averon shook his head to clear it of dark thoughts. ‘No, but we are close.’
 	So close.
 	At Averon’s nod, Rastus stepped through the door, Ammis following close behind, positioned to ward each other’s backs and cut off potential avenues of assault. Flickering storm energy from their weapons lit the shadows beyond. 
 	Hedges of obsidian shadeglass filled the darkness, tangled creepers obscuring the dimensions of the massive chambers. They seemed to swallow the light, pressing in around the Cursebreakers like ravens on a fresh kill. The whole place smelled of ash and old blood, and echoed with a low, whispering moan just at the edge of hearing.
 	‘Shall I clear us a path?’ Rastus waved his tempest blade at the thorns. 
 	‘No need.’ Averon stepped between them, nodding at an almost invisible path that wound through the maze of hedges. ‘I remember the way.’
 	Ammis cocked her head, eyes worried behind the mask of her helmet. Averon tried to ignore the glance she and Rastus shared, the wordless interplay of concern stitching the air between them. 
 	‘Knight-Incantor,’ Rastus began, but Averon silenced him with a glare before striding off into the hedge. Let the fools worry; as long as they followed his commands he cared nothing for their childish misgivings. He led the Cursebreakers down the twisting trails. Thorns scraped across the Stormcasts’ armour, leaving thin trails of dark blood that was not theirs. 
 	‘What is this place?’ Ammis asked.
 	‘Special.’ Averon chuckled. He could feel it now – the joy of watching a soul peeled back layer by layer, the understanding that came by reducing a mind to its component parts, seeing each bit of who they were, who they would never be again. There was much to be studied here, much to be learned. 
 	At last, they came to a clearing in the hedge. Roughly circular, it was perhaps twenty paces across, ringed by more wards woven from obsidian vines. In the centre was a throne crafted of flawless shadeglass. Fitted with bindings of black iron it was a monstrous thing, a sharp-edged construction of razored points and cunningly crafted barbs, thorned hooks extending from the sides like the limbs of a dreadful insect, poised to flense and cut whatever poor soul was confined to the throne.
 	‘She wished to rule them,’ Averon said. ‘So they crafted her a throne fit for a queen.’
 	‘Why would Thalasar conceal himself here?’ Rastus asked.
 	‘What better place to hide than the prison of the one who seeks you?’ Ammis replied.
 	‘Thalasar was…’ Averon nodded to himself, walking around the throne, ‘responsible for the Briar Queen’s care.’
 	Rastus grunted. ‘She seeks revenge on her gaoler.’ 
 	‘Who would not, after millennia of this?’ Averon knelt, feeling along the underside of the throne. Waves of terror, madness and impotent rage wafted from the thing. Even these pale echoes of the torments the Briar Queen had endured at Thalasar’s behest were enough to make the breath catch in Averon’s throat. 
 	There was a sharp pain as a tiny shadeglass barb pricked through the joint of Averon’s gauntlet, a single drop of blood welling from the puncture. He let it fall, then stood back to watch as the throne slowly ground aside to reveal steps leading down. 
 	Unlike the other stairs in the Nightvault, these were cut from black marble, straight and narrow, the walls to either side free of joint or mortar. Averon knew without looking that they had been perfectly measured, every angle meticulously planned. The walls were etched with masking wards, layer upon layer of obfuscating sorceries meant to turn even an eye as powerful as the Briar Queen’s. Had Averon not known the way, he would have never found this place.
 	Warily, they descended, stepping out into the bowl of a small amphitheatre perhaps fifty yards across, a fan of seats ascending to either side. Man-sized obelisks ringed the upper level. Carved of black obsidian fitted with rings of shadeglass, they glowed with a pale violet light that filled the chamber. Motes of energy crackled between them, lighting up the shadows at the rear of the amphitheatre. In the darkness above, Averon could see dozens of spiderlike golems similar to the one they had battled in the Necromantic Retort. The constructs stood unmoving save for the swirling, churning tempests of shadesteel and sigmarite that spun at their cores. 
 	At Averon’s nod, the Cursebreakers spread out across the bowl of the amphitheatre, gazes sweeping the rows of seats, ready for any threat. Averon began a chant of warding, only to have his incantations trail off as he saw other Stormcasts step through the lambent gloom.
