THE LIBRARY OF FORGOTTEN MOMENTS
Josh Reynolds

 	Out in the darkness, something wailed. 
 	Balthas Arum paid it no mind. In Shyish, something was always screaming. Especially of late. It was a guttural sound, full of pain and pleading. It ratcheted along the mountain’s crags, growing louder and louder, before finally fading back into the silence from which it had sprung. 
 	The Lord-Arcanum gave a twitch to the reins he held in his hand, urging the gryph-charger on. ‘Keep moving, Quicksilver,’ he murmured. ‘We are close.’ Whatever it was could live or die as fate intended. He had other business on this mountain. 
 	Despite his attentions, his silver-feathered steed paused, bifurcated tail lashing. The gryph-charger stamped his rear hooves, and clawed the ground with bird-like talons. As much raptor as cat, the beast had a predator’s instincts. 
 	‘We have no time for this,’ Balthas said. He gave the reins a firmer twitch. The gryph-charger chirped in what might have been annoyance. After a final glance in the direction of the scream, the animal continued to climb the narrow path to the mountain’s summit. 
 	Balthas sighed. At times, he half suspected that Quicksilver had a curiosity to rival his own. The great beast was forever prowling in places he had little excuse to be. Much like himself, in fact. Much like now.
 	‘I must do this,’ he said, out loud. ‘Not just for myself. What we seek will be there. I know it.’ It sounded too much like rationalisation, even to his own ears. 
 	Annoyed with himself, he sat back in his saddle, adjusting his crimson robes as he did so. His black-and-gold war-plate, bearing the heraldry of the Sacrosanct Chamber and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, creaked as he strove to make himself comfortable. His staff of office lay against his shoulder, motes of corposant dancing about the jagged lightning-shaped sigils that surmounted it. A rune-marked blade hung in its sheath from his saddle, alongside saddlebags stuffed with scrolls and tomes borrowed discreetly from the Great Library of Sigmaron. 
 	Balthas glanced down at the blade. He only rarely bothered with it, preferring his staff. It felt more natural, somehow, though he had been trained to wield both with equal skill. Swordplay was for Evocators, and beneath the dignity of a Lord-Arcanum. Or so he had always maintained, to any who bothered to ask. 
 	Balthas preferred books to battle, and suspected that the same had been true even before his Reforging on the Anvil of Apotheosis. A sharp mind was keener than any blade, and wars could be won with wisdom, as well as weapons. But wisdom seemed a dwindling resource in these troubled times. Fear had that effect, and it was rife in all the realms, as the dead rose in unprecedented numbers. These days, not even the celestine vaults of Azyr were safe from the scrabbling of rotted fingers. 
 	The cataclysm which had instigated the mass revivification had been no natural event, but rather the machinations of a god – Nagash, the Undying King, had at last declared open war on the living. In every realm, a phenomenon of undeath had taken hold. Wild magics boiled the air and tossed the seas. The laws of nature and gods alike had been upended, and old certainties dashed to flinders by the actions of the God of Death. 
 	An old, familiar chill spread through Balthas as his thoughts turned to recent events. Despatched to Shyish, and the city of Glymmsforge, his Sacrosanct Chamber had aided in the defence of the city against a tide of death greater than any in recorded history. 
 	But during that battle, he’d come face-to-face with Nagash – or a shard thereof. The parting words of the god were emblazoned on his mind like a scar. You served me once, in another turn of the wheel, Nagash had whispered, and you will do so again…
 	Balthas shook his head. ‘Never,’ he murmured. Even with his voice at its quietest, his denial bounced from the surrounding rocks. Unseen things scrabbled away, startled by the sound. ‘Never, in this life or any other.’
 	And yet, doubt persisted. He hoped to alleviate some of it at his destination. He peered upwards, along the winding mountain trail. The path rose towards the mountain’s summit, where a tall structure sprawled along the slope of the peak – the library. 
 	It was built into the rock, and topped with wide towers and onion domes. It had no formal name. The crag it crowned was merely one among the many that lined the jutting spine of the Splinterbridge Mountains. The library was on no map, and was mentioned in passing in only a few crumbling texts. And it was why he had left his chamber behind in Glymmsforge, and had set out alone across the trackless wastes of Shyish. 
 	They had protested. Respectful complaints, to be sure, but complaints nonetheless. But they had their duties, and he had his. This was his hunt, not theirs.
 	He thought back to what he knew of his destination. The library had been old when Shyish was young. It was known as the Ghostwell, or the Lost Hall, to the caretakers of the Libraria Vurmis of Shu’gohl. The sages of the Great Repository of Skydock called it the Library of Forgotten Moments. From what little Balthas knew of it, that was as good a description as any. Within its halls was said to be the accumulated knowledge of innumerable forgotten epochs. 
