‘Come with me, Balthas.’ Sigmar turned and crunched through the snow. Balthas hesitated and glanced back at Miska, who motioned for him to go. As he followed Sigmar, he tried not to stare at the ground - the God-King left no tracks. The snow shifted beneath his weight, but there was nothing to mark his passing.
Sigmar glanced back at him, a half-smile on his face. Balthas realised, with some embarrassment, that the God-King somehow knew what he was thinking. ‘I forget, sometimes, about leaving tracks,’ he said. ‘I remember the sound. The wet crunch of snow beneath my feet, the feel of the icy wind, cutting through my furs. The weight of Ghal Maraz in my hands. But I forget other things - the way your weight displaces the snow. The ache that comes with hard travel, the way your lungs strain. Sweat.’ He stopped before an outcropping. ‘It’s easy, to forget.’
They stood in silence, gazing out over the horizon. Somewhere, a mountain eagle shrieked, as it took wing over its kingdom. Sigmar watched the bird, for long moments. Then, he turned. ‘You wish to go to find the rogue soul.’
Balthas nodded, uncertain as to where this was going. Had Sigmar not already given his permission? ‘Aye, my lord. It - he - escaped me. But he shall not do so a second time. I have the scent of his soul.’ He hesitated. ‘And there is only one place he could go, now.’ He glanced back towards the Shimmergate. ‘The boughs of the World-Tree bend low.’
‘Nagash has broken the order of things. The dead stir in every realm, shaken from their long sleep. I see the soil shift on forgotten graves, and bones gleam in the moonlight. Ghosts wander through the streets of the cities of men.’ Sigmar frowned. ‘Even here. Even here, the effects of his imprudence are felt.’ His hand clenched, and the sky shuddered with thunder. Lightning flashed in his gaze.
‘He has unleashed a cataclysm from which the realms will be slow to recover,’ Balthas said. He could still feel the echoes of that hellish reverberation in his bones. Wild magic boiled on the air, invisible to all save those with the wit to see.
‘We have entered a new, more deadly age,’ Sigmar said, watching the horizon. ‘Only time will tell whether it proves to be the last, or merely the latest.’ He smiled, but there was little humour in it. ‘Many crimes can be laid at the feet of the Undying King, but being boring was never one of them’ Sigmar threw back his head and laughed.
The sound boomed out, shaking rocks and snow from the high peaks, and nearly pitched Balthas from his feet. ‘The wars we waged, Nagash and I. The schemes we concocted. We stole fire from the belly of Symr, Balthas. We cast up mountains and filled seas with the blood we shed against our enemies.’ His laughter trailed off, and his smile grew thin and strained. ‘And now we are at war once more. Heaven and Death, and all the realms caught between them’ He looked at Balthas. ‘I can see your guilt burning in you.’
Balthas froze, but only for an instant. Sigmar sighed. ‘You blame yourself for your brother escaping. You think of it as a failure, rather than simply a thing that happened.’
‘It was my weakness that allowed it - him - to fall…’
‘It was not. Others had the opportunity to stop him. They did not succeed.’
‘Others are not me.’ Balthas cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth. But Sigmar merely nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.
‘I have heard similar sentiments before.’ He sank to his haunches and scooped up a handful of snow. Even crouched, he was massive, and Balthas felt as a child must, when a parent seeks to impart a lesson.
Sigmar held his hand out, and the snow swirled and shifted, taking shape. For a moment, it resembled a tree, and then something that put Balthas in mind of the interior of an anthill. ‘You hold yourself to a higher standard than your brothers.’
Balthas did not reply.
Sigmar did not look up from the snow as it twisted and changed shape. ‘You see yourself at odds with them, even if you do not admit it.’
‘Not at odds, my lord,’ Balthas said softly. ‘Never that.’
Sigmar nodded, not looking at him ‘No? Perhaps not. Perhaps you are wiser than the gods, Balthas. I hope so.’
Balthas did not flinch. ‘If I am wise, it is because you made me so, my lord.’
Sigmar rose to his feet. ‘You flatter me.’ He held out his hand, and gestured to the swirling snow. It had expanded, taking the shape of a walled city. ‘Do you recognise the city?’
‘Glymmsforge,’ Balthas said, after a moment.
