She heard a shout from overhead and saw the arch of a bridge drift towards its new position. A cohort of Stormcasts stood atop it, braced against the shuddering of the stone. As the bridge locked into place, they strode across it, shields raised against whatever awaited them in the dark beyond. ‘It never ends, does it?’ she said.
‘Duty never does.’
She looked at Dathus. ‘What news from above?’
‘The same, but worse,’ Dathus said. ‘The city is in upheaval. It is all we can do to keep it in hand. The dead rise in greater numbers, and every day, refugees bring word of fresh horrors rising from oases and slipping down out of the high crags. Every restless soul in Shyish has been stirred to wakefulness, and all of them thirst for the blood of the living.’
‘None have slipped past us,’ Calys said, firmly.
Before Dathus could reply, there was the sound of scrabbling at the entrance to a nearby tomb. It was a sound that had become all too familiar to Calys of late. The stones cracked and crumbled, as if something were trying to dislodge them. Calys made to draw her blade, but Dathus waved her back. He set his hand on the face of the tomb, and a blue radiance played across the cracks. ‘Sleep, child of death,’ the lord-relictor growled. ‘Your time is not yet arrived.’
The scrabbling faded, as if the occupant of the tomb had resumed its fitful slumber. Dathus stepped back, allowing a nearby group of mortal priests to go about their duty. They would re-bless the tomb, and that which lay within, anointing it with sacred unguents and marking it with sigils of warding, as they and their predecessors had done for almost a century. Calys doubted it would hold for long, despite their efforts.
‘That happens too often for my liking,’ she said.
Dathus turned away from the tomb. ‘The constant fluctuation of the catacombs causes stress fractures in the stonework - a hazard of Pharus’ cleverness.’
Calys nodded. Any spirits that escaped would be confused by the eternally shifting underworld, and easily trapped. But that same shifting allowed some to escape in the first place. Luckily, those that most often did so were the easiest to recapture. She suspected that too had been part of Pharus’ design.
A shadow passed over them, as an archway bridge swung out over the slope of tombs and graves. Dust rained down in a constant patter, dulling her war-plate. She strode to the edge of the slope, walking across the roof of a crypt that jutted out over the abyss below.
From this highest point, the catacombs somewhat resembled a massive orrery of interlocking stone rings. Mausoleums and crypts clung like barnacles to each ring, as well as the tumbledown slopes that filled the gaps between. The great mechanisms that controlled the movement of the catacombs hung suspended in great orbs of stone, which hung directly over the Ten Thousand Tombs.
Dathus joined her, his eyes following hers. ‘I’ve set a guard on them, just in case. They have orders to activate the final sequence, should it appear that the tombs are in danger of being opened.’
Calys frowned. The sequence would collapse the catacombs, burying them forever. But destroying the catacombs would almost certainly destroy Glymmsforge as well. Not immediately, perhaps. But the reverberations of such an act would ripple outwards, weakening streets and foundations. Not even duardin craftsmanship would survive such devastation. ‘It won’t come to that,’ she said firmly.
‘The dead are remorseless,’ Dathus said. ‘And we must stand ready to deny them this place, whatever the cost.’
‘Why do they hate us?’ The question slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
‘They do not,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Not truly. Nor, I think, does Nagash. To hate, one must care. And the God of the Dead cares for little save himself.’ He looked out, over the edge of the crypt. ‘Sigmar delights in us, as he delighted in our fathers and their fathers. Our creations, our courage, even our hubris - it delights him.’
‘A funny word, that, to use in relation to a god.’
‘But fitting.’ Dathus looked at her. ‘It is said by some, among my brotherhood, that the realms spin in eternal opposition - one pulling against the other. Azyr pulls against Shyish, Ghyran against Ghur, Hysh against Ulgu, and Aqshy against Chamon. Each the mirror image of the other, some in subtle ways, others more obvious. And as Azyr and Shyish stand in opposition, so too do the gods. Sigmar is the beginning and Nagash, the ending.’ He gestured, and a spark of lightning danced across his knuckles and palm as he turned his hand, this way and that. ‘But Nagash is a greedy god and seeks to be both beginning and end. So he raises the dead from their sleep of ages and sends them to attack the living.’