 	Balthas glanced up, instinctively. Though the red orb of Mallus was not visible here, in the nadir of Shyish, he could still feel its pull on his soul. He had long suspected that some part of him – some shard of the man he had been – had once walked that long-dead world. His confrontation with Nagash had only strengthened those suspicions. 
 	He had come seeking the library, hoping to learn the truth. If there was an answer to be had, it might well be here. And if not, well, he might still find something of use. The life of a Lord-Arcanum was one of singular purpose: to discover a way to repair – or at least mitigate – the flaws in the Reforging process. 
 	Balthas was no closer to that goal than any of his peers. It remained intangible, just out of reach of even the wisest among them. Some insisted the answers were to be found in the ruins of lost realms such as Shadespire, or in the prophecy-rich veins beneath the city of Excelsis. Balthas thought otherwise. He was certain that the key lay in the distant past, from the days before the gods walked the realms. From before the realms even existed, perhaps. 
 	The Library of Forgotten Moments was said to hold the secrets of that lost epoch. Secrets that he dearly wished to know, whatever it might cost to learn them. Whether they led him to the answers of his past, or his future, mattered little. So long as they led him somewhere. 
 	Another scream, somewhere far below. The sound echoed up from the rocky valleys and stretched to inaudibility. There was nothing human in that cry. Balthas felt Quicksilver stiffen, and saw the gryph-charger’s tails lash. ‘Easy,’ he muttered. 
 	More cries came then, like rising arrows. Balthas glanced back down the trail, his keen gaze sweeping the mountainside for any sign of pursuit. He’d been forced to defend himself from roving packs of flesh-eaters more than once as he crossed the Carrion Deltas. The mewling creatures were blinded by madness, else they’d have sought easier prey. Even so, they’d harried his trail into the mountains. As if something were driving them to pursue him. With that unsettling thought in mind, he urged Quicksilver on. The more quickly they reached the library, the better. 
 	The gryph-charger was well named. At Balthas’ urging, his steed broke into a crackling gallop. Gryph-chargers, when motivated, could race against the light itself, and arrive before the sun. Quicksilver shrieked as he ran, and the mountain seemed to give way beneath him, becoming simply a muddy stretch of colour that only solidified as the beast slowed. 
 	Soon enough, they’d arrived. 
 	The circular bronze gates of the library rose over him, within an archway shaped like a pair of cupped hands. The walls that stretched to either side were made of some dark, veined stone, and were lined with water-spouts, wrought in the shape of owls. The style of the structure was unlike anything in Shyish, or Azyr. Something about it seemed faintly, impossibly familiar. He remembered a city, smelling of strange spices and the sea, but could not call to mind its name or when he had visited such a place. 
 	As he drew close, the bronze gates swung inwards silently. Idly, he wondered if he was expected. He paused, and then urged Quicksilver past the gates. 
 	The courtyard beyond was narrow, and high archways blocked out parts of the sky overhead. A pathway of flat stones led down the centre of the courtyard, between two lines of free-standing pillars. As Quicksilver followed the path, Balthas saw that each of the pillars had several bejewelled skulls inset along its length. The skulls shimmered with an unsettling radiance, and he heard a persistent murmuring race along the path ahead, as if in warning. 
 	At the other end of the path, a set of double doors slowly swung open, revealing a congregation of robed and hooded figures. They wore heavy cassocks and suits of battered mail, reminding him of the adherents of the Sigmarite church. The similarities ended there, however. The robes were frayed, and what flesh was visible was desiccated and bound in funerary wrappings. Bandaged skulls peered out of cowls, sockets alight with pinpricks of witch-light. The smell of incense and preservatives washed over him as he drew back on Quicksilver’s reins. The gryph-charger reared, and loosed a shriek of challenge. 
 	‘Peace, son of Azyr,’ one of the dead men rasped, in a thin, rustling voice. The cadaver drew back his cowl, revealing mummified features. Wisps of colourless hair clung to a papery scalp, and the nose was eaten away, leaving a gaping hole above a mostly lipless mouth full of brown teeth. ‘We are but simple librarians, and mean no harm.’
 	Balthas calmed Quicksilver. ‘Even if you did, it would come to nothing. I have faced worse than you, in my time.’
 	‘I have no doubt,’ the dead man said. Balthas thought the corpse sounded faintly amused. Annoyed, he slid from the saddle. ‘It has been some time, since one of your sort has visited us,’ the cadaver said. ‘Your God-King has ever been one who prefers to seek out the next horizon. He has little love for the wisdom of past ages.’
 	‘He has love enough, when it is of use.’
 	The dead man nodded, as if in understanding. ‘And what do you seek here, traveller? To what use do you hope to put our gathered wisdom?’
 	Balthas drew himself up. ‘That is my affair, librarian. Will you yield me passage?’
 	‘And if we do not?’
 	Balthas paused, considering. He did not doubt that he could fight his way into the library. He was a Lord-Arcanum, and the mystic arts were his to wield in war as well as peace. He had routed armies in his time. A handful of dead men – dead academics, at that – would prove little challenge. And yet… there was something about them. Like a fire, newly snuffed, but ready to burst to life once more. 