 	Tall and noble, their shields emblazoned with Ghal Maraz, the H­ammers of Sigmar moved through the gloom with practised ease, their weapons at the ready. Averon recognised them as part of a Redeemer Conclave, and was grateful for their presence until he noticed the way the darkness clung to them, their forms shifting as if seen through thick fog. A pair of Liberators stepped towards him, heads craned to watch the golems in the shadows. He half turned in surprise, expecting them to react to the presence of the Cursebreakers, but the Liberators simply passed through him, forming a line at the edge of the bowl of the amphitheatre.
 	With a start, Averon realised he was seeing echoes of the past. Tattered remnants of the souls of his missing comrades lost amidst the swirling aether that filled Thalasar’s lair. He tried to call out to Ammis and Rastus, but they seemed distant, less substantial than even the shades that haunted the ancient prison. Averon watched the Stormcasts advance, then pause as the obelisks lit with dark flame. 
 	The golems descended on the Liberators. Bright flares of storm energy and crackling weapons were lost amidst the fire, the growing shadows seeming to swallow up even the most powerful assaults from his departed brethren. Each attack seemed only to stoke the flames, the struggles of Averon’s lost comrades growing weaker as the obelisks feasted on their assaults. In moments, it was over, a mound of armoured bodies slumped across the amphitheatre, their very souls sucked into the swirling vortex of spiritual energy, the obelisks serving as some manner of soul magnet.
 	Seeing the way the obelisks fed on the storm energy, Averon realised his mistake. With Thalasar, nothing happened by accident. The katophrane had sent the Necromantic Retort to the upper reaches of the Nightvault, had seeded Shadespire with rumour and promise, had lured the Cursebreakers here for a reason. The question was: why?
 	Welcome to my psychopompic inhibitor. The voice echoed in the Knight-Incantor’s thoughts, clipped and measured. I have been waiting for you, Averon Stormsire. More precisely, I have been waiting for your body.
 	Dimly, he heard Ammis shouting, felt her hand close on his arm. Averon blinked in confusion. When had he fallen to the ground?
 	Brilliant flashes pierced the shadows as Rastus blazed with the tempest. Through blurry eyes, Averon watched the Evocator charge up the amphitheatre steps, constellations of celestial lightning crackling around him.
 	Averon tried to move, to warn Rastus that the obelisks fed on storm energy, but his limbs seemed made of marble, his lips frozen in a rictus of agony. 
 	You are my servant! Thalasar’s voice scattered Averon’s thoughts like fallen leaves. My vessel.
 	Dark memories took root in Averon’s mind, their tendrils spreading through the cracks in his recollection, breaking open his mind. His perception was overlaid with Thalasar’s. He could see Rastus battling the golems, knew that each assault was calculated to bait the Evocator into greater feats, the obelisks bleeding off more and more power. He could see himself, crumpled on the ground, Ammis knelt beside him, her lips moving in a terrible, yet familiar chant. 
 	Dully, he struggled against the sucking morass of the katophrane’s will. With a cutting thought, he summoned the voidstorm, but the raging energy could find no purchase. Thalasar did not exist outside the obelisks, outside Averon’s mind – there was nothing for the storm to cast asunder. 
 	A hundred incantations rose amidst the churning babble of Averon’s thoughts – spells that would banish the katophrane or shred his soul into a thousand ragged threads – but he could not seem to lay hands on any of them, the invocations slipping like sand through his fingers even as Thalasar’s will devoured more of his own.
 	‘Stormsire!’ A single voice cut through the confused babble. High and clear despite the terrifying promise of its chant, Ammis shone like a beacon in the maelstrom. Averon could see her leaning over him, her helmet off, her head bowed in concentration as the forbidden chant slipped from her lips. 
 	For a moment, their minds touched, Averon’s memories becoming hers. The darkness of Thalasar’s will, divided, could not maintain its assault.
 	Like clouds parting, Averon could feel awareness return. ‘Rastus,’ he gasped, and knew Ammis understood. 
 	Still, she hesitated, glancing down at Averon.
 	He pushed to his feet, shrugging off her hand. ‘Go!’
 	Ammis stood, already calling for Rastus. The Evocator turned, his head wreathed in a corona of roiling tempest energy, his eyes blazing with celestial fury. 
 	‘The obelisks,’ Ammis shouted. ‘They are some manner of soul magnet, they feed on storm energy!’
 	‘The golems will destroy us if I stop!’ Rastus clashed his weapons together, the boom of thunder swallowed by the encroaching shadow, his roar lost amidst the clatter of shadesteel blades. The maelstrom surrounding him was too powerful and unstable for even Ammis to approach. ‘I will not fail you both again!’