‘Yes. In the underworld of Lyria. That is where you are going. That is where you will find what you seek.’ Sigmar gestured again, and the snow melted and reformed - a man’s face, this time. Balthas recognised Pharus Thaum ‘I felt his soul shatter as the cataclysm caught it. The energies of the Anvil ran wild, and a true son of Azyr became something less. A moment repeated too often for my liking.’
‘And mine, my lord.’
‘I told you before, Balthas, that you must hunt this prey for me. But for now, set your eyes upon a new quarry. Look.’ Again, the snow changed. It rose and spread, became a sphere, and then a column. Something was familiar about it. Balthas thought he had seen it before. Sigmar nodded, as if he had spoken. ‘You saw this in his mind as you confronted him, did you not? Do you recognise it?’
‘He was… guarding it?’
‘Yes. The duty he gave his life for. The Ten Thousand Tombs.’ Sigmar turned his hand, causing the image to rotate and spread. ‘A warren of catacombs, old when Lyria was young. A poisonous crop, planted by the hand of a dead man, against the day it might be needed. The souls of fallen heroes and bloodthirsty conquerors, imprisoned and awaiting the day of their freedom. Black souls that might rend the city asunder, if they were to be freed.’
Balthas grunted. ‘Does Knossus - do they know?’
Sigmar nodded. ‘It was discovered soon after the Shimmergate was claimed. The city was built atop it, in part to protect the tombs from those who might try to open them One of the many unspoken responsibilities your Stormhost bears.’
‘Pharus has fallen. Who guards it now?’
Sigmar looked down at him, and Balthas nodded in understanding. ‘That is why you are letting me go - I am to take up where Pharus left off.’ He looked away. ‘It is fitting. I failed him in life. In death, I must make amends.’
Sigmar nodded. ‘If that is the way you wish to view it.’
‘And what of Pharus Thaum, my lord?’ Balthas asked. ‘Am I to just… abandon his soul to its fate?’ He shook his head. ‘Let someone else play the sentry, my lord, please. Let me find Thaum and bring him to Azyr’s light once more. Let me wash clean the stain of failure. Please.’
Sigmar’s expression was sad. ‘Would that I could, my son. But I cannot.’
‘But why?’ Balthas asked, knowing he shouldn’t, but unable to stop himself. ‘How can we abandon him?’
Sigmar sighed. ‘Nagash has his soul now, Balthas. I can feel it. I felt it too late to stop it - did not recognise what was happening in time. It is as if a piece of me is trapped, somewhere in the dark.’ The God-King opened his hands and let the snow drift to the ground, to rejoin the carpet of white.
He looked down at Balthas. ‘He is lost to us - to me - whatever his fate. But as you saw into his mind, so too will Nagash. And he will know the secret of reaching what we have hidden from him, all these years. His servants will seek out the Ten Thousand Tombs and attempt to open them This cannot be allowed. Even if Glymmsforge itself falls, the Ten Thousand Tombs must remain sealed.’ Sigmar set a heavy hand on Balthas’ shoulder. ‘Do you understand?’
‘I do, my lord.’
‘That means that you will be under Knossus’ command.’ For a moment, Balthas thought he saw the God-King smile. ‘Do you understand that?’
‘I do.’ Balthas fought to keep his voice even. The elation he’d felt earlier was gone. He bowed his head and said, more firmly, ‘I do, my lord.’
&nb
sp; Sigmar gave a satisfied nod. ‘I know that you do, Balthas. And it pleases me. Now go. Glymmsforge awaits.’
‘I will not fail you, my lord.’
‘None of you ever have, Balthas. I do not expect you will start now.’
Balthas turned and hurried down the trail. ‘Balthas,’ Sigmar called out. Balthas stopped halfway, and turned.
‘I told you that there was a time when I wandered the snows. In those days, I too was a hunter. I hunted meat rather than knowledge, but the two things are not so different. One fills the belly, one fills the mind. But sometimes. sometimes the prey escaped.’ Sigmar stared up at the stars, his expression unreadable. ‘This was not failure. The time simply was not right. So I learned to wait. To hold my shot. To seek a better spot from which to observe my prey. To seek the proper moment.’
‘And how did you know when that moment was?’