 	He’d heard stories of sorcerers haunting their own bodies, possessing all the powers they’d had in life. He glanced at the librarian, and found the dead man gazing at him, as if reading his thoughts. After a moment more, Balthas said, ‘Then I will leave in peace.’
 	The dead man laughed, a hoarse, hollow sound. Balthas felt the sudden easing of a tension he had not realised was there. It had been a test, and he had passed. The librarian stepped back, and gestured. 
 	‘Enter freely then, and of your own will, son of the storm. But your beast must stay here, with the steeds of the other patrons. Fear not. We will tend to him.’
 	Balthas nodded, and gave Quicksilver’s beak a rub. ‘I do not fear for him. Be warned, he is temperamental.’
 	‘As the riders, so the steeds,’ the dead man chuckled. Balthas pretended not to hear this witticism, and instead gathered his robes about him and strode in the direction the librarian had indicated. 
 	Dead men stood at attention to either side of every doorway he passed through, as he entered the library. He was not surprised – the dead were natural caretakers of the past, and not just in Shyish. He knew of a certain monastery in the Starfall Mountains of Azyr, wherein a soulblight anchorite was interred. The vampire had sealed himself in a cell of stone, the better to come to grips with his curse. He whispered tales of the past to any who dared visit, and many an academic had traded a drop of their blood for a lecture on events of centuries gone by. Even Balthas himself, and more than once. 
 	But here, the dead walked freely, if in silence, passing among the stacks, replacing tomes and scrolls from where they’d been taken. The library was a labyrinth of thousands of high shelves, each crafted from balewood and taller than a gargant. The shelves seemed to stretch in all directions, a forest of polished wood. Each one was burdened with more books than it could handle. In places, the excess had been stacked haphazardly on the floor, and scrolls piled in loose hills of papyrus. 
 	Above him, the upper galleries twisted in a tight spiral, rising towards the curve of the domed roof. He saw shadowy figures prowling the stacks there, and heard the murmuring of hushed voices. 
 	On the lower floor, he turned a corner, and startled an aelf clad in blue-green robes that smelled faintly of the sea. The aelf hurried past him, and Balthas felt a flicker of unease as he caught a glimpse of the other’s soul with his storm-sight – silvery bright, like a fish sliding through sunlit waters. The aelf vanished in moments, lost in the winding maze of shelves. But he was not the only visitor on the lower level. 
 	Balthas glimpsed others – some human, some not – crouched on the floor, poring over grimoires, or hurriedly copying the contents of yellowed scrolls. The souls he glimpsed were coloured by every realm, and the voices he heard spoke with many accents, some unfamiliar even to him. He paid little attention to them. 
 	Others might be content to dig through the dust of the Mortal Realms for nuggets of wisdom. He had come looking for something else. Something older. A quick glance at the shelves told him that it was as the ancient texts had said – the library was organised by epoch. More recent volumes were higher, and older ones lower. 
 	A spiral staircase led him down to the lower galleries, those far below ground level. The lower he went, the fewer dead men or visitors he saw. Drifts of dust and cobwebs covered the floors. Books were chained to the shelves, their covers padlocked, as if in fear that they – or what lay within them – might escape. Scrolls rustled softly as he passed ­honeycomb shelves, and he heard a whisper of voices, as if from far away. 
 	Ghostly shapes moved by him, like visual echoes of visitors past. They did not interact or give any sign that they noticed his presence, and he did not interfere with them. As he prowled the stacks, he lifted his hand and whispered a single syllable. A tiny light blossomed on his palm. A second syllable sent it whisking away from him. The light would lead him to the books he sought. 
 	It flashed between shelves and around the edge of the gallery, moving swiftly. He followed, and found himself in a circular space, lit by iron lanterns. Curved shelves lined the walls, and the books shifted in their nests of dust, like startled birds. The light bobbed along the shelves, pausing every so often before zipping away once more. The whispers were louder here, and the phantoms more prevalent. Some even seemed to take note of him. 
 	The light stopped, bobbing in the air, and he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. The books before him were not as aged as he’d thought they’d be. Indeed, their bindings were fairly new. Basilisk hide, if he was any judge. He pulled one down and gently turned the roughly cut pages. The script was not one he knew. It was not any dialect of Azyrite, or Ghurdish, or even Aqshyan. And yet, it was achingly familiar. As if he had seen it somewhere before, but forgotten it. 
 	‘Al… al-kahest,’ he murmured, sounding out one of the unfamiliar words. He blinked. For a moment, a man’s face had filled his mind’s eye – a ship’s captain, by his look, but wearing a style of clothing that was popular only in certain districts of Azyrheim. The man was grinning as Balthas handed over a golden ingot. Only it was not truly gold, Balthas knew, but lead. But by the time the fool learned the truth, Balthas would be…
 	He closed the book with a snap. Replacing it, he selected another. The script was different, but as before, the bindings were new. Herein were strange, swooping runes that reminded him of the writings of certain aelfish philosophers. ‘Ahrain… daroir… cynath…’ he said, the unfamiliar vowels tangling his tongue. 