 	‘Please, you must trust me!’ she shouted at him. 
 	‘I cannot stop!’ Rastus turned away, unleashing another arc of storm energy into the growing dark. ‘It is too powerful!’
 	Teeth gritted against the pain in his head, Averon watched the exchange. He raised a hand, ready to call down spells that would douse the young Stormcast’s arcane energies. But something stayed Averon’s hand – a memory, rising as if through murky water. He remembered what it had been like before Reforging had worn holes in his soul, what it was like to be filled with hope, to be surrounded by Stormcasts whom he had looked up to – mentors, teachers, heroes. He remembered what it was to be the youngest, the least skilled; what it was like to try to prove himself to his betters, desperate for their approval.
 	 ‘Bridle the storm!’ Averon limped forwards, imbuing his voice with just enough power to be heard over Rastus’ arcane maelstrom. ‘I know you have the skill, Rastus, the knowledge. Show me the storm does not rule you.’
 	Meeting Averon’s gaze, the Evocator squared his shoulders, seeming almost to wrestle with his weapons. Celestial lightning crackled across his armour, his limbs wreathed in golden light. Screaming, he leashed the tempest, the light fading, until at last he stood in darkness.
 	‘I am proud of you,’ Averon said just before the golems came charging in.
 	Ammis rushed to Rastus’ side, her stormstaff deflecting one of the shadesteel blades. Rastus turned so they were back to back, and together they ducked and dodged, battling the golems with skill alone.
 	Averon stood by, feeling helpless. Even with Ammis’ and Rastus’ ability, they would soon be overwhelmed. Any storm energy Averon summoned would be drained into the obelisks. He could still feel Thalasar at the back of his mind, a cold presence gathering strength for another assault. 
 	The katophrane stalked Averon like a demigryph hunting prey, ­studying him, learning his powers, his weaknesses. Seeing into Thalasar’s mind was like looking into a dark prism, each of Averon’s thoughts reflected back a thousandfold – there was nothing he could do that Thalasar had not already planned for. The Cursebreakers’ souls would be dissected, their armour and weapons turned into more of the katophrane’s shadesteel abominations. As it had for so many before, the Nightvault would become their eternal prison.
 	Cold realisation ran icy fingers up the Knight-Incantor’s spine. The Nightvault might be a prison, but it was a broken one, its captives freed, its gaolers hunted. Averon might not be able to tear free of Thalasar’s web, but he knew of one who could.
 	Averon’s incantation slipped unnoticed through the tumult of combat. A small thing, barely a wisp of sorcery, it bored into the cracks in Thalasar’s wards, seeking the weaknesses the Knight-Incantor had seen when his mind had briefly merged with the katophrane’s.
 	Ancient spells unravelled, bindings picked apart. Sensing Averon’s spell, Thalasar buttressed his wards, but it was too late; Averon had torn a tiny hole in the masking enchantments. Through it he sent a tiny flicker of storm energy, a spark that flashed briefly in the darkness before sputtering out.
 	Thalasar slammed the breach in the wards shut. The katophrane’s laughter filled Averon’s thoughts. For a moment, the Knight-Incantor feared it had not been enough. Then he felt a shift in the arcane currents, Thalasar’s wards reacting to a great and terrible force, a mad aethereal presence that drew death magic to it like a lodestone, shifting, tearing, annihilating. 
 	What have you done? The katophrane’s voice cracked.
 	It was Averon’s turn to laugh as the ceiling at the far side of the amphitheatre collapsed, a torrent of howling gheists pouring into the chamber.
 	Shadesteel golems turned to meet the new threat, wading into the shrieking aethereal tide like gargants swarmed by skaven. 
 	Ammis and Rastus retreated down the amphitheatre steps, rejoining Averon. Ammis took a step towards him, but he waved her off, nodding at the gheists and golems. 
 	‘Keep them back. I must deal with Thalasar.’ 
 	With a nod, the two Evocators took up position on either side of him. A shock wave of aethereal force shrieked across the amphitheatre, almost knocking the Cursebreakers from their feet. Averon did not need to look back to know the Briar Queen had entered the fray. 
 	There was no time for subtlety or care. Averon grasped his spirit flask as his incantation drove deep into the delicate web of enchantments that imbued the psychopompic inhibitor. He could feel the souls of his Stormcast brethren within Thalasar’s soul magnet, still struggling against the arcane chains that bound them.
 	His plans in shambles, Thalasar clung to Averon’s mind like a drowning man. 
