A Cold God, Chapter 16

Malathax walked the long corridors beneath the castle, his staff thumping on the worn stones. The air smelled of old dust and lamp oil. He had asked a guard, half-asleep at his post, to unbar the lower gates, and the man had complied without a word. Malathax descended a spiral stair until the taste of earth replaced the dryness of the keep’s halls. Lanterns guttered in iron brackets set into the walls. Their smoky light revealed a corridor that stretched away beneath heavy arches, the mortar flaking, the stones moist to the touch.

He stopped at a door of black wood bound in tarnished steel. A symbol had been burnt into the surface: a stylized bird with too many eyes, wings spread in a swirl of lines. He drew a single breath and let it out. Then he placed his palm against the wood. The runes on his staff pulsed once, and a seam of light traced the edges of the door. Something within the lock gave a quiet click, and the door eased open.

Beyond lay a chamber carved from the bedrock, its ceiling reinforced by thick timbers, its floor set with polished slabs of onyx. Rows of shelves lined the walls, laden with tomes and scrolls, caskets of unknown design, trinkets sealed in glass. A single dais rose in the center, flanked by pillars carved to depict serpent-like shapes twisting upon themselves. This was the outer library of the Sanctum of Change, a place rarely trod by mortal feet.

He entered, letting the door fall shut behind him. The glow of the staff illuminated dust motes drifting in the stale air. He crossed the floor, footsteps echoing in the quiet. At the dais, he paused. Inscribed upon the stone was a serpentine sigil. He traced its outline with the toe of his boot. The staff’s runes flickered. Within the sigil, a small pedestal jutted from the dais, topped by a polished bowl of dark metal. He set his palm on the bowl’s rim. There came a faint shudder, and the dais trembled.

A hidden passage yawned open behind one of the shelves. The shelf itself slid aside, revealing a black corridor no higher than a tall man’s shoulder. Cool air drifted out. Malathax felt it swirl at his ankles. He hoisted the staff, stooping to pass beneath the low archway. The corridor bent sharply, descending deeper into the rock. Faint lines of phosphorescent paint glimmered on the walls, depicting shapes that shifted in the corner of the eye. He pressed on until the corridor widened into a second chamber.

Here, the walls bristled with runic patterns wrought in hammered copper. The designs shimmered greenish in the staff’s glow. Tables strewn with quills and jars of dried ink stood in the center. A single figure, robed in deep blue, glanced over a shoulder, then turned away. Malathax inclined his head but said nothing, and the robed figure likewise offered no words. One did not greet others openly in the Sanctum, unless ceremony or formality demanded it.

This was the domain of the Cult of the Great Blue, an ancient order whose knowledge spanned centuries upon centuries. Men and women here studied arcane scripts, shaped illusions, even learned to harness the shifting power of the Great Architect. Their loyalty to the realm was an afterthough. Malathax drifted between the tables, hands loose at his sides. The robed scribes buried themselves in their parchments. None hindered him.

At the rear of this chamber lay another door—taller, made of metal, etched with swirling lines that coalesced into the visage of a many-eyed raven. Malathax brushed his fingers over the beak, tapping a small rune near its tip. A whisper of displaced air followed, and the door swung inward. Beyond it, the Sanctum proper opened: a vault of towering shelves and ladders, half-lost in shadows. The hush inside felt almost alive.

He passed between aisles crowded with relics on iron stands. Artifacts whose uses had been forgotten. Crystal spheres that flickered with ghostly light. A blade shaped from meteorite, the metal veined with red. There were staves, wands, orbs, each rumored to house the secrets of magic that could unravel minds. Among these wonders, one item waited for him: the Tome of Binding. The staff’s runes brightened at the thought, as if drawn by that forbidden book.

He turned down a narrower aisle where the air tasted of old leather. Scrolls lay stacked in crates that bore the crest of a long-dead king. He crouched to peer beneath a table heaped with parchment. Threads of spider silk clung to the corners. The book he sought, ancient beyond reckoning, was rumored to have survived the final diaspora of men who once sailed the stars, the ancestors of all the men who now dwelt upon this world. The staff flickered. He slid aside a chest sealed with wax. Beneath it, half-hidden in shadows, lay a tall volume bound in cracked brown leather. Its cover bore no title.