 	Again, he closed the book. He peered down the line of the shelves, and his heart quickened. He felt as a hunter must, upon seeing that first track in the snow. What he was searching for might well be here, among these strange words. And yet… there was something else. He could feel it at the edge of his perceptions. Like an old ache in the bones.
 	There was magic here. He’d sensed it the moment he set foot in the library, but it had been diffuse. Now, it was more concentrated, as if he were closer to the source. He looked down at the floor, eyes narrowed. There was another level, below even this one. The peak had been hollowed out to make room for the library and all it held. And perhaps more than just the peak. He set the book aside and sank to one knee. 
 	He pressed his palm to the floor and felt it, then. A faint resonance, like the distant boom of thunder. Or the beating of a heart. He closed his eyes, and tried to attune himself to the magics he felt bleeding upwards through the stones. A moment later, he jerked his hand back and opened his eyes. For an instant, it had been akin to standing at the edge of a mighty tempest, and knowing that at any second it might sweep over you. 
 	As he rose to his feet, he heard the soft rustle of cloth against armour. The sound came from above him. One of the upper galleries. 
 	‘Well, well, what have we here?’ 
 	The voice that echoed down was oily, and proud. As if the speaker were trying his best to restrain laughter. Balthas looked up. 
 	‘Who’s there? Who speaks?’
 	‘One who is surprised to see you. You Stormcasts are not known for being bookish.’
 	‘And who are you, that you would know anything of us?’ Balthas said, as he turned, scanning the upper galleries for any sign of the speaker. The voice sounded familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t tie it to a face, or a name. He heard boot heels on the stone floor, and the clink of spurs. The speaker was moving through the shelves at the edge of the gallery just above, keeping out of sight. Even with his storm-sight, he saw little more than a flicker of sickly, amethyst radiance – a will-o’-the-wisp flitting among the shadows. 
 	‘Is there one of you, then, who does not know me?’ Laughter slithered down from above. ‘I do not know whether to be insulted or pleased.’ A pause. ‘Did you feel it, then?’
 	‘Feel what?’
 	Another laugh. ‘You know of what I speak. Answer me.’
 	Balthas gestured surreptitiously. A ball of blue light blossomed in his hand. ‘Reveal yourself, and I will.’ The light flickered and swelled. He tossed it up, and it expanded like a miniature sun, filling the chamber, and searing away the shadows. He heard a strangled cry from above, and then one of the great shelves was tottering on its base. 
 	The shelf toppled from the gallery, shattering as it struck the floor. Balthas leapt back as scrolls and ancient tomes were scattered in all directions. More shelves followed suit, one after the next, an avalanche of balewood. Balthas was forced to twist and dodge out of the way as each one smashed down. In the meantime, without his concentration, the light faded, and the shadows surged back once more. 
 	As the darkness swelled, he heard the rustle of a cloak, and the sharp whisper of a blade leaving its sheath. Then, a form was falling towards him, sword raised. Instinctively he interposed his staff, and caught the blow. The strength behind it was unexpected, and he found himself driven back a step. Another blow followed the first, and then a third. His attacker was swifter than any mortal, and stronger. 
 	The sword crashed down again, biting into the sigmarite of his staff. He twisted his shoulders and wrenched it from his attacker’s grip. It slid away, and his foe cursed. Balthas jabbed his staff forward, and lightning snarled, momentarily illuminating his opponent. He saw baroque, sharp-ridged armour and a pale, narrow face, scooped to a vulpine point. Bare arms corded with muscle swept out, the clawed hands limned with witchfire. 
 	Balthas paused. With his storm-sight, he saw more than just the physical corpus before him – he glimpsed the rot nestled within it. A bestial shadow, roiling within a shell of long-dead flesh. Ever-hungry and all-consuming. 
 	‘Soulblight,’ he muttered. A vampire. Nagash’s curse upon the living and the dead alike. 
 	‘You’re no swordsman, but you have some skill,’ the vampire said, as his eyes blazed crimson. Fangs bared, he slashed his hands out. His claws scraped the air, drawing forth purple flames that convulsed and lashed out. 
 	Balthas slammed his staff down, and the malign spell unravelled even as it washed over him. His opponent raised an eyebrow. 
 	‘More than some,’ Balthas replied, haughtily. He swung his staff up and levelled it like a spear. ‘Name yourself, leech.’ 
 	The vampire smirked and drew himself up, every inch the arrogant lordling he resembled. He inclined his head with mocking graciousness. ‘Mannfred von Carstein, at your service.’ He laughed. ‘Do you know me now, man of Azyr?’