‘Like Elya’s mother,’ Calys said absently. The child was never far from her thoughts these days.
Dathus studied her and she looked away, suddenly uneasy. The music of the catacombs had become louder. She heard the creak of stone, and the slow drip of water, from somewhere. Bats stirred in the high roosts, chittering in fear.
And down below, the dead, in their ten thousand tombs, began to moan.
‘Something is coming,’ Dathus said. Calys nodded silently. She could feel it, on the damp air. Like the quaver of silent thunder. ‘Glymmsforge is slowly sealing itself off from the rest of the underworld,’ the lord-relictor continued. ‘Even so, huge numbers of refugees still clamour at the outer gates, seeking entry. Every hamlet and trading outpost within a hundred leagues has been denuded of inhabitants, as the dead rise and stalk the living with a greater frequency than ever before. Mortals come to the city in their hundreds, in search of sanctuary.’
‘A dangerous journey,’ Calys said. ‘There are deadwalkers in the desert.’
‘Indeed, and they are congregating in ever-greater numbers - immense herds of corpses stumble in the wake of the refugee caravans, pulling down stragglers and adding them to legions of the dead,’ Dathus growled. ‘In the corpse-yards of the southern districts, and the walled gardens of the aristocracy in the north, spectral shapes prey on rich and poor alike. We are under siege, within and without.’
‘What of this new lord - Knossus - what has he done?’
‘He strikes down the dead where he finds them,’ Dathus said. ‘And with a power beyond any that even I possess.’ He stopped as the archway ahead cracked in half and fell away with mechanical smoothness, revealing a sharply angled wall, marked with mystic sigils. Mirrored walls closed in about them as the floor descended, carrying them downwards in response to their weight. ‘This place truly is a marvel.’
‘The duardin are a clever folk,’ Calys said.
‘Pharus was clever,’ Dathus corrected. ‘Duardin traps are stolid things. Efficient, but not so creative as this. Only a mind like Pharus’ could have calculated all of this. Finding weak points and turning them into a strength was his gift. I once thought he would guard this place until the end of time itself.’ He fell silent.
‘He will return,’ Calys said.
‘But in what form?’ Dathus murmured. Calys was about to ask him what he meant, when he stopped and turned. ‘The city is closing in on itself. Every avenue and gate, save the main thoroughfare, is slamming shut. Knossus has commanded that Glymmsforge isolate itself from Lyria, to better weather the coming storm.’
Calys nodded. That made sense. The city - and by extension, the Shimmergate - would be easier to protect if it were sealed off. But that meant cutting off support to the outlying communities, as well as outposts like Fort Alenstahdt. Necessary sacrifices - but even so, she was glad she wasn’t the one giving the order.
Dathus continued. ‘To that end, we must seal off the Ten Thousand Tombs, so that no servant of Death might reach them Do you understand?’ He gazed out over the sea of tombs that stretched in all directions around them ‘Even I am not sure how it works. Briaeus and the others who served with Pharus the longest assure me that they can do so. But it is not something that might be undone at a whim’
Caly
s understood at once. ‘Once sealed, it cannot easily be unsealed.’
The lord-relictor nodded. ‘Someone must stay above, to ensure that it is the case. And to defend the gateway, should it come to that. That responsibility is yours, if you wish it.’ Dathus looked at her, the light of the lanterns playing across his skull-helm.
Calys hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘I will bar the path, brother.’
Dathus returned her nod with one of his own. ‘I expected no less.’ He set a fist atop her shoulder-plate. ‘I will be staying down here, with Briaeus and the others. We will hold this place from within, as you hold it from without. Gather your cohort and go, sister. Lord-Arcanum Knossus has commanded that we seal off this place immediately, and I would not wish you caught in those tunnels when the process begins.’ He extended his hand. ‘May Sigmar bless and keep you, Calys Eltain.’
She caught his hand. ‘May he do the same for you, Dathus.’
Dathus laughed softly. ‘I have no doubt he will, after his own fashion.’