He drew it free, setting dust swirling around him. The spine threatened to crumble in his hand. A faint moan of old wood came from somewhere above, as if the shelves disapproved. Malathax stood and laid the tome on the corner of a table. He brushed away a layer of grime. Now the symbol on the cover became visible: a circle circumscribed by runes, each rune barbed like a scythe. In the center was a single stylized eye. He ran a hand over it.

He opened the cover. The pages bore lines of cramped text, interspersed with diagrams. One diagram depicted a human figure splayed on an altar, arms outstretched. Runes encircled the figure in tight arcs. He turned another page, revealing sketches of a great portal swirling with color. The accompanying script detailed the needed sacrifice: blood of one who bore the mark of ancient royalty. The scrawl was archaic but legible.

He traced the lines of the diagram, pausing at certain glyphs that matched the knowledge gleaned in the queen’s hidden library. He paused at a final illustration, which showed a figure standing triumphant before a legion of winged shapes. Each shape twined and swirled, monstrous in silhouette, horns and beaks and shifting arms. Below them, the text promised the cleansing of the mortal realm by Tzeentch’s own legion, should the gate be opened. It only needed a sacrifice.

Malathax closed the book. His breath hung in the stale air. His heart ached. And a single tear fell from his right eye. 

He gathered the tome against his side. The staff’s runes glowed bright, as if drawn to that knowledge. 

A hush stretched out. Then a footstep intruded, and he turned. At the far end of the aisle stood Taravash, the Sorcerer of King Argylle Durrandon. A tall man in a black robe, face drawn and narrow, a circlet of silver upon his brow. His eyes fixed on the tome in Malathax’s hands.

Taravash approached, one hand outstretched. A ring of emerald on his middle finger glittered. He halted several paces away, gaze flicking from Malathax’s face to the staff and back again.

“Malathax,” he said. His voice was a low murmur. “You handle things best left to dust. Why?”

Malathax offered no immediate answer. He turned the tome so that the cracked spine faced out, as if to hide its cover. He felt Taravash’s eyes searching him. The staff quivered beneath his hand.

“I have need of it,” Malathax said. His tone was measured, but an edge crept in at the corners of each word.

Taravash’s ring caught the lamplight from above. His mouth curved, though no warmth lay in the gesture. 

“The Great Architect’s legion. You intend to bring them forth.” His voice lowered to a hiss. “That ritual requires the blood of royalty, the blood of kings. The queen—you seek to betray the one who holds your trust and counsel?”

Malathax’s jaw tightened. 

“She is the key,” he said. “If we are to halt the Icewalker, we must open the gate. This world has no other hope. She will understand–in time.”

Taravash lifted his chin, blinking slowly. 

“You would kill her. The queen, your queen.” He paused, and his next words carried a weight of finality. “It is madness. Not that I am complaining, but there is a method to our madness–and one of those methods is that we keep to our oaths. Or have you forgotten that, Malathax?”

A faint wind seemed to stir the shelves. The flames in the distant lanterns danced. Malathax held the tome tight against him. He took a single step backward, glancing to the left where an aisle led away into deeper shadow.

“Do not think–even for a moment–that you would do any differently were you in my shoes.” Malathax said. “We face a force that devours all. We cannot trust half-measures.”

Taravash’s hand rose. A swirl of faint sparks ringed his fingers, twisting around the emerald ring. He advanced a step. “You presume too much. Return that tome, Malathax, and forget this dread business. Take her child when she has one, but do not forsake your oath to the queen. Return it peaceably. Do not try to escape. This place is guarded by wards you cannot hope to break.”

Malathax said nothing. He shifted his staff, the runes flickering with a steady glow. The tension stretched. Above them, the rafters groaned. Taravash’s hand remained raised, the sparks crackling. Then Malathax drew a breath, pressing the tome inside his robes. The corners of Taravash’s mouth tightened.