 	‘I do.’ Von Carstein was a name etched on the skin of history, not just here in Shyish, but in all realms. All Stormcasts knew the reputation of the Mortarch of Night, even as they knew that he had been responsible for the deaths of many of their brethren. Sigmar had decreed that the vampire was an enemy of Azyr, to be captured on sight. ‘There is a bounty on your head, leech. The God-King himself wishes to discuss certain matters with you.’
 	‘Still?’ Mannfred smirked. ‘You’d think he’d grow tired of pursuing me, when there is greater prey to be had.’ He took a step back, and Balthas pursued. He had no intention of letting the vampire escape his sight. ‘Fair is fair, I’ve told you my name – tell me yours.’
 	Balthas paused. There was danger in giving a vampire your name, or so he’d heard. But pride compelled him. 
 	‘Balthas Arum. Lord-Arcanum of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. And you are in my custody.’ Even as he spoke, he wondered where the librarians were. Someone should have come by now, to investigate the commotion. Then, perhaps the dead had wisely chosen not to interfere.
 	‘I’ve heard that name before.’ Mannfred’s expression became one of curiosity. ‘Have we met?’ His eyes flicked about, as if searching for something. ‘There’s something familiar about your scent, beneath the harsh tang of Azyrite sorcery.’
 	‘If we had met, you would be in a cage already.’
 	Mannfred bared his fangs in a smile. ‘Are you certain?’ 
 	‘Quite certain,’ Balthas said, though not with as much assurance as he’d have liked. ‘The librarians let you in?’
 	‘I asked politely,’ Mannfred said. ‘All who come in peace are welcome.’ He looked around. ‘Besides, you are not the only one who yearns to know the secrets of forgotten epochs, Stormcast.’
 	‘And which secrets are those?’
 	‘You know, I’m not sure.’ Mannfred glanced slyly at Balthas. ‘Perhaps if you tell me why you’re here, it might prod my memory.’
 	‘I am the one asking the questions, vampire.’
 	Mannfred shrugged. ‘Ah well, never mind.’ Before Balthas could reply, the vampire lunged to the side. In a burst of inhuman strength he wrenched one of the shattered shelves from the floor and swept it about. The suddenness of the attack caught Balthas by surprise. He was knocked sprawling in a spray of splinters and broken shelves. As he shoved aside the remains of the shelf and scrambled to his feet, ­Mannfred snatched up his fallen blade. 
 	Balthas thrust his staff forwards and spat a string of clarion syllables. Lightning sawed through the air, and Mannfred leapt aside. Laughing, the vampire stretched out his hand and a gust of spectral wind raced towards Balthas. Phantom skulls gaped, and ethereal claws stretched out, seeking to grasp him. Balthas swung his staff about him in a wide circle, and a shimmering haze of starlight sprang up. The phantasms struck the mystic shield like water, and faded. As the spell dissolved into sparkling motes, Balthas saw that the vampire had fled. 
 	Even as he cursed himself for allowing the creature to escape, Balthas struck the floor with his staff. He could feel the weight of Mannfred’s tread on the stones, and hear the echo of his boots. Flickering wisps of purple radiance briefly outlined the Mortarch’s footprints. Balthas followed them quickly, wondering as he did so why the Mortarch was here, and whether it had anything to do with the power he could sense pulsing beneath his feet. 
 	Silence enfolded him as he passed between the lower shelves. Idly, he let his free hand drift out to caress the cracked spines of nearby books. So much knowledge here. So much wisdom. But was any of it what he sought?
 	Laughter drifted down from somewhere above him. He looked up, and saw nothing but shadows. When he looked back at the floor, ­Mannfred’s trail appeared to have come to an end. It shimmered before him, almost mockingly. 
 	‘Having trouble, Balthas?’ 
 	Balthas turned, trying to pinpoint the vampire. He did not bother to reply. 
 	Mannfred continued. ‘I think you came here for the same reason I did. You noticed what I already knew… old words, but new bindings. Intriguing, no?’
 	Balthas heard the scrape of a spur on wood and spun, as a slim shape leapt across the gap between shelves and vanished. 
 	‘Where do they get those old words, do you think? Those ancient languages, unspoken by any mortal of the realms?’
 	‘I do not care.’ Balthas spoke before he could stop himself.
 	‘That’s a lie, if ever I heard one.’ Mannfred’s voice echoed down, and Balthas swept the stacks with his eyes, seeking any hint of movement. ‘I think we’re of a kind, you and I. Searchers into mystery, the pair of us. We yearn to know the unknowable, and make use of it.’ A pause. Then, ‘Are you entirely certain we are strangers? I feel as if I have had a similar conversation. In another age.’
 	Balthas frowned. ‘I would know if I had met you before.’
 	‘True. I’m told it’s quite an experience, meeting me for the first time.’ Spurs clinked against wood. Balthas heard a shelf rock on its base. ‘If you’re waiting for aid, it’s not coming. The librarians and I have… an understanding. I have the freedom of this place, and they remain silent, lest I let slip their location to others less… genial than I.’ 