Chapter twelve
Razor’s Edge
Elya ran through the crowd thronging the street.
The tide of humanity was larger than any she’d experienced, even during high market days. Thousands of new faces, voices and smells, packed into the long, central avenue that linked each of the city’s rings, moving towards the heart of Glymmsforge.
She saw two women, one old, one young, dressed like traders from the distant city of Gravewild, in yellow linen and golden ornaments, and a fat man, dressed like a nobleman, in rich brocade and an embossed breastplate. There were duardin as well, clad in dusty travel robes, and she saw men and women dressed in the rough leathers of miners. Many carried weapons, and most looked as if they had been forced to put them to use recently. Everyone, whoever they were, had that pinched, hungry look she knew well. Everyone in the Gloaming looked like that, especially of late.
Glymmsmen threaded among the crowd in knots of black, inspecting the people, seeking signs of soulblight infection or cult markings. You could never be too careful, that’s what her father said. The Freeguild seemed to agree - they were out in force. And more besides. On one of the high, stone plinths that overlooked the avenue, a massive figure stood watching the crowd. With a shiver, she recognised the figure as the lord-veritant of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. There were stories about the Leechbane - all of them bad.
Folk in the Gloaming said he’d led the purges of the northern slums, when they’d been overrun by grave-eaters, many years before she’d been born. And that he’d done the same more recently in the districts of the wealthy, when several families had come under the sway of a soul-leech. Not all Stormcasts were like Pharus or Calys. Some were much, much worse. She shivered again and moved quickly away from him, startling a flock of pigeons that were searching the street for food.
The purple-hued birds sprang into the air and rose high and away. Some folk claimed they collected the souls of the dead for Elder Bones, but the cats claimed that wasn’t so. It was the big, black carrion birds that served the King of the Dead, and the spindle-legged jackals that wandered the desert. The pigeons served a smaller god, and a quieter one by far. Or so the cats said.
The sky overhead was the colour of a bruise, and the wind rolling in off the desert was cold. She dodged around a burly road-agent, who cursed at her as she ran by. She spotted a pickpocket she knew from the Gloaming and gave him a wide berth. A moment later, she heard shouting and knew he’d been spotted. The crowd heaved suddenly as the thief ran past, and she was nearly trampled. Dodging bodies, she thought about climbing to a higher vantage point and seeking somewhere quieter to watch things, but decided against it.
She’d taken to the streets when she’d felt the ground begin to shake, earlier. Dust had geysered from the cracks in the street, and the buildings had shuddered. Something was happening down below, and people were worried. She would have asked Pharus about it, but he was… gone. She rubbed her face.
Calys had said he would come back, but Elya wasn’t sure she trusted the Stormcast. Pharus had been her friend, she thought. Calys wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what Calys was.
Calys scared her father. All Stormcasts scared her father, but he’d never yelled as he had when he’d seen Calys for the first time. He’d looked at her face and just screamed and screamed, as if he’d seen a nicksoul. The way he had the night her mother had died. Elya shied away from the thought. She hugged herself, suddenly cold.
She didn’t like to think about that night or any of it. She’d been too little to remember much of it - much of her. She recalled her mother’s face, twisted up and wrong somehow, and the sound of her father weeping. And then Pharus, with his lantern. The light had been so warm and her mother had gone away, but her father had kept crying. He still cried, some nights, when he didn’t get enough to drink. Or had too much to drink.
Her mother was dead. Had been dead. She’d become sick and died. Then she’d returned, and Pharus had killed her again. And now Pharus was dead too. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t come back, because if he did, she might begin to wonder why he had and not her mother. She stopped and for a moment became a little island in the sea of people. She scraped the heel of one palm across her eyes and frowned. She heard shouting.
There was a commotion going on up ahead. Voices rose up and the crowd convulsed like a thing in pain. Metal flashed, and a cry went up. Elya’s eyes widened, all thoughts of Pharus and her mother forgotten. The fat man she’d seen earlier had shoved one of the trader women - the older one - to the ground. The man drew a knife from within his robes. ‘Grave-eater,’ he screamed, kicking at his victim.