Sigmar chuckled, and the sound throbbed through Balthas. ‘You’ll know, Balthas. When the moment is right, you will let your arrow fly. And I will be there to guide your aim.’
Balthas bowed his head. When he raised it again, Sigmar was gone, with only a flurry of loose snow to mark his passing.
‘I will not fail you,’ Balthas said again.
His words were carried away by the wind.
‘Hold the lantern higher, Verga,’ Calys barked. ‘Even my eyes can’t pierce this murk.’ At her words, the Liberator behind her raised the storm-lantern she held, allowing the flickering blue radiance to wash across the interior of the mausoleum ‘The last of them came in here. I’m certain of it.’
The storm-lanterns held a shred of lightning culled from the eternal storm No shadow could resist their light. In theory, at least. But the gloom that lurked among the catacombs beneath the city was thicker than any shadow. It seemed to seep from the stones and collect in every tomb and mausoleum. And it hid monsters.
A plague of spirits haunted the catacombs. They’d already destroyed or imprisoned many, but there were always more. Lurking just out of the corner of the eye.
Calys glanced at the warriors who followed her. ‘Stay alert. This one is shrewder than the others.’ Some gheists were like rabid beasts, lacking even the basest cunning. But others were possessed of a dreadful wisdom She had only brought two others - Verga and Faelius - with her into the maze of tombs, leaving Tamacus and the rest of her cohort to watch the entrance to the avenue. Their prey was a monstrous thing - shroud-like, with long, spindly limbs and clacking jaws. It seemed impossible that it could hide in such a confined space, but it had left a clear trail.
The air had turned cold in its wake, and a glimmer of hoar frost hung over the walls, marking where it passed through the crypt. A stone bier rose up before her, the carved lid cast aside and laying broken on the floor. All that remained within it was a clutter of burial wrappings and dust. The nooks that lined the walls were much the same, save that they were filled with cobwebs as well.
‘Something is here,’ Faelius murmured behind her. He lifted his grandhammer and tilted his head, listening to the wind that whipped through the tombs. ‘I can feel it watching us.’ He turned. ‘Waiting.’
‘Waiting for us to lower our guard, you mean,’ Verga said. She jabbed the tip of her blade into the rubble on the floor, disturbing a flood of tomb-spiders. The pallid insects scuttled across the floor, seeking the safety of the shadows.
Scrape-thump.
The sound was soft. Barely audible. But Calys heard it. She froze, and the others followed suit, listening.
Scrape-thump. Scrape-thump.
‘Like a shroud being dragged over rocks,’ Faelius said. ‘And the air… Smell it? Like milk gone sour.’ He turned. ‘Or a corpse.’
‘Those two things don’t smell anything alike,’ Verga said.
‘Quiet,’ Calys said, sharply. She could hear a quiet rustling. Her breath puffed out through the mouth-slit of her war-mask. Hoar frost crept across the panes of her armour, cracking and scattering as she moved.
Scrape-thump. Clack.
Instinct compelled her to look up. The thing was splayed across the roof of the crypt, like some great bat. Long, thin limbs bent with a sound like ice cracking as it flopped down towards her, equine skull rattling. Calys yelled and slashed at it with her warblade. The sword passed through the folds with ease, tearing the voluminous shroud but striking nothing solid. She found herself swallowed in its flabby embrace, tangled in the ragged cloak. Claws skittered across her war-plate, too-long fingers seeking a way in.
Then, the crypt echoed with a boom of thunder as Faelius’ grandhammer slammed down. The nighthaunt wailed and swept away from Calys, sending her staggering back against the bier. It spiralled towards Faelius, fleshless jaws wide. The Liberator whipped his hammer up, trying to smash its skull. The spectre plunged through him as if he weren’t there. A bullseye of ice crept across the warrior’s chest-plate, and he stumbled, the hammer slipping from his hands. The nighthaunt tore through his back and turned, lunging for Verga as Faelius toppled forwards, limbs twitching.
‘Fall back, Verga - get into the open,’ Calys shouted. She tossed aside her sword and lunged for the grandhammer. The creature seemed to fear it. Faelius groaned and tried to sit up as she stepped over him and snatched up his weapon. ‘Stay down, Faelius,’ she said, as she hurried after Verga and the nighthaunt. The other Liberator had done as she commanded and retreated into the open.