 	‘I gathered as much,’ Balthas said. His voice echoed through the gallery. He could feel Mannfred drawing closer. Try as he might, the vampire could not hide the stench of his curse from one attuned to such things. He set his staff, and reached out, letting his thoughts brush across the books around him. They responded, twitching on their shelves. The air thickened and bunched, as he manipulated it like clay. 
 	‘What are you doing?’ Mannfred called out. ‘I can feel…’
 	The first book slid from its shelf a moment later. Then another and another, born aloft by the sylphs he’d conjured from the dusty air. The elementals were small things, barely there at all. But enough for his purposes. More books joined the first. Hundreds of them, rising up like a swarm of bats. They spiralled upwards, covers flapping. 
 	Then, as one, they swooped towards the dim pulse of Mannfred’s soul. Balthas heard a snarl of realisation, and then the thud of boots on wood. He smiled. The books filled the air, flocking in serpentine fashion, harrying their quarry. They could not hurt the creature, but they might provoke him into making a foolish mistake. His sense of satisfaction faltered as he heard a sound like splintering wood, and then a boom. Another boom followed the first, and then another, each louder than the last. 
 	The floor shook beneath him, and a belated realisation caused him to turn, even as the shelf to his left began to topple towards him. Instinctively, he dropped his staff and raised his hands, catching the shelf as it fell. The weight was immense, and he grunted with effort. He realised his mistake an instant later, as Mannfred erupted from the shelf in a cloud of splinters, claws reaching. 
 	The vampire crashed into him, carrying him backwards, through the shelves behind. Books and chunks of wood rained down as they rolled through the debris. Balthas shoved his attacker aside and stretched out his hand. His staff shot towards him, but before he could catch it, Mannfred was on him, blade in hand. Balthas’ hastily conjured shield shattered into fragments of energy, and he stumbled back, on the defensive. 
 	‘Stop.’
 	A flare of amethyst light swelled to searing intensity, momentarily blinding Balthas. When it had cleared, he saw the dead man he had spoken to in the courtyard standing between him and Mannfred. The librarian lowered his hand. 
 	‘There will be peace, here.’ More dead men stood arrayed about them, arms folded, eyes glittering. As before, Balthas felt a power in them, like a flicker of heat from a pile of embers. 
 	Mannfred frowned as he took them in. ‘You dare come between me and my prey?’ Something about the way he said it caught Balthas’ ear. As if the vampire had expected this. 
 	‘If it means the preservation of this place,’ the dead man said. He looked back and forth between them. ‘You have both come seeking the same thing.’ He glanced at Mannfred. ‘Whether you admit it, or not.’ 
 	‘And so?’ Balthas demanded. 
 	‘And so we will show it to you, if only to prevent further destruction.’
 	‘Feed the wolf and he will leave you in peace, eh?’ Mannfred said, with a smirk. He sheathed his blade and looked at Balthas. ‘What say you, Balthas? Truce?’
 	Balthas studied him for a moment, considering. If the answers he sought were here, then it would be rankest folly to forgo them on account of the vampire. Or so he told himself. Slowly, he nodded. 
 	‘For now.’
 	The librarian nodded, as if he had expected no less. ‘Come, then. Come and see the heart of this place.’
 	The librarian gestured, and Balthas bit back a curse as the stone floor flowed like water, revealing a set of spiral steps, curving downwards. 
 	Mannfred raised an eyebrow. ‘So that’s where you hid it,’ he muttered. 
 	The librarian led them down the steps, into the depths of the mountain. The walls of the stairwell were marked with strange, runic sigils that Balthas only vaguely recognised. Even so, he knew their purpose – to mask and diffuse the power he felt emanating from below. It beat on the air like the heat from a forge.
 	At the bottom of the steps was a crude chamber – or perhaps a cave. It was large, and shadows clung thick to the walls. Concentric rings of kneeling corpses, each clutching a handful of parchment and a quill, surrounded a shallow pool of water. A natural spring, Balthas thought, before his attentions were caught by the shape hanging above the water, caught in a web of rusted chains. It was a great lump of reddish rock, its surface smoking and bubbling, as if it had recently been exposed to great heat. 
 	‘What…?’ Balthas croaked, feeling suddenly weak. 
 	‘A shard of the World-That-Was,’ Mannfred said, in quiet satisfaction, staring at the chunk of molten rock resting in its chains. ‘Can you feel it, Stormcast? The weight of ages undreamt, dragging on whatever passes for your soul…’
 	Balthas did not reply. Could not. But he could feel… something. The chunk of Mallus steamed in its web, still hot from the world’s destruction untold millennia ago. Splinters sifted from it, to tumble into the waters. Flashes of light and thrums of noise – a steady hum of whispers – accompanied this constant crumbling, and each sudden flare dug painful hooks into his skull. As the light flashed, the kneeling dead hurriedly put quill to parchment. They were writing, Balthas saw, filling each page with unrecognisable words. 
