Anvils of the Heldenhammer: The Ancients (Warhammer Age of Sigmar) by Dale Lucas

Author:Dale Lucas [Lucas, Dale]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Dark fantasy (FMT)
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2024-10-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Crucible of Life, Aqshy

Tivrain Greymantle woke, eyes wide, mouth agape, gulping air as though she’d been suffocating. Her heart hammered beneath her sigmarite breastplate. She surveyed the shadowy world around her, seeking signs by which to orient herself.

Encroaching trees, moist loam, clusters of low, hoary ferns and shrubs. The pale dawn just visible above the thick canopy of leaves overhead. The air was so thick and febrile, it felt as if she were wrapped in wet linen warm from a wash-bin.

Another scream – a jungle bird, its morning call strident, insistent.

‘I did not think your kind slept.’

Tivrain found Belengir Kraeksson nestled between the knees of two large tree roots, off to her left. The duardin stared at her with notable concern, even quiet pity.

Tivrain gestured to her companions, also sleeping. She vaguely recalled that Athelys, Vornus, Heldymion and Ordys had volunteered to stand watch while the others got a little rest.

‘We need very little,’ she said, ‘and can endure for days, even weeks, without it. But this place is uniquely exhausting.’

‘You were dreaming,’ Belengir said. ‘Or so it appeared.’ He kept his voice low, as though he did not want to wake the others.

Tivrain nodded. ‘We do that, as well.’

‘Help me to understand,’ the duardin said after a long, awkward pause. He leaned forward, clasping his knees, like a child ready to be told a fireside story. ‘Please.’

‘What is there to understand?’ Tivrain asked.

‘This mission,’ Belengir suggested. ‘You self-described mutineers. What brought you here? Admittedly, my direct experience with your kind has largely been in the heat of battle. I’ve seen Stormcasts fight, and kill, and die, but I’ve never seen them in quiet hours. I know nothing of what moves you, what you believe, what you desire.’

Tivrain sighed. ‘We are not so unlike you, Belengir. We have personal desires, personal aspirations. But they rarely last, or get indulged, because our existence is defined by our purpose, and that purpose is to fight and die and be Reforged to fight again.’

‘But surely,’ Belengir said, ‘with unending lifetimes at your disposal, there must be time to pursue your desires.’ One of his strong hands hovered over his chest, as though he were suggesting the heart beating beneath it. ‘Or, at the very least, to understand them.’

Tivrain shook her head. ‘Each time we are Reforged, we lose bits of ourselves. Our memories fracture. Our identities fade and diffuse. Even our understanding of ourselves – who we are, who we were, what we loved and what we despised – all get ground up and remade again in the cosmic mortar used to rebuild us after we’ve fallen.

‘I have lived for generations, and in that time, I think I’ve been half a dozen different people. If you had met me even two centuries ago, I may now look exactly the same to you as I did then, but I may not remember you, or where we met, or what we shared. Or perhaps I would. Or perhaps I would find you familiar, yet never know why.

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