 	You are a fool.
 	‘And you are an abomination,’ Averon said. Gripping his staff, he summoned the unbinding spells that would loose the aethereal chains binding the souls of his fellow Stormcasts to the soul magnet. 
 	But I have what you seek. Panic edged the katophrane’s voice. Millennia of research, planning, calculation – I am so close.
 	‘You slew my fellows, stole their armour, their very souls.’
 	It was in service to a greater goal. You will be reborn whole, we will all be reborn whole, Thalasar said. You, of all people, should understand the need for sacrifice.
 	Behind Averon, the Briar Queen screamed, her unnatural voice imbued with such pain and rage that it was like a dagger driven into Averon’s back.
 	Please, she must not take me. Thalasar’s voice echoed high and anxious in Averon’s mind. Bring me with you. Together we can achieve true immortality.
 	‘After what you did to the Briar Queen?’ Averon scowled. ‘You deserve destruction at her hands.’
 	Destruction? Thalasar gave a low chuckle. The Briar Queen may be mad, but she is no fool. She would use me, steal my knowledge. You seek a way to remain whole through the Reforging, Stormsire, but did it occur to you that there are those who might desire to lose parts of themselves?
 	Averon’s chant stilled. Freed of her madness, her anger, the Briar Queen would become an immortal death mage of incalculable power, a force capable of rivalling even the Von Carstein brood, or perhaps Neferata herself.
 	Take me into your mind, Thalasar whispered. And all I have will be yours.
 	Averon let out a shaky breath. He had suffered so much in service to the quest for immortality, seen others suffer. What might the Stormcasts accomplish with true immortality? What good might Sigmar do? Averon grappled with darkness every day, immersed himself in it. Was this not simply the natural and inevitable end to his quest?
 	With a sigh, Averon cast aside the chants of unbinding, his voice fracturing into the music of the spheres. Although it sickened him to do so, he would sing Thalasar into his mind. Any travail, any sacrifice would be worth it to free his fellows from the slow death of Reforging.
 	Another voice threaded with Averon’s. High and clear, it cut through his harmonies, weakening instead of empowering. Song faltering, he turned to see Ammis at his side, eyes narrowed behind her golden mask. Behind her, Rastus fought alone, the wide sweep of his blade and staff keeping the gheists at bay while she gripped Averon’s arm.
 	Confused by Ammis’ attempt to undermine his chant, Averon took a breath to strengthen his call, and Ammis seized on the pause. Hard-edged incantations flew from her lips, dark and terrible chants that tore into Thalasar’s immaterial will, shattering the weakened katophrane into a thousand shrieking shards.
 	Thalasar screamed, and Averon screamed with him, the agony like slivers of glass being driven into his eyes. He cast out a hand, bellowing for Ammis to be silent, but she would not relent. 
 	Cracks spread through the shadeglass ringing the obelisks even as the basalt began to crumble. Sharp flashes of light marked the severing of the chains that bound the tattered Stormcast souls, and they slipped into the churning aether like bright forks of lightning. 
 	Pained tears pricked the corners of Averon’s eyes as he fell to one knee, head bowed and limbs heavy. 
 	‘What have you done?’ he rasped out between clenched teeth.
 	Without a word, Ammis reached down to pluck Averon’s spirit flask from his belt. Holding it high, she sang to the unmoored Stormcast souls. Although her voice faltered, unsure of the songs that would calm and reorient the wayward spiritual energies, the spirits came to her readily enough.
 	When it was done, she knelt to slip an arm under Averon’s shoulder, lifting him up. He could see Thalasar’s shattering had driven the golems mad, as they fought the gheists and each other. Those few who stumbled into the amphitheatre were quickly despatched by Rastus’ blade and staff.
 	The Briar Queen waded through the melee like an avenging god. Her necromancy scrabbled at the fragments of Thalasar’s soul, trying to stitch them back into some semblance of a whole, but, for all her power, Averon knew it was not in her nature to heal. 
 	‘Quickly, before she realises he is gone,’ Averon gasped. 
 	Ammis half carried, half dragged Averon towards the stairs that led from the amphitheatre. 
 	‘She will follow.’ He pushed free, gesturing for his spirit flask. 
 	Ammis hesitated. ‘You cannot break it, not with the other ­Hammers inside.’
 	‘Do you think me so foolish?’ Averon snatched the flask from her hand, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Rastus!’
 	‘Knight-Incantor?’ The Evocator spun, head cocked.