They stood as statues, the gloom pressing around. Then Taravash unleashed a volley of energy from his outstretched palm. The air rippled with heat. Malathax thrust his staff forward, runes flaring white. A web of force caught the blast and scattered it against the shelves. Books and scrolls tumbled to the floor. A second barrage followed. Malathax skirted to one side, a swirl of arcane power trailing him. He swiped the staff in a sharp arc, sending a crackling beam along the aisle.

Taravash dodged, the beam splitting the floor behind him. Smoke coiled from the scorched stone. Both men circled each other, each step measured. Taravash’s robe flared as he raised both hands, chanting in a hushed monotone. Blue fire gathered around his fingertips. Malathax spun the staff, deflecting the assault. The glow from the staff’s runes pulsed with each heartbeat, and fragments of shimmering light ricocheted across the Sanctum.

Somewhere in the darkness, a scribe shouted. Footsteps hurried away. Echoes of spells clashed in the vaulted space. Malathax pressed forward, forcing Taravash to yield ground. He slammed his staff’s butt upon the floor, sending out a ring of energy that rattled the nearest shelves. Taravash stumbled, grit his teeth, and loosed a surge of conjured shards that whirled like knives. Malathax swept them aside, though a few grazed his sleeve, leaving smoldering cuts in the fabric.

They came together in the center of the aisle, the staff locked against Taravash’s forearm. Their eyes met. Taravash’s ring glimmered. Malathax’s staff hissed with stored power. Sparks danced where the two sources of magic collided, lighting their faces in harsh relief.

“You would damn us all,” Taravash said through clenched teeth.

Malathax twisted the staff, forcing Taravash back. 

“We are already damned,” he said, breath ragged. “We were damned the moment we sold our souls to the Blue God.”

Taravash jerked his free hand upward. A surge of flame erupted from a sigil on his robe, roaring between them. Malathax shielded his face with an arm, feeling the heat sear his skin. He stumbled aside, the staff drooping. Taravash lunged, aiming a final strike at Malathax’s chest. But Malathax spun, staff angled in a defensive sweep, and the blow clipped his shoulder instead.

He reeled, coughed out a spatter of blood. Taravash advanced for the finishing stroke, flames coiling again in his palm. Malathax dropped to one knee, jamming the butt of his staff into the stone floor. He spoke a single, guttural phrase. Runes along the staff ignited in brilliant white, and a shockwave radiated outward. Taravash’s flame sputtered. He froze, pinned in place as the wave drove him against a shelf. The wood groaned and splintered. Scrolls cascaded around him.

Malathax rose, staff shaking in his grip. He kept his eyes on Taravash, whose arms trembled under the magical restraint. Taravash inhaled sharply, and a final discharge of energy flickered at his fingertips. Malathax’s staff glowed. He whispered another phrase.

Blue lightning arced from the staff, striking Taravash in the chest. The sorcerer’s body jerked. His hands fell limp at his sides, and the emerald ring shattered with a shrill crack. He sagged against the ruined shelf, breath ragged, eyes wide. Then his head lolled. The quiet that followed seemed to ring through the vault.

Malathax stood, shoulders heaving. The staff’s light guttered to a faint shimmer. Smoke hung in the air. Pieces of charred paper drifted at his feet. A trickle of blood ran from his temple, trailing down past his eye. He glanced at Taravash, who lay crumpled in a litter of splintered wood and scorched parchment. The man’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Not dead, but broken.

Malathax limped away from the aisle, the tome pressed beneath one arm, the staff in his other hand. A faint hum still echoed in the corners of the Sanctum. He paused at the threshold, leaning against the archway to steady himself. A distant ache gnawed at his ribs.

In the gloom, the robed scribes kept their distance, eyes wide. One or two stood near the far wall, hands clasped, uncertain whether to move or speak. Malathax turned and gave them a single look. They shrank back.

He stepped into the corridor beyond the Sanctum’s main door. His staff threw long shadows on the stone.