Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

It’s a gate, he realised.

The barbican was a realmgate of sorts, the Queen of the Peak’s domain a pocket enclave, a self-contained magical plateau shifted slightly aside from Ursungorod and the Realm of Beasts. The Bear-clad would not have understood such a thing, the concept of the Mortal Realms layered and entwined about each other as alien to his mind as the idea that he might one day become an immortal war leader clad in armour forged from metal mined in the heart of a dead world.

The grand doors at the top of the steps were open, the flickering light of brands glowing from within. He ascended the stairs four at a stride, covering the ground quickly. He paused for a heartbeat at the entrance. Like everything else, a veneer of snow and ice lay like a patina on the stone and wood. The sigils and images carved into the doors glittered in the light of the brands — faces of bears, suns with beneficent smiles, and stylised lightning bolts that reminded him of the magnificent city of Sigmaron.

It was exactly as he remembered. Exactly . Like a dream being re-enacted. It was impossible, of course, a trick of this mind. Even so, as he stepped into the light of the braziers and torches within, he could not shake the feeling that he was doing more than following in his footsteps.

The entrance hall was lavishly decorated, a thick red carpet running the length of the chamber. Archways curtained with velvet of the same colour broke the walls to either side. Both fabrics were threaded with gold in a repeating design of flame-like waves interspersed with triangular mountains and simple star-like suns.

But all was frozen still, every bend in the cloth, every flame in the sconces caught in a moment of time. The silence was all-consuming, muffling his step, swallowing the scrape and creak of his armour.

The only movement was Arkas. Leaving a trail of vapour from shallow breaths he advanced along the hall, as he had done before. He knew nothing of what lay beyond the curtains and dared not speculate.

Something caught his attention and he looked down, surprised to see a single trail of footprints leading towards the stair. His stride was much longer now, his body magnified by the Reforging upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis. Yet when he glanced back, he saw only that single set of tracks. He could even see the pattern of the hobnails in his old boots.

The stair inside, ascending from left to right, was more like that of a rampart, narrow enough for two men to hold back an army. Arkas covered the distance to the next floor in moments and then from there, ignoring the wooden doors to the left and right, walked along a short landing to a spiral staircase that he knew took him to the domed chamber at the top of the tower.

He had to duck to fit his massive frame through the door at the top, and stepped into a circular hall roughly thirty paces across. The door closed behind him with the faint click of a lock.

The ice coated the inside of the dome, with facets and edges forming crystal faces at odd angles to each other. Arkas saw his reflection three dozen times over, turquoise and gold refracted and contorted all around. He stepped into the centre of the chamber, the images splintering and reforming.

Hammer held to one side, runeblade sheathed at his hip, Arkas waited in silence. He looked up and saw his helm mask glaring back at him from between the dark wooden vaults of the ceiling, eyeholes suffused with a glow of celestial energy. It was reassuring to know that, even here in the heart of the icy palace, the link to Azyr was strong. Should anything happen, should his body perish, he would be called back to Sigmaron, there to be recast and remoulded.

Immortality, though not without a price.

A breeze drifted across the circular hall, the slightest gust that barely stirred his cloak. It brought with it the queen’s voice, soft but hostile.

‘Who claims the name of Arka Bear-clad?’ she demanded. To the right a reflection of Arkas was replaced by a vague outline of a middle-aged woman clad in white robes edged with fur, her silvery hair hanging long and straight about her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing blue, shards of ice given sapphire life. ‘Reveal yourself!’

‘I am Arka,’ he replied. He lifted away the mask that hid his face. He almost started at his reflection, having forgotten the changes that had been wrought by the artifice of Sigmar. His beard and hair were short, never requiring to be shorn again, his eyes sunken and dark. Three scars ran across his face, one from each eye to the ears and another down the centre of his forehead.

‘What have they done to you, my champion?’ A sigh wafted through the chamber, perhaps of pity, or sadness. Another reflection shifted, revealing a matronly figure in the depths of the ice, bundled in a black shawl with a hood over her head.

‘They made me strong,’ Arkas replied.

He turned his head to face this new image. Other mirrored figures fractured and reformed on the edge of his sight. He caught glimpses of different people, though when he looked directly at them he saw only his own ravaged face. His mother, his father, Radomira, the sculpted masks of his warriors, even the bearded, noble visage of the God-King himself.

A third manifestation of the Queen of the Peak appeared, almost directly in front of Arkas. She was young, clad in white-enamelled armour chased with silver and sapphires. It was no ceremonial suit, and neither was the blade in her hand a weapon for parades. A warrior-queen, her face enclosed within the cheek guards of a helm with a white horsehair crest, eyes boring into Arkas.

‘Oathbreaker! Deserter! Traitor! You abandoned your people.’ Her voice dropped to a plaintive whisper. ‘You abandoned me.’

‘Never, my Queen of the Peak,’ Arkas replied. As he addressed the latest apparition he could see himself as he had been in an ice mirror to his right — a full beard and head of hair, a nose broken more times than he could remember, glowering eyes beneath bushy brows. For an instant he forgot that he was Stormcast as the memory of his past life was given form in this place. ‘I was taken. I would not have willed it, but I have returned to fulfil my oath.’

‘Your oath?’ This was from the first Queen, imperious and distant. ‘Your oath to your mother or your promise to me?’

‘Both.’

‘Yet it was not in your power to do either.’

Her words bit as deeply as an axe blow. The memory of his ascension to the Celestial Realm welled up inside him, bursting free from deep behind the walls raised by Grungni’s craft.

‘I tried,’ said Arka. The frustration and sadness that had overpowered him in that moment surged through him. He fought through the bleakness, a snarl escaping gritted teeth. ‘The Bear-clad is dead, but the Warbeast will deliver where he failed.’

Quiet followed, his words ringing around the chamber and in his ears. The images of the queen moved of their own accord, coming together into one reflection, an amalgam of all three — stately, armoured and motherly all at the same time.

‘You know that which I desire more than anything,’ said the queen. ‘Do you renew your pledge to deliver it?’

‘It shall be done,’ said Arkas. He replaced his mask and the likenesses all became that of the Lord-Celestant again, his mind of a single purpose. ‘There is something you must do for me first.’

‘No,’ said the Queen of the Peak. ‘The pact was sealed long ago, and I have fulfilled my part.’

‘You did not,’ insisted Arkas.

‘I gave you the winds and the snows to command, as you demanded.’

‘A power I never had the chance to unleash.’

‘Of no consequence. The fault of your god-king, not mine.’

Arkas turned on his heel and took a step towards the door. He stopped as he felt a chill seep up through his foot. Glancing down, he saw tendrils of ice crystals snaking up over his boot and onto his leg.