 	‘There are times for precision and care – this is not one of them. Unleash the storm.’ Averon grinned. ‘Bring this terrible place down behind us.’
 	‘With pleasure.’ The crackling inferno of Rastus’ celestial lightning cast Averon and Ammis’ shadows in harsh relief as they retreated from the amphitheatre. Gheist screeches and the clashing of blades were punctuated by great peals of thunder.
 	Whooping, Rastus barrelled up the stairs behind them, his armour still smoking from the arcane fury of his tempest. Blue light limned the tunnel, followed by a single, hate-filled shriek cut off by the boom of falling stone.
 	They came up from beneath the jagged throne, stumbling along the twisting paths. As they passed through the thorned door, Averon turned. Drawing forth his scroll he called the voidstorm down upon the Briar Queen’s former prison. The snap of lightning and crackle of shattering obsidian chased them up the stairs and into the bowels of the Nightvault. 
 	‘Do you think the Briar Queen will pursue us?’ Ammis asked.
 	‘She will need to dig herself out, first.’ Rastus gave a panting chuckle. ‘I left not two cursed stones standing together.’
 	‘Scout the corridors.’ Averon gestured at Rastus. ‘With my connection to Thalasar broken, we are blind. And I do not wish any gheists to surprise us.’
 	‘Yes, Knight-Incantor.’ Rastus strode off with a bow.
 	When the Evocator had moved a suitable distance away, Averon turned to Ammis. ‘I should send you back to Sigmaron for what you did back there – questioning my decisions, undermining my authority.’
 	‘Yes, Knight-Incantor.’ Although Ammis’ words were contrite, her tone was not.
 	‘We could have finally saved our fellows the pain of Reforging and fulfilled our holy mission.’ Averon glared at her. ‘Do you have any idea how long I have been searching? What I have done in service of our quest? The sacrifices I have made?’
 	‘No, Knight-Incantor.’ She removed her helmet, but did not lower her head.
 	Averon rapped his Incantor staff against the tile. ‘No, you do not.’
 	They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Averon could feel the anger roiling within him. He had been so close. And yet, free of Thalasar’s influence, he could see the pitfalls inherent in the katophrane’s promise – dark means led to dark ends, no matter the purity of vision.
 	‘Back in Thalasar’s lair.’ He frowned at Ammis. ‘Where did you learn those incantations? I certainly did not teach them to you.’
 	‘I am not blind, Knight-Incantor.’ She waved a dismissive hand, then gave a low grunt – a move so eerily familiar Averon felt he might have been gazing into a mirror. 
 	Strangely, he found himself smiling. Just as Averon had taken a piece of the darkness inside himself, she had done the same with him, for him. It troubled Averon to know that Ammis had gazed upon his mind, seen the shadows and made them hers. 
 	He shook his head, clearing his throat. ‘Well, if you are going to be casting enchantments, I should at least see to it you know your binding incantations.’
 	Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘Knight-Incantor?’
 	‘If even Rastus can learn discretion, then there may be hope for us all.’ Averon glanced around, grimacing. ‘We shall begin your lessons once we win free of the Nightvault.’
 	He clapped Ammis on the arm, then turned to follow Rastus, one hand resting on his spirit flask. He could feel the Stormcast souls within, free and safe, at least as such things were measured in the cursed city of Shadespire.
 	He walked a few paces, pausing when he noticed Ammis had not followed. A glance back found her standing in the centre of the corridor, her expression one of disbelief and shock. 
 	‘Do try to keep up, Ammis,’ Averon called back to her.
 	With a start, she donned her helmet and hurried after him.
 	Already, Averon could feel the darkness of the Nightvault edging in around them, a twisting, doleful essence that seeped into the cracks in their resolve, shadowy hands scrabbling for purchase. It did not bother him. He had seen true darkness and come away battered, scarred, but unbroken.
 	Thalasar’s invention was a direct path to immortality, but one that would have stained the Stormcasts with its necromantic taint. The psychopompic inhibitor had been destroyed, Thalasar’s conscience scattered to the aethereal winds, but Averon had not come away empty-handed.
 	The katophrane’s memories still echoed within his mind – millennia of disjointed secrets for him to sift and digest. Perhaps a clue to true immortality lay within. 
 	He glanced back at Ammis, then up to where Rastus plumbed the darkness ahead. The sight of his companions conjured a strange lightness in Averon’s chest. Whatever the danger, whatever the challenge, if the Nightvault held the answer, Averon would find it.
 	And he would not do so alone.