 	Balthas shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘This… this is…’
 	‘The secret of this place.’ Mannfred turned, studying the ranks of seated scribes. ‘And these are the scribes who wrote the tomes above.’ 
 	The librarian nodded. ‘We found this shard, in ages past. When our blood still pumped, and our hearts still beat. We found this mote of antiquity, embedded in the mountain like some precious gem. It spoke to us, and we listened. We built this place to house it.’
 	‘But… why?’ Balthas said. ‘Why record these – these whispers?’
 	‘It is our duty to record it, so that what it speaks of will not be lost, and to keep it safe, so that it will not be misused.’
 	‘I cannot think of a worse misuse than simply leaving such a potent artefact hanging here, forgotten in the dark,’ Mannfred said. He looked at the librarian. ‘Thank you for showing it to me. I will be taking it with me, when I depart.’
 	The dead man stiffened, but did not otherwise react. Mannfred nodded, pleased. ‘Good. I see you understand. You could not hide it from me forever, you know.’
 	‘You knew,’ Balthas said. His grip on his staff tightened.
 	‘Of course,’ Mannfred replied, grinning. ‘I have been here a hundred times, searching for this chamber and what it contained, and never have I found it. But then I spotted you, crossing the Carrion Deltas.’ He looked around. ‘I encouraged the corpse-eaters to attack you, to see if you were what I thought you were. When my suspicions proved correct, I simply waited for you to arrive, as I knew you would.’
 	‘You could not know I was coming here.’
 	Mannfred snorted. ‘Where else would you be going, out here?’ He looked at Balthas. ‘You were easy to provoke. Then, Stormcasts always are. As with the master, so too the slave, as they say.’ 
 	Balthas bridled at that. ‘I am no slave.’
 	Mannfred laughed. ‘That is what all slaves say.’ He gestured to the kneeling corpses. ‘Look at them, Stormcast. Drinking in the whispers of a dead world, and scratching them onto paper for any eye to see. They would say that they are scribes – guardians. But they too are slaves. And I have come to free them.’ He looked at Balthas. ‘I thank you for your aid, in that, by the way. Without you, I would not be here.’
 	‘Why are you here at all?’ Balthas demanded. ‘What use is dead knowledge to you?’
 	‘It is of no particular use to me. But Nagash is a different story.’ ­Mannfred glanced at the shard, his smile fading. ‘I can feel it, scraping at the walls of my mind. Trying to make me remember things that never were. Imagine what would happen if its secrets were loosed upon the realms…’ He drew his sword. ‘I would be doing all of us a favour if I simply destroyed it, and its servants.’ He lifted his blade, but before he could strike the closest of the scribes, Balthas interposed himself. He raised his staff. 
 	‘You will destroy nothing. You will take nothing.’
 	Mannfred backed away warily. ‘Another childish truism. Another sermon. Is that all there is to your sort?’
 	‘There is more to me than there is to you,’ Balthas said. ‘Are you not but a splinter of Nagash?’ He laughed harshly. ‘A slave. Just like me.’
 	As he’d hoped, the words provoked a snarl of fury. ‘I am who I am, and nothing less,’ Mannfred growled. ‘Watch how you speak to me.’
 	Balthas took a step towards him. ‘Or what? You will talk me to death?’
 	Mannfred stared at him. ‘It does not have to be war between us, Balthas. Let me take this shard, in Nagash’s name. I will leave you the books, to plunder at your leisure. We both get what we want, and make our masters happy.’
 	‘Hadn’t you heard, vampire?’ Balthas said. ‘We are already at war.’ He gestured sharply, and a bolt of arcane energy coalesced and arrowed towards the vampire. Mannfred brushed it aside with a sneer. 
 	‘So be it.’ Sorcerous flames gathered about his hands as he spat a string of grotesque syllables. The eldritch flames enveloped Balthas with a roar. His robes blackened and burned, and his war-plate had grown painfully hot before he could slam his staff down, dispersing the flames. He was already chanting the words to his next spell as they faded. 
 	Above them, the shard twisted in its chains, shuddering like a thing alive, as their magics lashed across it and ripsawed across the chamber. The dead did not move, enduring the tempestuous cacophony. They watched attentively as the battle raged. 
 	Balthas began to sacrifice subtlety for raw power, not bothering to even shape the energies that he wielded. He felt lightning thrum in his veins as his will slammed against Mannfred’s again and again. Grudgingly, he realised that the vampire was stronger, steeped in magics that were beyond his comprehension. Inevitably, Balthas would fall. He would fail. 
 	‘No,’ he hissed, through gritted teeth. Failure was inconceivable. It was for lesser mages. For mortals. Desperately, he plumbed the aether, seeking the magics he’d felt here. If his own were not up to the task, then perhaps they might be. 