At his words, the crowd surged back from him, Elya included. Men and women had shouted those words from street corners since she’d been a baby. Sometimes, when people died, they came back. Not as nicksouls or wailgheists, but as grave-eaters - hungry corpses that had no mind, only appetite. Overcoming the sudden spurt of fear, she winnowed closer, trying to see. The fat man gestured at the old woman on the ground as her companion tried to intervene.
‘She is sick,’ the younger woman shouted, crouching beside her companion. ‘She is hurt - please. We have done nothing.’
‘She’s infected,’ the fat man spat. ‘Look at her! She’s turning already.’
More shouts as a Glymmsman forced his way through the crowd. ‘What’s going on here?’ The soldier reached out to grab the fat man, startling him. The fat man’s blade flashed, and the Glymmsman spun away, clutching a red arm and cursing. His cries drew the attention of his fellows, and those soldiers closest moved to confront the fat man, who stared at the Glymmsman he’d injured in shock.
‘I didn’t mean…’ he began.
On the ground, the old woman had begun to thrash and twitch, her heels and head striking the cobbles. The young woman was scrambling backwards, her face twisted up in a horrified expression. ‘No, Takha, no - oh, blessed Sigmar, no!’
When the old woman sat up, the young woman began to wail. The soldiers hadn’t noticed yet. The fat man had their attention. Two Glymmsmen had tackled him to the ground. The three of them rolled in the dust, the man’s cries muffled. Fists thudded into flesh, and the knife clattered away. More Freeguild hurried towards the brawl, fighting through the crowd.
When the old woman attacked, she went for the fat man first. She caught him by a flailing arm and sank her teeth into the meat of his forearm He screamed a high, thin wail, and Elya shrank back. Her sudden movement attracted the attentions of the grave-eater, and the old woman scuttled towards her on all fours, bloody mouth working. People screamed and fought to get out of the way, as Elya turned to run. The corpse bounded through them, snapping its jaws wildly.
She ducked the dead woman’s flailing hand and scrambled under an abandoned cart. The grave-eater groped blindly for her, teeth gnashing like those of a maddened cur. Elya pulled all her limbs close, huddling away from the
dead woman. ‘There she is - seize her!’ a man shouted, from close by.
The old woman whirled, snarling, as a Glymmsman grabbed for her. She leapt on the soldier and bore him backwards, biting at his throat. Elya crawled out from under the cart, hoping to put some distance between herself and the old woman. She tried to ignore the screams. Glymmsmen raced past her, cursing and shouting.
She caught sight of the fat man, trying to crawl away. He wouldn’t get far. Sometimes, when the grave-eaters bit you, you became like them. It might take days, or just a few seconds - but it would happen. That was probably what had happened to the old woman. She’d been bitten, somewhere out in the desert, and had turned after entering the city.
The Freeguilder was screaming, as the old woman gnawed at him. He would turn too, just like the fat man. Worse, he probably knew what would happen to him, if he had the bad luck to survive his mauling. Elya heard the crash of metal on stone and saw the crowd part with a frightened murmur for the Leechbane. The lord-veritant strode towards the confrontation, the lantern atop his staff glowing as brightly as the one Pharus had carried. But he wasn’t Pharus. Pharus wouldn’t have done what the lord-veritant did next.
‘Move back,’ he said, his voice cutting through the confusion like a blade. Glymmsmen drew back, and the Leechbane drew his sword.
He took off the old woman’s head with the first sweep of his long blade. He killed the wounded Freeguilder next, as easily as a cat might kill a mouse, before any of the soldier’s comrades could speak up. And then he stalked towards the fat man, who tried to get to his feet, his face pale. Elya closed her eyes as the fat man began to scream and then stopped, suddenly, as the sword flicked out a third time.
Silence fell across the street. Elya huddled beside the cart, trying to make herself as small as possible. If the Leechbane thought she’d been bitten, he wouldn’t hesitate to take her head as well. The only way to put down a grave-eater plague was to stop it before it got started, or kill everyone who might turn.
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