The avenue beyond was lined with mausoleums, one piled atop the next in tottering walls that stretched up to the roof of the passageway. Drifts of dust and bone fragments pressed thick against the stoops of the lowest crypts. Walkways of timber or bridges of stone stretched between the highest crypts, forming a second ceiling, thick with grave-mould and cobwebs. Gallows-cages hung from the bridges, and the chained skeletons within them thrashed in silent fury as they caught sight of her.
Calys saw Verga immediately. The Liberator backed away from the spectre as it darted from side to side, trying to avoid the glare of the storm-lantern. It moved like oil on water - there, but not. It slid through the air, stretching itself impossible distances, before contracting suddenly. She could see its pale shape through the swirl of the shroud - emaciated to the point of inhumanity. Ribs stretched pearlescent flesh taut, and its limbs were all sharp, broken angles.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Its equine jaws snapped as it circled Verga, drawing closer with every circuit. She swept her blade out, trying to hew through it, but it avoided her blow. Long talons scratched across her arm, leaving trails of ice. She stumbled, and the spectre reared up over her, claws groping for her throat.
‘Verga - move!’ Calys roared, swinging the hammer up. The spectre turned with a hiss, and the grandhammer met its skull. Bone cracked and burst as the hammer passed through it and slammed down. The ground ruptured, and lightning speared up, burning the spectre from the inside out. Wreathed in flames, it hurtled upwards, broken skull gaping in a silent scream. It clawed at itself, until it at last came apart in a shower of burning rags.
Calys took a slow breath as the spectre was consumed. She looked at Verga and gestured with the hammer. ‘Go and help Faelius.’
A voice echoed down from above. ‘A well-struck blow, sister.’
Calys looked up and saw Lord-Relictor Dathus watching her. He stood atop a set of stairs that led nowhere above, set in an open space between crypts. The steps curved up and then around and back down in a stony loop, winding through the crypts. As he descended, the upper steps swung away, and a false archway, resembling a crypt opening, crashed down in its place. Dust sifted down across her armour, and a sudden breeze from somewhere washed over her. She grimaced. There were always mysterious draughts and smells down here, and Calys had yet to become inured to them. Sometimes, she wondered if Phams had ever grown used to the stench and the damp before… She pushed the thought aside.
‘I have struck bet
ter,’ she said as Dathus reached the bottom. The lord-relictor had been gone for several days, conferring with the new commander, Lord-Arcanum Knossus, as well as Lord-Celestant Lynos and the others in charge of the city’s defences. ‘Any news?’ she asked, resting Faelius’ hammer across her shoulders. ‘About Lord-Castellant Pharus, I mean.’
‘None,’ Dathus said. ‘I am sorry, Calys. Knossus had nothing to share in regard to his fate.’ He looked out over the sea of tombs and grunted. ‘He had nothing at all to share, in fact. Other than that the necroquake reached Azyr itself, and shook the pillars of the heavens.’
Calys felt the cold weight of dread in her belly. ‘Azyr.’
‘It endures, as ever. Be at peace, sister. The God-King would not let the realm fall now, not after all this time.’ Dathus shook his head. ‘Though, to hear Knossus tell it, it was a close thing. Even the Anvil of Apotheosis was affected, if only for a short time.’ He looked at her. ‘We live in dangerous times, sister. Come. Walk with me a spell.’
Calys fell into step with the lord-relictor, after retrieving her blade and checking on Faelius. The Liberator had already recovered somewhat, and she returned his grandhammer. As they walked, she signalled to Tamacus and the others, alerting them to the nighthaunt’s destruction. They would continue to sweep this section, hunting for any other lingering spectres that might be lurking in the tombs.
The path inclined upwards as she and Dathus walked along the avenue, and the mausoleums to either side grew sparse. Statues loomed out of the dark, staring down at them with unseeing eyes. Soon, they were walking along a stretch of path that took them towards the Ten Thousand Tombs.
The ground shuddered beneath her feet as unseen sections peeled away with a scrape of stone and clouds of dust, swinging out and up or down. New twists and turns were added to the path ahead, and from behind came the rumble of a new wall sliding into place. The outer catacombs were always in motion these days. Those dead things still loose in them wandered the confusing tangle of passages, unable to escape.
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