 	He grasped at the skeins of magic which inundated the chamber, and found them all too responsive. It was as if they had been waiting, for just this moment. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt, and yet, like so many things here, painfully familiar. 
 	‘No,’ Mannfred snarled, eyes widening. He’d realised what Balthas was doing. ‘Don’t!’ He lunged, and Balthas thrust out a hand to stop him. There was a flash – light, without heat. He felt as if he were sinking into rising waters. Mannfred seemed to freeze, mid-lunge. Time slowed to a crawl.
 	Then, Balthas was somewhere else – a cavern, a deep well of stone, full of noise… the howling of daemons, the shouts of warriors – he staggered, feeling as if something were being drawn out of him, a horrible wrenching sensation. A shadow at the corner of his eye, a voice full of malice – then pain, sharp and searing. A sword, jutting from his chest. He screamed, and heard Mannfred scream with him. 
 	The vampire was clawing at his face, as if to blind himself. It was as if whatever he’d seen had driven him mad. Balthas lunged, staff extended like a spear. Preoccupied as he was, Mannfred couldn’t avoid the blow, and was knocked sprawling. Balthas whirled his staff up and drove the weighted ferrule down. The vampire caught the staff just before it struck home, and Balthas felt a jolt as something passed between them. 
 	The world twisted about him, and images flooded his mind. Memories, perhaps, but not his own. The images were cacophonic. Dreamlike. A phantasmagoria of colour and sound. But little of it made any sense. In its nest of chains, the shard of Mallus seemed to flex, like a man’s heart struggling to beat one last time.
 	Balthas tasted blood, and cried out as something sprang from a broken sarcophagus to savage at his throat. He felt a flare of hatred as he met the gaze of a haughty nobleman, with hair the colour of ice, and the eyes of a beast. Fear raced through him as a woman – a vampire – clad in ornate armour and unfamiliar finery slashed at him, screaming her rage. He saw a one-eyed duardin, and felt the bite of an axe; heard the thunder of a god’s voice and felt the death-scream of a world. A hundred thousand memories swirled about him. 
 	He tried to catch hold of them, to keep them, but they slipped from his mind like sand spilling through open fingers. Dazed, he staggered back. Mannfred shoved his staff aside and rose, tears of blood rolling down his cheeks. 
 	‘What…?’ he croaked. 
 	‘A past that never was,’ Balthas said, his voice a harsh rasp. ‘Forgotten stories. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it? Well choke on them, leech.’
 	Mannfred shook his head. ‘No. No.’ He sprang onto Balthas, knocking him backwards into the pool beneath the shard. Balthas’ staff clattered from his hand as the vampire tore at him with bestial fury. They grappled in the steaming waters, fighting not like mages, but like savages. And as before, here too Mannfred had the advantage. Every blow rattled Balthas’ senses and he felt something break in him. Flailing, he found something hard and sharp and snatched it up, unthinking. Dully, he realised that it was a splinter of Mallus itself, even as he rammed it into Mannfred’s side.
 	A jolt ran through him. The vampire howled in agony and twisted away from him, smoke boiling from the wound. He staggered from the pool and tore the splinter from his flesh, his hands burning at its touch. He screamed in a language Balthas did not understand. Flames of silver and black ran along his arms and crackled across his armour, searing him to the bone. 
 	Balthas rose and splashed towards his staff. He snatched it up with a cry of triumph, and whirled. But Mannfred was gone. 
 	‘Where…’ he said, hoarsely. 
 	‘Gone,’ the librarian said. He leaned down and picked up the splinter of Mallus. Unlike Mannfred, he did not burn at its touch. ‘As we foresaw.’
 	‘You… foresaw,’ Balthas said, slowly. Then, as realisation dawned, he shook his head in bewilderment. ‘You knew his plan the moment he stepped into this place, didn’t you? And yet you let him in – why?’
 	‘As he said, feed the wolf, and he will leave you in peace. Especially if he cannot stomach that which he devours.’ 
 	Balthas shook his head. ‘And why let me in?’
 	The librarian held the splinter of Mallus out to Balthas. ‘It told us to do so.’
 	Balthas stared at the splinter of stone. What secrets might he learn, what sort of power might even a shard of that long-dead world yet hold? Perhaps the power to save his brothers from the slow erosion of their souls, or the secret of the man he had been. 
 	He thought again of the things he’d seen, the memories not his own. Unfamiliar voices and strange images all warred for space in his mind. In the shadows of the chamber, he saw a face of gold, watching him. He heard a voice that he thought might be his own, whispering urgently. But he could not tell what it was saying. 
 	Or perhaps he simply did not wish to know. 
 	‘Well, son of Azyr?’ the librarian said. ‘Is your stomach stronger than his?’
 	‘I do not know,’ Balthas said. Around him, the dead seemed to sigh, though whether in satisfaction or sadness, he could not say. It did not matter either way.
 	He smiled. And reached for the splinter. 
 	 ‘Let us find out.’